Chapter 11
[Lumi]
“What the tinsel town is this?” Saint laughs as he stands on a dock in the harbor, and I savor the chuckling sound that’s thick like falling timber.
It’s been two nights since our playful frosting fight.
We haven’t mentioned it again, letting the strain of a failed moment linger between us.
I understand his hesitation. He’s going to leave town as soon as he can.
He’s actually doing me a favor. Protecting me.
Still, my heart aches at the loss from both a missed kiss and the day he’ll eventually leave.
“It’s the lighting of the harbor Christmas tree.”
Although there isn’t an actual tree in sight. Instead, a pile of lobster traps is stacked to imitate the conical shape of a pine tree with a miniature cutout of Larry the Lobstah, the town mascot of sorts, on top.
Saint stands beside me on a dock as we watch the approach of the town’s mayor, Mr. Locke.
He’s dressed like Santa and waves at the crowd from the front of a lobster boat donated by Hawthorne Fisheries.
John Locke loves Christmas. At fifty-seven, he’s still a good-looking man with salt and pepper in his hair.
He grows a beard each holiday season for the chance to play Santa when any opportunity arises.
He’ll be the person to officially light the harbor tree, turning the pile of weathered crates into a multi-colored light display, complete with small buoys and giant plastic candy canes.
This year, the donated boat is being driven by Greyson Hawthorne with Wren Wilde by his side. The two look very cozy, but my attention is more focused on the man beside me, caught between humor and offense at this production.
In addition to the town Santa, Larry the Lobstah is present and represented this year by Ralph, a man in his mid-thirties who still lives with his mom.
As he’s fumbling with the costume, trying to keep the claws up on his hands and the headpiece righted on his head, Saint lets out a hearty chuckle beside me.
“What is that?”
“Larry the Lobstah,” I exaggerate my accent on the town’s mascot, and Saint laughs even harder. His shoulders shake while his arms are crossed, one hand lifted and fisted by his mouth, like he’s trying to contain his mirth at this community event.
“It’s okay to laugh.” While we take our traditions seriously in this town, we also appreciate the good nature of them.
Ralph looks ridiculous in a costume too large for his non-athletic build. Mayor Locke is waving like he’s the king of England, and Greyson is so distracted by Wren at his side, the boat keeps swerving like a drunken sailor is steering its course.
“It’s fun.” He smiles wide, as he continues to watch the approach of the lobster boat.
For all the years I’ve stood out here, freezing my backside off, listening to Danny whine about the cold and begging for hot chocolate from a nearby vendor, I’m having fun as well. A different sort of fun from being a mom worrying about her kid to a woman standing next to a hot man.
One who I’d like to wrap my arm around the crook of his and press against.
Instead, I continue watching the lobster boat dock, then Mayor Locke light the tree that almost looks like a tree once the lights come on, disguising the crates a bit. However, that bright orange cut-out of Larry the Lobstah reminds me that the crate stack is indeed not an evergreen.
The festivities will continue as tonight is a big drinking night for the adults in town. Most will gather at The Shore Thing. In the past, I’ve met up with my sisters, and I plan to do the same thing tonight, with a plus-one.
“Thanks for helping Neve at Rusty’s this week,” I state once the official lighting is over, and the crowd becomes restless to move on.
Saint has been at the shop since Wednesday, working on his own car, having told me earlier in the week that he likes to tinker.
“I can’t sit around and watch Christmas movies all day.”
I’d beg to differ, but don’t argue with him.
“Hot buttered rum?” Saint arches a brow as we make our way in the direction of The Shore Thing, like many others, after the official lighting ceremony.
For the night, the town council approved a local vendor to sponsor a booth selling hot buttered rum, another tradition of the season, near the harbor. While every bar in town is certain to have the drink as a specialty item tonight, instant gratification suggests having one here and now.
Without waiting for my answer, Saint takes my mitten-covered hand in his leather-gloved one and guides me through the crowd to the vendor.
My preference is to include cider instead of water in the drink, which adds to the sweetness of the beverage, and once Saint and I each have a disposable cup with the steaming treat, it does not disappoint.
