Chapter 19
Eve
Golden light filters through the big front windows of the North Star Lodge, spilling across the polished hardwood floors in soft, honey-colored stripes.
It’s one of those crisp December mornings where the air smells faintly of frost and cinnamon, and for a brief, foolish second, I let myself believe everything is fine.
I pad down the stairs in my red sweater dress and black leggings with Cringle following at my heels.
My hair is already curled and my makeup’s done and I feel smug in the knowledge that—for once—I might be the first one awake.
I want the head start. Today’s going to be busy and chaotic, and if I can get even twenty minutes of quiet before the madness starts, maybe I’ll survive it.
Coffee first. Always coffee.
I make a beeline toward the kitchen but stop halfway when something catches my eye on the desk tucked into the corner of the front lobby. A stack of unopened mail sits there, looking harmless enough, but there’s one envelope—bright, angry red—peeking out from beneath yesterday’s flyers.
FINAL NOTICE.
My stomach drops.
No. No, no, no. I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. But my hand’s already moving, sliding the envelope free before my brain can argue.
It’s from the bank. My fingers tremble as I rip it open, my eyes flying over the blocky type.
Final warning before foreclosure proceedings will begin unless payment is made in full.
My chest tightens, like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs. I knew things were bad—of course I knew—but this is worse than I thought. Not just late payments. Not just scraping by. This is the edge of the cliff.
I stare at the paper until the words blur, my mind ricocheting between panic and guilt. This festival… this contest… it isn’t about bragging rights or the Holly Ridge trophy anymore. It’s survival.
If we don’t win, if we don’t pull in enough guests this holiday season, my family’s inn—the thing we’ve poured decades into—will be gone.
I slide the letter back under the flyers, careful to angle it exactly how I found it. My parents don’t need to know I’ve seen it. They’ve been carrying this weight long enough.
But now the heaviness is in my chest too, pressing down.
And underneath it is something else—Luke.
I think about his voice last night, tight with frustration. The way we’d stood there, both too stubborn to back down, both convinced the other was wrong. I hate fighting with him, especially now, when I can’t stop wondering if I made a mistake pushing him away.
Then there’s the job offer waiting for me in my inbox. A shiny escape hatch that could solve all my money problems—my personal ones, anyway. But taking it would mean leaving Holly Ridge, leaving my parents to fight this battle without me.
And leaving Luke.
If he even wants me to stay.
I press my palms against the desk and inhale, forcing air into my lungs. Not now. I can’t unravel over my entire life plan before I’ve had coffee.
I turn toward the kitchen—and freeze.
Through the big front windows, I spot my dad outside, already dressed head-to-toe in his Santa suit, beard and all, perched precariously on a ladder leaning against one of the giant spruce trees in the front yard.
He’s holding a golden star in one gloved hand, a wooden angel in the other, humming some Christmas tune I can’t quite place.
Below him, my mom stands with her arms crossed, calling up something I can’t hear through the glass. Her posture says it all—arms crossed, toe tapping against the snow dusted planks of our porch.
Here I was thinking I’d be the first one awake, putting on the finishing touches for the decorating contest… and my parents are both already up and at it.
I crack open the window, just in time to hear her yell, “The trees are already decorated, Mike! We don’t need any more dang lights!”
He ignores her, shifting the ladder a few feet to the right toward the next branchy giant. “I’m enhancing the magic,” he calls down with a grin that’s half sheepish, half proud. “Kids need magic.”
“Kids also need Santa to be in one piece,” she bellows, her open coat catching the wind and billowing out behind her. “Are you listening to me?”
“If I don’t do it, I’ll just find Eve up here adding more lights, anyway!” And then he chuckles, like that’s the most reasonable argument in the world.
And I hate to admit, it kind of is.
Mom sighs and with a shake of her head, she turns to adjust the poinsettias on the porch.
A low rumble rolls through the quiet street before I even see him—deep and steady, like the sound of trouble coming.
Luke’s truck turns the corner, that hulking diesel engine pulling the massive silver reindeer trailer behind it. Frost clings to the metal, catching in the morning sun, throwing shards of light across the inn’s front yard.
My heart does an infuriating little flip.
Betrayal. That’s what it is. My own chest betraying me.
I fold my arms, tucking my hands into my sleeves for warmth—and maybe for armor.
He parks at the curb and kills the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the ticking of cooling metal. Then the driver’s door swings open and Luke jumps down, boots hitting the ground with that solid, unshakable way of his.
Of course he looks good.
Too good.
His winter jacket is unzipped just enough to show the henley underneath, the gray fabric clinging across his chest in a way that is, frankly, rude for this early in the morning. His breath fogs in the cold, and there’s a wary smile tugging at his mouth.
I slide into my coat, zipping it up to my chin before stepping out into the crisp air, Cringle running out in front of me to do his morning tinkle. “Good morning,” I say.
“Morning,” he responds back, and there’s a surprising softness in it. Cautious, like he’s testing the ice before stepping out onto it.
We stand there a beat longer than we should, the space between us weighted with everything we didn’t say last night. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for the right opening.
