Rebel Without a Claus

Chapter 1

Eve

The second my boots crunch down on the snowy pavement outside The North Star Lodge, I take a deep breath and let the crisp, pine-scented air fill my lungs.

Home. t

Nothing in the world smells like a Holly Ridge winter—fir trees, chimney smoke, and the faintest hint of peppermint. Like the entire town conspired to bottle up Christmas itself and pump it into the air every year. My chest swells with nostalgia and pure, unfiltered joy.

“It’s good to be home,” I murmur to myself, tugging my oversized red suitcase out of the trunk.

And then another. And another. Okay, maybe I overpacked, but in my defense, it’s Christmas.

There are festive outfits to consider, cookie-decorating ensembles, flannel pajamas for optimal cocoa-drinking comfort. A girl has to be prepared.

Plus… I’m here for the foreseeable future. I don’t have a lot to go back to Los Angeles for. Not since I got sacked. There’s a little yip from the front passenger seat as Cringle barks his indignation about being forgotten.

I slam the trunk shut and circle the car to lift my little havapoo out of his carrier. He thanks me with an energetic lick to my chin. “As if I could forget about you, little man.”

I shut the door and barely manage to turn around before I’m nearly tackled by a force of sheer energy.

“You’re here! You’re finally here!”

My mom, dressed in a sweater with a bedazzled reindeer across the front, throws her arms around me in a hug so enthusiastic, I almost lose my footing. “Mom! Oxygen!”

Cringle barks his agreement.

“Sorry, sorry!” She squeezes once more before pulling back, her eyes twinkling like the Christmas lights strung across the inn’s roofline. “We missed you, sweetie.” She pauses to scratch Cringle between his little ears. “You too, you little troublemaker. It’s not the same without you two here.”

“I missed you too,” I say, my heart warming as Mom takes Cringle from my arms, giving him a snuggle. “Where’s Dad?”

Mom sets Cringle down and he immediately runs into the snow covered yard to do his business. “Inside, fixing the garland for the third time because he insists it’s ‘not symmetrical enough.’”

Ah. Classic Mike Winters. The man takes Christmas decorations very seriously. Especially since the town added a decoration contest component to the Holly Ridge Christmas festival ten years ago.

At first, it was a novelty to win, but in the years since? The cash prize is enough to keep a business afloat in bad seasons… not to mention, you receive free advertising for the whole year in the Holly Ridge newspaper.

“Here, let me help you with your bags,” Mom says.

“I’ve got them, don’t worry!” I insist, turning back toward my discarded suitcases to grab them and bring them inside.

Before I can get there, my boot skids across a slick patch of ice.

One moment, I’m upright, and the next, I’m flailing, my foot sliding across an icy patch like I’m an uncoordinated baby deer.

My arms pinwheel uselessly, searching for balance that refuses to come.

The ground tilts, the world narrowing to the sharp sting of cold air on my cheeks and the certainty that I’m about to eat snow face-first. Time stretches, every heartbeat loud in my ears as I brace for the inevitable crash—

But it never comes. Because suddenly, strong hands grip my waist, steadying me before I can land flat on my back. I blink, slightly winded, as I stare up into the scowling, painfully familiar face of Luke Dawson.

Luke… my high school unrequited crush. Back then, I had dreamed about the day he would take me into his arms and hold me tight. Though I never pictured it like this.

“Careful there, city girl,” he drawls, his voice all gravel and irritation. “I know you love the color scheme of Christmas, but blood on the snow isn’t exactly the look we’re going for here.”

My mouth drops open. Well that was grim. Even for Luke. “Excuse me?”

He lets go of me the second I’m steady, crossing his arms over his flannel-covered chest. Luke has always been infuriatingly good-looking in that rugged, permanently scowling way, but winter somehow makes it worse.

The flannel, the scruff dusting his jaw, the way his damn biceps strain against his seams of his red buffalo plaid shirt—completely unfair.

“You’re excused,” he says, smirking slightly before he turns to leave, like saving me from breaking my tailbone was just a minor inconvenience in his day.

Oh no. Nope. We are not doing this.

“You know, most people say ‘you’re welcome’ when they help someone,” I call after him.

Luke pauses, glances over his shoulder, and gives me a slow once-over, like he’s debating whether or not I’m worth the effort of a response. Finally, he settles on, “Well, I didn’t exactly hear a ‘thank you,’ so I figured we were skipping manners altogether.”

I gape at him. He smirks, starting to walk off toward his truck, boots crunching in the snow. But Cringle is having none of it. A strict mama’s boy, my little dog is no bigger than 10 lbs. soaking wet, but he thinks he’s a pitbull. He charges Luke, barking and chasing his heels.

“What the hell is that?” Luke says, peering behind him at my dog.

“That is Cringle.”

“What the hell’s a cringle?”

“My dog. And in my experience, he’s a very good judge of character.”

Luke snorts and points down to his heels where Cringle is tugging on the hem of his jeans. “You’ve definitely been living in the city too long if you think that thing is a dog.”

I bend down and scoop Cringle into my arms. Tongue out, he pants, proud of himself. “Don’t you have a Whooville to invade somewhere?” I snap.

Luke and I haven’t seen each other in years. We always manage to avoid each other every time I come home… until now, apparently.

His eyes narrow and he gives a final monosyllabic grunt before pulling a case of pinecones and squash out of his truck and handing them to me. I manage to balance the crate on my hip while my mother takes Cringle from my arms. “Here’s your order, Mrs. Winters,” Luke says to my mom.

I look down at the crate and blink. “You ordered pinecones? Why the hell would you pay Luke for pinecones when the ground is covered with them every year? You could collect a whole damn barn of pinecones from our front yard if you wanted to!”