After a savoring sip of the hot liquid, I lick my lips and catch Saint watching the motion.
With his eyes on me, he lifts his own cup for a drink.
The moment feels charged, crackling with heat despite the cold temperature around us. My insides light like the harbor tree as we stare at one another for a long beat.
Saint opens his mouth like he wants to tell me something. Only, he’s jostled to the side, jerking his gaze from me.
“Sorry, bub,” a man says to Saint after he bumps into him.
“Ayuh,” Saint answers, like he’s from the area, instantly forgiving the disruption to our staring contest when I am suddenly desperate to know what he was about to say to me.
Before turning back in my direction, Saint does a double-take as a little girl stands rather close to his side.
He smiles warmly as she waves for him to bend down. As he does, locking his gaze on me, she cups her hand around her mouth and whispers something into his ear. His brows hitch, the expression both full of surprise and glee. Like he’s humoring the young girl.
“Really?” He turns his head toward her as he slowly stands to his full height.
She nods, eyes wide and expectant.
“Well, I suppose if you’ve been very good this year, I don’t see why not.” He winks at her and her grin is so wide her entire face illuminates as bright as Larry highlighted on top of the harbor tree.
Saint looks over her head, glancing around for a parent, and within seconds, a woman presses through the adults nearby.
“Samantha.” The mother breathes in relief. “You can’t walk away from me like that.”
I recognize the panic and fear in her voice. While the crowd is safe, the collection of people is tight and daunting.
Taking the little girl’s mittened hand, the mother apologizes to Saint before giving me a nod. I recognize the local schoolteacher and offer a sympathetic smile. Every mother has been here.
As the two make their way through the crowd, Samantha turns back and gives Saint another wave. He responds by wiggling his fingers toward her.
“What was that all about?” I chuckle once they are out of hearing range.
Saint turns back toward me. “She told me what she wanted for Christmas.”
“She what?” I choke on a laugh before realizing what that little girl must have thought. He’s Santa Claus. The Santa Claus. The idea makes me laugh harder.
With his brow arched, suggesting I’ve answered my own question, he takes another sip of his hot buttered rum.
“That was sweet of you.” He clearly played along with Samantha’s thought process.
He smiles.
“What did she tell you she wanted?”
His mouth pops open. A stream of warm heat escaping. “I cannot tell you that. It’s the Santa code of confidence.”
“The what?” My smile is nearly as wide as the child’s.
“The unbreakable code that I cannot divulge what a child requests directly from Santa.” He moves his finger in the air in a complicated motion of up, down, back and forth, and zigzag. Then he clumps his fingers together and presses them apart as if dispelling something into the air.
“What the heck was that?” I chuff, glancing at his fingertips as he wraps them around his to-go cup again.
“I made the international symbol for Santa-direct requests and then shot it off for the big man in red.”
I chuckle, throaty and deep. “Now you’re really pulling my leg.”
“I would never joke about something so serious as a Christmas wish.” His smile is pure Grinch, delicious and lush, as he watches me once again over the rim of his cup and takes a drink of the warm rum.
My insides are heated from the drink, but that smile just turned up the temperature.
Saint steps closer to me, brushing back a wisp of hair hanging out of my knit cap. His eyes twinkle as he leans toward me.
“What’s your Christmas wish this year, Lumi?” The crook of his smile is pure seduction, which causes my cheeks to warm.
I scoff, laughing off the blatant flirt because I have an inkling he knows what I want. At least from him.
I shake my head at him, like he’s a naughty boy. “Thought I wasn’t supposed to share, or the wish doesn’t happen.”
Saint laughs.
“Should we head to The Shore Thing?” I suggest, which almost sounds like I’ve announced I’m a sure thing, willing to let him pull body parts, like my legs apart and my hair in his fist.
With a final sip of my hot buttered rum, scorching the back of my throat, I try to drown out the naughty thoughts.
Then I make my own complicated symbol in my head and toss my wish into the universe, mentally watching it burst at the impossibility of Saint and me ever being together.