“Eve…” His voice is low, almost tentative. “About what happened—”
Nope. Not now.
Not when my pulse is already doing gymnastics just from hearing him say my name.
“We should—” I start, then stop, shaking my head quickly.
“We do need to talk. Yes. But…” I gesture toward the inn, toward the snow-slick yard.
“This morning is already crazy. Kids are coming in just over an hour for the Reindeer Meet-and-Greet, and we still have to set up the pen, wrangle the reindeer, get the photo station ready—”
His brow creases. “I just—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “Later. I just…” I swallow. “I can’t have that conversation with the smell of reindeer poop in the air, okay?”
Humor’s safer than honesty right now. Because if I stop and really talk to him, I might start caring more about us than about saving my parents’ inn—and that’s the kind of distraction I can’t afford when everything’s riding on today.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it doesn’t erase the way his eyes stay locked on me, like he wants to push past my excuses. His eyes fix on mine, steady and unreadable, and I know he’s not buying it. Not the joke, not the casual tone, not any of it.
“I get it,” he says finally, slow and deliberate. “As long as we talk later, Eve.”
Later. It hangs between us like an unopened gift—or a lit stick of dynamite. And the way he says my name feels like a promise and a warning all at once, and my stomach does that traitorous flip again.
I hesitate. Because the truth is, I’m not sure if later will make me ready, or if it will just give me more time to panic. Maybe we should just get this over with now? But before I have time to answer him, a crash echoes from the side yard, followed by a deep shout that freezes me mid-step.
“Dad?” My voice goes sharp, slicing through the cold air. My feet are moving before I’ve even thought about it, Luke’s boots crunching right behind me.
We round the corner, and my stomach drops.
Dad is sprawled on the icy ground, his face pale, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
The box of reindeer pen decorations lies tipped over beside him, its contents scattered across the snow.
Cringle is at my dad’s shoulders, licking his face, frantically running in circles like he knows something is terribly wrong.
“Dad!” My knees hit the ground so hard they sting, but I barely notice. “Oh my god, are you—”
“I’m fine—just slipped,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to wave me off. But when he shifts to sit up, a strangled hiss escapes, and his hand clamps around his ankle.
The bottom drops out of my chest. “You can’t move your leg?”
“I said I’m fine,” he insists, but the lines around his eyes deepen with pain.
Luke crouches beside him, steady and assessing, his gloved hands brushing snow off Dad’s jeans. “Not fine,” he says firmly. “That ankle’s not taking weight anytime soon.”
The back door slams, and Mom bursts out, apron still on. “Mike!” She’s beside him in a heartbeat, eyes wet, hands fluttering uselessly over his shoulders. “We need to get you to Urgent Care—”
“No,” Dad says, panic edging into his voice. “The contest—”
“The contest doesn’t matter if you’re not alive to enjoy the win!” I say, but Dad merely rolls his eyes at that.
“Now who’s being dramatic?”
“The contest can wait,” Mom snaps.
Dad gives her a pained look. “We both know it can’t, sweetheart. We’ve all worked too hard,” Dad says, jaw set. “We can’t throw it away now. Someone has to stay here and be Santa Claus.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Luke steps forward, his voice steady. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay back and take care of the contest if you take him to the hospital,” Luke says with a nod at my mother.
I whip my head toward him. “You?”
For a second, I just stare at him, the words not quite registering. My brain is still back there, cataloging every wince my dad made, every time he tried to hide the pain so my mom wouldn’t panic. My chest feels tight, like I’m holding everything together with sheer will and a paperclip.
My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “You’re going to wrangle reindeer and a crowd of sugared-up kids?”
His gaze locks on mine, and for a moment, the noise of the world—the wind through the trees, the crunch of boots on snow—fades. All I hear is the quiet certainty in his voice when he says,
“I’m not just wrangling reindeer, songbird.” The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and sure, like he knows exactly how to knock me off balance. “I’ll be Santa.”
The mental image almost makes me choke—Luke Dawson, grumpy reindeer farmer in a red suit, fake beard, and the patience of a man allergic to all things filled with holiday joy and cheer.
Mom is already herding Dad toward their SUV, muttering about x-rays and crutches. “Eve, help Luke with whatever he needs.”
I’m still kneeling in the snow, brain trying to catch up, when Luke straightens, dusting off his jacket. His gaze locks on mine—steady, unflinching—and I swear the air between us warms a few degrees.
“Don’t worry,” he says, low enough only I can hear. “By the time I’m done, every kid in Holly Ridge will believe in Santa again.”
I should laugh. Or maybe roll my eyes. Instead, I feel that stupid flutter in my chest, like my heart didn’t get the memo that we’re not doing this right now—not when my dad’s hurt and the inn’s hanging on by a thread. Humor is safer than feelings. Humor means I don’t have to deal with Luke.
But then he leans just a fraction closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Question is… do you think you can pull off being my Mrs. Claus?”
My pulse trips. My brain says to roll my eyes, to walk away, to protect myself. But all I can do is stand there, watching him stride toward the trailer of reindeer, ready to take on the world. And a dangerous thought slips in before I can stop it: What would happen if I said yes?