Page 20 of My Holiday Hookup Road Trip

The clerk gestures toward the main entrance. “The festival.” At our continued blank looks, he says, “The Christmas in Bermuda festival? I assumed it’s why you’re in town.”

A slow, delighted smile spreads across Sebastian’s face. “A Christmas festival, you say?”

I groan theatrically. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” the confused clerk says. “It’s the 46thannual event.”

“And it’s, what, got craft booths and hot chocolate vendors and more decorated Christmas trees than you can shake a candy cane at?” I ask flatly.

He nods eagerly. “You bet. And don’t miss Sandy Claus.”

“Sandy Claus?” I mouth at Sebastian, who bounces a little in excitement. He actually bounces. This adorable Christmas dork.

The clerk’s still raving about the festival. “The township sells holiday-print Bermuda shorts that you can wear over your winter clothes, although the really hardcore fans just wear the shorts.”

I snort at the same time Sebastian guffaws.

“Excellent,” he says, glancing at me. “Whaddya say?”

“How far away is it?” I ask the clerk. “We don’t have a functional car.”

He points out the window. “There’s a sleigh that gives rides to and from the festival. It should be coming down the main drag in the next twenty minutes or so.”

“A sleigh!” Sebastian looks happier than he has since that night at Lizzie’s, and with a little flutter of my belly, I realize that I’m going to agree to whatever he wants if it keeps him smiling at me the way he did that night: a little flirty, a little sexy, a lot charming.

“Lead the way,” I say with a sigh, pretending to be put out about it. But deep down, I’m weirdly excited as he puts a hand on the small of my back to usher me outside to wait for our Bermuda Christmas carriage.

TEN

Sebastian

“This is awesome!”

I’m shouting to be heard above the wind rushing past us in the back of the sleigh, but Birdy cups her hand around her ear and pretends she didn’t hear me.

“Sorry, it’s hard to catch what you’re saying over how ridiculous this is!” she shouts back.

I can’t help myself. I sling my arm along the back of her seat and lean close. “No grinching allowed,” I warn, trying to keep my face stern. But her eyes are dancing with laughter as she leans into my side, and I can’t help but grin right back.

Because she’s right. This is ridiculous. We’re riding in a red and green dune buggy being pulled by a horse with a starfish-and-holly festooned garland draped around its neck and a driver in a tropical-print shirt over his green-and-gold elf costume.

“Here we are, folks!” says the man from the driver’s seat as the horse clip-clops to a halt in front of a tiny town square that looks like someone’s beach-themed man cave exploded all over a quaint Christmas village. All the action takes place at the booths and tents lining the four streets surrounding the town square with a postage stamp-sized courthouse dropped in the middle. Real Christmas trees stand next to inflatable palm trees, and they’re all draped with bright white twinkle lights. Festival-goers dressed in beachy pastels rub elbows with people in bright-red Santa hats. Christmas music blares over speakers set at various intervals around the square, but the version of “Jingle Bells” that’s playing is backed by island-appropriate kettle drums.

“What in the tropical fever-dream mashup hell is happening here?” Birdy murmurs after I’ve taken her hand and helped her down from the buggy.

A red-cheeked, white-haired couple strolls past us holding coconuts with straws sticking out of them.

“I don’t know,” I murmur back, “but I think that’s frozen hot chocolate they’re drinking.”

“God, please tell me there’s an option to add vodka.”

“Let’s find out.”

We merge into the crowd to get the lay of the land. The clerk wasn’t kidding; everywhere we look, people are strolling in candy cane-striped Bermuda shorts. And lots of them are, indeed, braving the winter weather in their bare legs.

“Excuse me,” Birdy says to a pair of college boys walking past with their knees exposed to the wind. “Where can we buy some of these shorts?”

Their enthusiastic directions to a vendor a few booths down make me think there’s vodka around here somewhere after all. But I don’t get a chance to ask; Birdy grabs my hand and tows me toward the shorts booth.

---