Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sloane
I’m halfway to the door, ready to head to the kitchen to make dinner, when a knock stops me.
Three quick raps. Decisive, impatient. Definitely Roman.
When I open the door, there he is, looking like trouble wrapped in a perfectly tailored coat, a dusting of snow in his platinum hair, and a grin that should come with a warning label.
“Evening, Sloane.” He leans on the doorframe and smirks. “You got plans?”
I narrow my eyes. “Is this a trick question?”
“Kind of,” he says. “You want to come with us?”
I blink, glancing past him. Creed and Ezra stand a few feet back, like backup dancers in very expensive jackets. Creed gives a short nod, all business. Ezra smiles that quiet, enigmatic smile that makes me feel he knows all my secrets.
“What’s happening?” I ask slowly. “And should I bring bail money?”
Roman’s grin widens. “It’s a surprise.”
Which is code for chaos is imminent.
They tell me to “dress warm,” which doesn’t narrow it down much in December. I stare at my closet and realize that “warm” can mean a lot of things.
I settle on something that says I can handle trouble but still look like I own the night: a sleek, fitted black turtleneck tucked into a high-waisted leather skirt, opaque tights, and heeled boots tall enough to make me feel a little dangerous.
Over it all, I throw on my wool coat, cinched at the waist, scarf tucked neatly around my neck.
The air’s sharp enough to sting my nose, but Creed’s truck is warm and inviting.
“Someone want to tell me where we’re going?” I ask as I climb into the back seat.
Roman twists around in the passenger seat with a too-innocent smile. “Nope.”
Ezra, from beside me, murmurs, “Patience, darling. Beauty blooms best when it’s unexpected.”
Creed mutters, “Translation: he’s not gonna tell you.”
When we pull into Coyote Glen’s farmers market, I realize what’s happening.
The square is completely transformed. String lights looped from stall to stall, snow glittering underfoot, and the air full of the smell of roasted chestnuts, wood smoke, and cinnamon.
There’s laughter echoing from somewhere near the cider stand, someone strumming a guitar under the gazebo, and a kid running past holding a giant candy cane twice his size.
It’s like stepping straight into a Hallmark movie… if the Hallmark movie had tattoos and questionable decision-making skills.
“Oh my,” I breathe, grinning idiotically.
Roman leaps dramatically out of the truck first and swings my door open, auditioning for the role of Overconfident Prince Charming.
“Your dinner awaits, Miss Katz,” he says, offering his hand. “Michelin-starred tacos and artisanal hot dogs. The finest street cuisine in the Northwest.”
I take his hand, laughing. “Wow, fancy. Do I get wine pairings?”
He winks. “Mulled cider. Served lukewarm, in paper cups, by a man named Silas who’s definitely not licensed to pour alcohol.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Just how I like it.”
Creed is already halfway to the food trucks on a mission. “You want carnitas or chicken, Sloane?” he calls.
“Surprise me,” I yell back.
Roman smirks. “Careful. He takes that as a challenge.”
Ezra, standing beside me, tucks his hands into his coat pockets. The light from the string bulbs catches on his dark hair, turning it almost bronze. “You seem happy.”
“I am,” I admit, my breath fogging in the cold air. “This is… amazing. I haven’t done Christmassy things like this in years.”
He smiles faintly. “Creed’s idea. Roman wanted to take you axe-throwing.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
Roman, overhearing, calls out, “Hey, don’t knock it! Nothing says romance like sharp objects and adrenaline.”
Ezra gives a slight, amused shake of his head. “And yet somehow, you still have all ten fingers.”
Creed returns, arms loaded with enough tacos to feed the entire band. “You two done flirting, or should I give you another minute?”
Roman grins. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, man.”
Creed rolls his eyes and hands me a foil-wrapped taco. “Eat before he starts narrating the moment.”
Roman gasps. “I would never!”
“You absolutely would,” I say, taking a bite, and immediately groan. “Oh my. This is so good.”
Roman grins. “Told you. Michelin-starred.”
We wander through the market together, eating as we go. Every few feet, someone stops to say hi, small town charm in full effect.
Roman somehow talks me into playing the ring toss “for pride,” he says, and then proceeds to lose spectacularly to a seven-year-old. Creed buys kettle corn and insists he’s “just holding it” for later, then eats half the bag.
Ezra, of course, drifts toward a booth selling handmade ornaments. He picks one up, a tiny glass fox, and turns it in his hand like it’s made of gold.
“This one looks like you,” he says softly.
I laugh. “Because it’s sly and probably steals things?”
