Chapter 13
Luke
The town square is a circus today.
Strings of lights dangle from every tree branch, speakers test sleigh bell jingles on loop, and a line of sugar-high children swarm the cider booth like ants to syrup. If chaos had a smell, it’d be cinnamon and wet wool.
And smack in the middle of it all—Eve, wearing that peppermint-striped scarf that makes her blonde hair look like candlelight in the snow.
Somehow in a matter of one week, she has fully integrated herself back into our little town like she never left.
There was a time I would have resented her for that; but now, all I feel is respect.
With an ornament still in hand and Cringle’s leash in the other, she throws her head back, laughing at something Tom Mitchell just said.
Tom Mitchell, who used to have braces, but now apparently has a jawline and too much confidence.
He’s a tax attorney in town now. Boring as fuck.
But somehow I can picture Eve setting up a life with him.
A small suburban home with a white picket fence and children and that little ankle biting dog of hers.
But she wouldn’t be happy with him. Not my adventurous, playful Eve.
I grip the railing of the temporary stage with one gloved hand and resist the urge to throw something at him.
Rehearsals for the town Christmas pageant are going as well as you'd expect when you're directing a cast of children on a sugar high and adults who all think they could do a better job. Aunt May has already threatened to walk off set three times. The only reason I haven’t done the same is because Eve’s here.
And that’s the problem.
Because Eve is playing it real cool tonight in front of the town. We’ve barely spoken two words to each other all night. Granted, we both agreed to staying aloof in front of the prying eyes of Holly Ridge’s biggest gossip train. But she is playing it cool with so much more ease than me.
Like… is she even playing? Or has she cooled?
I can see it in the way she keeps her voice light in the one time she asked me to pass her the phillips head screwdriver, like we didn’t spend last night tangled up in each other in my bed.
Like we didn’t kiss like we meant it. Like I didn’t carry her across my cottage with her face buried in my neck.
Maybe she isn’t pretending to be cool. Maybe for her, it was a one-time thing. A snowstorm mistake.
So when Tom Mitchell steps a little too close to her, brushing snowflakes from her coat shoulder and smiling like he’s auditioning for the lead in her love story, something in me snaps.
Mine.
It’s primitive. Idiotic. A caveman instinct I’ve buried for a decade. But it’s clawing its way to the surface like it’s got something to prove.
I stalk across the square without thinking.
When Eve sees me coming, her smile falters. "Luke—"
Tom straightens up, eyebrows raised. "Hey, man. Didn’t see you there."
I don’t respond. I step between them, barely brushing Tom’s shoulder, and look down at her.
Her eyes go wide as she gapes up at me. And somewhere in the background, I hear a gasp.
"What are you doing?" she whispers.
“Proving a point,” I mutter. Although as nice as it is to put my arm around her, I really wish my lips were on hers. But I know we’re not ready for that yet. For the whole town to see us kissing. Or maybe just I’m not ready for that yet.
“Proving a point by what? Marking me? Slinging your arm around me?”
"And shutting you up." I smirk. "You were talking too much."
Her eyes flash. "I was talking to Tom."
My eyes cut to where he’s wisely backed away to the refreshment table, blending into the crowd like a seasoned soldier evading artillery fire. "Exactly."
She punches me in the arm. Not hard, but enough to make me laugh.
I should feel bad. I don’t.
Eve, on the other hand, looks like she’s reconsidering every life choice that led her to this exact snowy square. She spins away from me, storming toward the stage steps. I follow her, of course. Like an idiot.
"Eve, wait—"
She rounds on me the second we’re out of the main crowd. "You don’t get to play knight-in-flannel-armor just because another human talks to me."
"Not just any human. Tom,” I say with another snarling glance at him.
“So what?”
“Tom’s a dog.”
Cringle gives a little disapproving yip at my derogatory term.
Eve on the other hand, simply rolls her eyes. “You were jealous."
I cross my arms. "And if I was?"
That stops her, mouth gaping open, her retort lost somewhere between her throat and tongue.
She looks at me like she’s seeing something new. Or maybe something old she’s finally letting herself admit. She presses her hands to her hips and tilts her head.
"Then you need to figure out what you want from me. Because I can’t keep doing this push-and-pull thing. One minute you’re carrying me across snowbanks like you’re auditioning for a romance novel, and the next minute you’re glaring at me like I’ve personally offended your reindeer."
I drag a hand through my hair.
Truth is—I don’t know what I want. Scratch that. I do. I just don’t think I deserve it. Or her.
“We both agreed this morning to play it cool around town—”
“No,” she interrupts me. “You told me that’s what you wanted. I just… sort of nodded and went along with it! But that’s pretty much out the window now, wouldn’t ya say?”
She’s right. I lasted all of twenty minutes in public with her before trying to claim her like some testosterone ridden caveman. That’s not something you do unless you’re willing to deal with the aftermath.
And judging by the way Mrs. Abernathy and three other members of the festival committee are now whispering frantically behind a stack of folding chairs, that aftermath is going to include at least five matchmaking attempts, one impromptu duet suggestion, and probably our names spelled out in Christmas lights by morning.
She throws her hands into the air again. “What do you want, Luke?”
I sigh. "You, okay? I want you. Are you happy?"
Eve’s lips twitch.
I narrow my eyes. "You’re enjoying this."
"A little," she admits, grinning. "You should’ve seen your face. You looked like you wanted to body-slam Tom into the nativity set."
"Still might."
She laughs. A real one. Loud and warm and ridiculous.
And just like that, I’m lost again.
Because I want this. I want her. I’ve wanted her since high school. Back when she used to challenge everything I said and call me out in front of teachers and make me feel like the world was more than just football and frostbite.
I step closer. "You’re right, you know."
She blinks. "About what?"
"I need to figure out what I want. And stop pretending it’s not you."
For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes search mine. And I know she’s afraid. I know she’s been guarding her heart with sarcasm and holiday-themed sass because she’s been burned before. I want to tell her she’s safe with me. But I’ve first got to prove it.
So I offer my hand.
She stares at it like it’s a live bomb, ready to be detonated.
"Just for the rest of rehearsal," I add, smirking. "To prove I won’t throw Tom Mitchell into a manger."
She snorts and takes it.
And we walk back toward the stage together with Cringle leading the way.
Hand in hand.
With the entire town watching like they’re waiting for a kiss-cam to appear.
It’s going to be a long day.