Chapter 20
Luke
The suit is hell.
It’s itchy, sweaty, and smells faintly like mothballs and cinnamon potpourri.
Whoever invented fake velvet should be tried for crimes against humanity.
I’ve harvested douglas firs in a blizzard with nothing but an axe and a thermos of black coffee, and I can say without hesitation—this is the real survival test.
The beard doesn’t help. It’s like strapping a sweaty sheepdog to my face. Every time I breathe, it fogs up the fake little glasses clinging to the bridge of my nose and makes me want to rip it off, but I don’t—because apparently Santa isn’t supposed to look homicidal at a Christmas festival.
Why the hell did I offer to do this again?
Sitting beside me, Eve leans in so close that her light vanilla scent teases my already frazzled nerves. “Try to smile, Santa.”
Oh yeah… she’s why I’m doing this.
In contrast to how dumb I look… Eve looks radiant as my Mrs. Claus.
Dangerous, even. Her costume is modest enough—red velvet dress, snow-white trim, little apron tied neatly at her waist—but somehow she manages to make wholesome look like a weapon.
Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, lips curved in a smile that could light up the square.
I’ve never wanted to kiss Christmas spirit into silence so badly in my life.
“As if anyone could tell I am smiling behind this rat’s nest you call a beard.”
“You know,” she whispers, “you might be the grumpiest Santa Claus Holly Ridge has ever seen.”
I grunt. “Santa probably hates kids, too. Nobody ever talks about that part. I mean, the man lives at the North Pole, away from civilization with a bunch of elves and his wife, never having kids of his own.”
Her laugh bubbles out, soft but wickedly amused, and I swear the damn bells on her apron jingle in agreement. She pats my arm like I’m her misbehaving reindeer. “Try not to traumatize the children, Luke. You only have to survive the next two hours.”
Two hours.
Might as well be two years.
“Oh, look, Santa!” Eve squeals beside me as the line shuffles forward.
“One of our little elves has come to visit us today!” Eve beams at an adorable little girl in pigtails and a glittery green elf costume complete with pointy hat.
There’s a little bit of chocolate smeared on her ruddy cheek along with some cookie crumbs clinging to her bottom lip.
Even though she couldn’t weigh more than thirty pounds soaking wet, the little girl marches right up to me like she owns the place.
Her shoes even jingle when she stops in front of the sleigh.
She crosses her arms and squints. “You’re not the real Santa.”
Well. Damn.
I tug at the fake beard itching against my chin. “Why’s that?”
Her little chin tips up, fierce as a drill sergeant. “The real Santa doesn’t look like he wants to run away.”
Eve muffles a laugh beside me, her shoulders shaking under her ridiculous-but-somehow-sexy Mrs. Claus dress. “Of course he’s the real Santa,” Eve says, bending down to her level. “He even brought all of his reindeer for you to meet.”
“Then where’s Rudolph?” she asks, crawling onto the sleigh with us and looking out over my eight reindeer who are strapped to the front. Jack gives me a shrug from where he’s managing the beasts for me.
I clear my throat and lean down to look at the little girl. “Well, Rudolph has to rest up for tonight. We need him at one hundred percent so he can guide the sleigh when it’s dark.”
She considers this for a long moment. “If you’re the real Santa, then what did you bring me last year?”
Momentary panic clutches my throat and I look up helplessly at where her mom is standing just a few feet from us. She scrambles briefly and pulls out a stuffed polar bear from her purse and holds it up for me to see.
“How could I forget the polar bear stuffed animal my elves made for you last year.”
The little girl gasps, her eyes going wide. “You really are Santa Claus!” she whispers with reverence.
“Of course I am,” I whisper back. “What did you end up naming that polar bear?”
“Cola!” she says, her whole face lighting up like she just got promoted to head elf at the North Pole. She beams, then scrambles onto my lap, throwing her little arms around my neck, jingling shoes and all.
I freeze. Then—slowly—pat her back. And something in my chest twists hard, because she’s so small, so trusting, and she looks at me like I’m not someone to be feared or avoided. She looks at me like I’m magical. Like I’m someone worth believing in.
Her mother waves from the front of the sleigh. “Olivia, look at Mommy and smile!”
I grunt and try to smile through the itchy beard for the picture.
Eve hands me a wrapped present from the bag beside us—all presents that had been donated from people in the town, and I hand one to Olivia.
“Thank you, Santa!” she says, climbing down off my lap. “And this year, I’d love a penguin to go with Cola!”
