Chapter 11
Harper
The crowd begins counting down from five — voices rising like the entire town is one big choir.
“Five!” “Four!” “Three!”
Ethan stands beside me at the base of the spruce.
His arm is warm, even through his coat, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how close we are.
He glances down at me and the nerves in my stomach settle just a little.
He’s been so sweet today for a giant, gruff guy who doesn’t do people.
Could it be just for me? I’m not sure. Both of us are not ones to adore the limelight.
“Two!” “One!”
We flip the brass switch together.
The tree bursts into sparkling white and gold light, ribbons catching the glow, ornaments glittering like stars.
The crowd cheers. Bells chime from the chapel tower.
Children shriek with delight and parents clap and take photos.
And for a moment, we just stare at the glowing branches … then at each other.
He looks different in the warm light — softer, less guarded, almost like he’s enjoying himself in spite of everything. Despite being shoved into a town event. Despite being stared at. Despite having me as his accidental holiday wife for the week.
And something in me opens up a little. Just enough to feel dangerously warm.
He clears his throat. “Nice lights.”
“Nice flipping,” I say lightly.
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“I could’ve fallen off the platform,” I offer.
“Or I could’ve crushed the switch,” he replies.
We both laugh — awkward at first, then easier, warmer, like a knot loosening between us.
I realize I don’t feel nervous. I’m not flustered.
I’m not the girl who fell asleep practically on top of a man she barely knows.
I’m just … here. With him. Like it’s natural.
But then the cheering fades, the crowd disperses, and Ethan leans slightly closer.
“You hungry?”
My stomach answers before I do. “Starving.”
“Millie’s?” he asks.
I nod. “Always Millie’s.”
Ethan leads me toward his truck again and it now sits under a dusting of light snow.
Up close, the thing looks well-loved. Actually, well-loved might be generous.
The driver’s-side door is a different color from the rest of the body.
The bumper is held on by what appears to be hope.
On the way here, I noticed the engine makes a low growling sound that feels vaguely threatening.
He opens the passenger door for me, which sticks halfway before giving way with a metallic screech that echoes off the nearby buildings.
I blink at him. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”
“That’s the hinge warming up,” he replies simply.
“Warming up,” I repeat.
He nods once. “It gets stiff in the cold.”
The seat is covered in a patchwork of duct tape. Ethan gets in and turns the key. The engine roars to life, coughs a couple of times, then roars some more. The whole cab vibrates a little. He pats the dashboard affectionately. “She runs like a dream.”
“A nightmare is technically a kind of dream,” I murmur under my breath.
“I heard that.”
I smile despite myself. “I’m not judging. Just observing.”
“It’s reliable,” he says. “Doesn’t need fancy tech. Doesn’t need to look pretty. It just works.”
I glance at him, surprised at the sudden seriousness in his tone. There’s something honest in it.
“I like it,” I say softly. “It feels like … you.”
His grip tightens slightly on the wheel, and he doesn’t look at me, but I see the faint flush on his cheekbones. The heater knocks loudly and I pretend his blush isn’t adorable.
???
Millie’s is packed when we walk in. I see families finishing dinner, couples warming up with soup, groups of skiers clinking mugs. The entire place smells like cinnamon rolls, beef stew, and nostalgia.
Millie sees us first. Or rather, she sees Ethan. Then sees me. Then sees both of us together. She freezes mid-wipe on a table. Her eyebrows fly so high I’m shocked they don’t detach.
“Well, well,” she declares, “if it isn’t the Holiday Bride couple!”
The entire café turns. Like an audience at a tennis match.
Ethan mutters, “For the love of …” under his breath.
But we sit, because Millie personally herds us to a booth like a mother goose guiding ducklings.
“This one’s on the house,” she says, dropping menus. “Town tradition. Newlyweds get free dessert too.”
“We’re not …” I start.
She waves that off. “Don’t ruin my fun, sweetheart.”
Ethan’s jaw flexes. “We’re not newlyweds.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Millie fires back. “You look cozy.”
I choke on air. Ethan scrubs a hand down his face. We make it through ordering. He has a bison burger and I order chicken pot pie. Then, the locals begin circling with lots of embarrassing questions that we mostly smile through, without really answering.
By the time our food arrives, Ethan looks like a man holding onto sanity by a fraying rope.
But something about his discomfort is endearing.
It makes him more human. It’s honest … and I feel closer to him.
Not physically. Emotionally. Which is worse.
Because tonight we’re going back to that bed.
The bed I woke up in this morning tangled around him.
And I’m not ready for whatever that means.
I poke at my pot pie. “Are you doing okay?”
He huffs. “Didn’t expect so many questions.”
“Small towns,” I remind him gently. “Curiosity is our main currency.”
He relaxes. Just a little. Millie swoops by with refills and a tray of apple crisps “just to see their newlywed glow.”
We both groan. Then it happens.
The table busser reaches to clear the dinner dishes, picking up the used paper napkin in front of Ethan. He snags it back with lightning reflexes.
“I’m keeping that,” he says.
The busser blinks. “Sir, it’s a napkin.”
“It still has life in it.”
She stares. I stare. Everyone at the table behind us stares.
The busser gives up. “Alrighty then.”
She walks away. I turn slowly toward him, trying not to laugh, but failing.
“Ethan … why?”
“It’s a perfectly good napkin,” he says defensively. “Barely used.”
“How much could it cost? A penny?”
He lifts his chin. “A penny is a penny.”
"Not anymore. A penny is not even a blink of my eyelashes."
With that, he looks deep in my eyes, deliberately noticing my lashes and if I blink. I laugh so hard I have to press a hand over my mouth.
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” I manage between breaths. “I’ve just … never met anyone like you.”
“I could say the same,” he murmurs.
But when we step outside into the cold night, he gently places his hand at the small of my back to guide me down the steps. It’s warm, protective and unexpectedly sweet. And just like that, I know.
I’m in trouble. Big, grumpy, miserly trouble. I’m already smitten.