He glances at me, eyes warm. “Because it’s sharp and beautiful, and a little out of place in a world that doesn’t deserve it.”
My heart does something extremely unhelpful.
Roman appears suddenly, holding three steaming cups.
“Mulled cider delivery.” He thrusts one at me, sloshing a bit onto his gloves. “Careful, it’s hot… and questionably spiked.”
“Questionably?” I echo.
“Silas was vague about ingredients.”
Creed takes his with a grunt. “You’re not supposed to trust a guy selling drinks out of a cauldron, man.”
Roman grins. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
Creed deadpans, “Buried under all this glitter.”
We find a bench near the gazebo where a local musician is playing a slow, sweet version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Roman taps his foot dramatically. “This song always makes me emotional. Someone hold me.”
“Pass,” Creed mutters.
Ezra smirks. “I’m documenting your descent into sentimentality.”
Roman drapes an arm over my shoulders with exaggerated flair. “Guess that means you’re the lucky one, Sloane.”
I sip my cider, smiling. “Lucky’s one word for it.”
He grins. “You love it.”
And I do. I love all of it. The lights, the laughter, the ridiculousness.
The way Creed pretends to be grumpy but secretly hands a five-dollar bill to a kid selling paper snowflakes.
The way Ezra hums quietly to the music, eyes closed.
The way Roman throws himself into everything like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, the moment will disappear.
We buy candy canes we don’t need, take a terrible group photo in front of the tree, Roman’s idea, of course, and end up laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
It’s easy. Warm. Messy in the best way.
Roman’s still prattling on some ridiculous story about his “tragic” loss at ring toss, but my attention is entirely elsewhere. My heart does this weird little skip when Ezra’s hand, almost accidentally, bumps into mine.
“Sorry,” he says, but his grin is unmistakable. “Didn’t mean to invade your personal space.”
“Right,” I say, laughing lightly, but my heart’s suddenly pounding. “It’s fine. Your hand was clearly aiming for mine. Totally not awkward.”
He chuckles under his breath, the sound a soft little secret between us. And then, before I can even process what’s happening, he stops walking and turns to face me, a sly, almost teasing glint in his eyes.
“You’re right,” he says softly, with a playfulness that makes me blink. “I wasn’t aiming for your hand.”
I raise an eyebrow, unsure if he’s messing with me. “Then what were you aiming for?”
And before I can say anything else, he leans in, not with the usual smoothness I expect from Roman or the intensity I get from Creed, but with something sweet, still a little unsure.
His lips brush mine, just the softest touch, like a question. A shock of warmth and surprise floods me, and I freeze.
I wasn’t expecting him to kiss me here.
I know Coyote Glen is an open-minded town, but this feels like he’s staking a claim.
I have to admit, I like it.
“Ice skating.” We pull apart as Roman cries out in excitement. “Come on, we have to.”
Before I can even catch my breath, he grabs my hand and tugs me toward the rink, his grip warm and surprisingly reassuring. Ezra follows close behind, his expression happy, as if he’s been ice skating his whole life. Creed trails behind, shaking his head but still managing to keep up with us.
We reach the rink, and Roman dramatically twirls, pulling me with him into the midst of the crowd.
“Ladies first!” he announces, gesturing to the ice like it’s some grand stage.
“After you, Prince Charming,” I deadpan, trying to hold on to my cool, but I’m pretty sure it’s slipping.
He grins mischievously. “I see you’re feeling the spirit of competition.”
“Oh, I’m feeling something,” I mutter as I wobble onto the ice, trying to find my balance.
My first few steps are cautious skids, but I catch myself before I totally face-plant.
Ezra is already gliding across the ice with a calm grace, as if he were born with skates on. He glances over at me, and his lips curl into that quiet, teasing smile I’ve come to recognize so well.
“You’ll get it. Just trust the ice.”
I try not to think about how that sounds metaphorical for… everything else in my life. Instead, I focus on my feet and try not to make a fool of myself. But the ice is so slick, and my sense of balance is, well, questionable, so it’s more of a flailing shuffle than anything remotely graceful.
Roman watches me for a second before laughing. “It’s okay, Sloane. You’ve got this! Just think of it like dancing… just… on ice, with a lot more falling.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I call over my shoulder sarcastically.
I try to keep my balance, but the ice is glass beneath me, and my feet are having none of it. The more I try to focus, the more my body decides to rebel. Before I know it, I’m flailing as a cat on a hot tin roof, one foot shooting out from under me.
And then… bam.
I crash into someone, Roman, and I swear, it feels like my world … pauses. My arms flail, my brain shuts down, and my body instinctively does what I can only assume is the awkwardest move in history.