With another quick glance at her mom, she gives me a thumbs up. “I think I can arrange that.” I pause to touch my finger to Olivia’s nose. “Now be sure to save me at least one of those cookies tonight, okay Olivia?”
She nods eagerly and runs off toward her mom. “Bye, Santa! I love you!”
When I look back at Eve, still seated on the sleigh beside me, she’s staring at me. Not laughing this time. Just… watching.
“What? Did she get some of that chocolate on my suit?” I glance down to see if there are any chocolate handprints on the velvet but I don’t see any.
Eve shakes her head. Her smile is soft, almost too much for me to take. “You’re better at this than you think.”
And that’s the dangerous part. Because for one terrifying second, with Eve looking at me like that, I almost believe it.
Against all odds, I feel… okay. Like maybe I’ve got this Santa gig under control. I gave little Olivia the wrapped present, she gave me a look like I actually mattered. Not bad for a guy who hates Christmas.
I let out a slow breath. Maybe I can survive this.
Then the next kid crawls up, chubby fists waving. Before I can even get out a “Ho—” one tiny hand latches onto my beard.
Rip. Off comes the fake beard.
Gasps ripple through the crowd like I just kicked over the Christmas tree.
The toddler blinks up at me, victorious, Santa hair still clutched in his fist. My face is bare, my cover blown, and fifty sets of eyes are staring at me like I’ve personally murdered fucking Frosty.
Oh, hell.
Eve swoops in instantly, taking the beard out of the kid’s tiny little grip like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Santa’s whiskers just get a little hot by the fire sometimes!
” she declares, her voice all dramatic cheer and Christmas sparkle.
“Sometimes he has to cool them off so they don’t poof into sparks.
” She hands me the beard, stepping in front of me to block the kids' view of me while I put it back on as fast as I can.
The kids oooh and nod at Eve, crisis seemingly averted as I snap the elastics around the backs of my ears. But I can feel how crooked it is on my face. The mouth hole is covering half my lips, leaving white acrylic hair to slide into my mouth. I probably look like Santa got into a bar fight.
Eve grins at me like she’s won a bet, then leans in. Her fingers are gentle, smoothing the fake whiskers into place.
And then she doesn’t move back.
Her face is inches from mine, her eyes shining under the twinkle lights, and suddenly the sleigh feels too small. If I so much as tilt forward, Santa will be kissing Mrs. Claus in front of half the town.
My pulse slams.
She whispers, just for me, “Hold still, Santa. You’re a mess.”
And for the first time in my life, being a mess doesn’t feel so bad.
Her fingers linger a second too long at my jaw, and the front lawn of her inn fades into a blur of lights and noise. She’s close enough that I can smell cinnamon on her breath, close enough that I’m thinking about doing something very stupid in front of dozens of witnesses.
And then—
“They’re gonna kiss!” A kid shouts from the line.
The voice cuts through like a snowplow. Eve jerks back, and I follow her gaze toward the line of kids as they all start singing.
“Santa and Mrs. Claus sitting in a tree…”
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
But it isn’t the roaring sound of dozens of kids chanting at us that grabs our attention. It’s the two adults who just showed up at the back of the line—Eve’s parents.
Her dad, moving slowly but steadily on crutches, his face beaming with pride.
He pauses just long enough to give us a thumbs up, seeming to let us know he’s okay.
Her mom is right there beside him, her hands around his arm, helping him toward the sleigh.
The sight of them shouldn’t hit me this hard, but relief slams into my chest. Thank God he was okay.
And Eve… Eve looks like she’s about to cry, but in the good way.
Like up until now, she was holding all of this together with nothing but glitter and stubbornness.
The sea of kids are completely oblivious to this moment as they continue their song and I sit frozen in the world’s itchiest velvet suit, beard still slightly crooked, and realize something I shouldn’t: I don’t just want to protect Eve from small-town gossip or her own relentless optimism.
I want to protect everything in her orbit—her family, this whole ridiculous, messy, glitter-coated life she’s fighting to rebuild.
And that thought scares the hell out of me more than the toddler with grabby hands ever could.
Before Eve can climb down from the sleigh to go to her parents,a megaphone squeals from the front porch of the North Star Lodge. Our mayor smacks his hand against it before bringing it to his mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time!” Mayor Shelby's voice booms over the chatter. “The judges have tallied the results of this year’s Christmas Festival contest…”