“Luke’s pinecones have edible seeds and are cleaned and safe for indoor wreath use,” Mom explains… but her answer still doesn’t line up for me.

“That still sounds like a colossal waste of money,” I snap.

Luke doesn’t answer me at first. All I get in response is a snort and he tugs his winter hat lower over his ears. “Always a pleasure, Eve,” he grunts before getting into his truck and speeding away.

“Oh dear,” Mom says beside me, watching him drive away. “That boy is as grumpy as ever.”

“That boy has the personality of a snow shovel,” I mutter, still fuming.

“You weren’t exactly a ray of sunshine yourself,” she says, setting Cringle back down now that the coast is clear.

“Yeah. Because Luke sucks the sunshine out of any room he’s in.”

“Mm.” She pats my arm. “You two always did have a special kind of… energy.”

I snort. “Energy? Yeah. The kind where he glowers at me, and I resist the urge to shove tinsel up his nose.”

Mom hums, eyes twinkling suspiciously, but I ignore it. The last thing I need is her getting any ideas. Luke and I were on again, off again frenemies all through high school. One second, I would think we were getting along. My crush for him would deepen, then the next, he would ignore me all week.

By the time I lug the stupid crate of pinecones inside as well as my ridiculous amount of luggage in the front door, I’m still stewing. And okay, maybe also thinking about the way Luke’s hands felt when he caught me. Firm. Warm. Unreasonably strong. Ugh.

But seeing the North Star Lodge all decked out for Christmas is the breath of pine-scented fresh air I needed to improve my mood.

It’s just as magical as I remember—twinkling lights, garlands draped along the staircase, a towering Christmas tree taking up half the lobby.

Dad is exactly where Mom said he’d be, grumbling over the placement of the garland on the banister.

“Dad!”

He looks up, face breaking into a wide grin. “There’s my Christmas girl!”

I roll my eyes and launch myself into his arms, laughing as he hugs me tight. “How many times do we have to go over this? I was born on July 25… nowhere near Christmas.”

“You know you were our little Christmas in July baby!” Mom chides me.

I sigh and opt for a change in subject. “Dad, are you stress-decorating again?”

He pulls back, sighing. “The left side is half an inch higher than the right, Eve. It’s an abomination.”

“Oh, the horror.”

“You joke, but symmetry matters. Especially to the judges,” Dad says with a shake of his finger at me.

The Holly Ridge Christmas festival starts twelve days before Christmas and every day has a different event.

I haven’t been here for the full festival in years…

and I’ve missed it so damn much. Of course, my job never made it possible to take off a full two weeks for the holidays.

And now… unfortunately, my job isn’t exactly well, mine anymore.

“Enough of that, Mike. Come give your only daughter a hug!”

“The festival starts in two days, Loretta!” Dad chides. “You know we need this win.”

I blink, momentarily surprised by the comment. “You do?”

Mom rolls her eyes and waves a hand at Dad. “Oh you know your father. Always fretting.”

As I look around the lobby of the inn I grew up in and call home, I’m not surrounded with guests and children running amok like in past years. There’s an older couple reading by the fireplace. And… that’s it.

“Um, where are all your guests?” I whisper.

Christmas is our most busy time of year. In the past, we’ve had no vacancy almost every December weekend, especially with the festival about to start.

“Well, um, you know, sweetie, it’s been a little slow,” Mom says, biting her lip and looking around at the quiet lobby.

“A little slow?” This place is downright deserted.

Dad comes up behind Mom and gives her shoulders a squeeze. “You might as well tell her, honey.”

“Tell me what?”

Mom sighs and rubs a hand over her weary brow.

Then, taking my hand she tugs me into the kitchen away from the couple reading.

“Business has been slow these last couple of years. The festival gets a lot of business, but with that boom, other inns have opened in Holly Ridge, making our competition steep.”

“What competition?” I hadn’t noticed any other inns in town.

“A big hotel chain built their space right on the outskirts of town,” Dad said. “They undercut our prices because they can. And they even have an indoor pool.”

“And that doesn’t take into account the amount of people with short term rentals now in town.”

“So… so everyone who comes for the festival stays at the big hotel? Even though it’s not even a part of Holly Ridge?”

Dad nods. “Pretty much. Or they get an Airbnb on Main Street.”

“But this year’s cash prize is the biggest yet for the festival. And we could really use that year’s worth of free advertising. It’s…” Mom’s words fade briefly, choking in her throat.

Gently, Dad takes her hand, finishing the thought for her. “It’s our last hope for the inn. If we don’t win this year, we’ll probably have to close our doors by June.”

Tears well in my eyes and I launch myself into their arms to hug them. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“We didn’t want you to worry. You have your own life. Your own dreams out there in Hollywood.”

I shake my head. “But Christmas is what I do. I’ve been producing Christmas movies and tv shows for years. I know what consumers want… I can help you! We have twelve days to win this thing.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. “I love your passion, sweetheart,” Dad says. “But we also need to be realistic, too.”

“We can be realistic on December 26th,” I snap. “For now? We’re channeling some major Christmas miracle spirit. I’m going to need the full schedule of events for the festival to start planning along with any supplies you’ve already bought.”

Mom chuckles. “Okay, but first thing’s first. Let’s get you and Cringle settled upstairs in your room. Then we can start planning.”

Mom, Dad, and I each take a bag and I follow them upstairs, running my hand over the pine garland lit with small twinkling fairy lights.

Dad’s right… it is about half an inch uneven.

That might not have mattered before, but now?

Now there’s no way in hell we’re going to lose this festival over a half an inch.

I can already feel the warmth of being home sinking into my bones. This is what Christmas is about. Family, tradition, festive magic. Not broody cowboys with sharp cheekbones and an attitude problem.

I push all thoughts of Luke Dawson out of my mind.

We have a festival to win, dammit.