Chapter 10
“If you’re locked in the parade lineup, it’s as serious as a blood oath,” I say from beside Leo in his truck, one so monstrous it eats Fiats for breakfast. We spent most of the afternoon decorating the store.
Leo helped in more ways than reaching the taller boughs of the tree.
He encouraged me to share memories of Gran.
So I talked about how she taught me to drive at Silver Creek Park and nearly bailed when I almost veered off the one-lane bridge.
How she would make chocolate chip waffles on the mornings of my birthday.
I found myself telling him things I never shared with anyone else, not even Tilly.
Instead of the past few hours being heartbreaking, they were therapeutic.
Also, not only did Leo listen, but he fed me Chinese food.
The DoorDash came as we were finishing up decorating, and now, with a heart full of nostalgia and a stomach full of orange chicken, I’m ready for part two of my day—the parade.
First, we need to pick up the float. Thanks to Leo, I won’t be getting fined tonight.
“Because of the Main Street Revolt, there’s no escaping the parade without some sort of consequence. ”
He backs out of the shop’s lot. “Revolt?”
“A few years ago, several Main Street businesses enrolled for the parade and all listed elaborate ideas for their floats.”
He flicks on his turn signal and glances at me. “I sense a but.”
“Yep, the big but of Mayor Perkins.” I shake my head at the memory.
“He wanted Silver Creek to be tech friendly. So he requested all businesses use QR scanning only. That didn’t go over well.
” Most of the shop owners haven’t even graduated to smartphones yet.
Poor Mr. Gunther, the Farmers’ Market Manager, was adamant that QR codes are secret government trackers and that he didn’t outlast Y2K, AOL dial-up, and a string of forgotten email passwords to be overtaken by a splotchy square.
His words. He can be a bit much, but what he lacks in tech-friendly cooperation, he makes up for with quality produce.
“In retaliation, the shop owners dropped out of the parade at the last minute to embarrass the mayor.”
He chuckles. “Main Street mutiny. I like it.” He leans on the center armrest between us, sending notes of his cologne my way. “Did you join the rebellion?”
“Nope. Gran and I went. Her love of Christmas outweighed her thirst for revenge.” My elbow bumps his, and I’m kinda flustered by his nearness.
Needing something to do, I adjust my scarf.
“Though I think Gran really wanted to win the Most Festive Float award. With the majority of the competition out, she knew her chances were high.” Pap wasn’t the only competitive one in the family.
“Did you win?”
“A last-minute entry knocked us out of the running.” Oh, the fury that lit Gran’s eyes when the winner was announced. “We lost to Rhonda’s Party Palace. Gran claimed it was fixed because Rhonda donated several bouncy castles to the Fourth of July event that year.”
He shakes his head in commiseration. “Small-town politics are the worst.”
“Gran voted for his opponent last election. All because Mayor Perkins is easily swayed by Rhonda’s inflatables.”
Leo coughs.
“Anyway, after the Main Street Revolt, if a business backs out, they get fined. I think it’s only fifty bucks, but it’s about principle.”
He nods in solidarity and pulls onto the storage facility’s lot. The sky’s dimming by the minute, but I easily direct him to my unit. Once parked, I punch in the code, and Leo helps me with the massive sliding door. I flip on the lights to reveal the Christmas wonderland that is my float.
He does a double-take. “You did this?” He steps inside the unit and pauses in front of the White Christmas sign that I patterned after the opening credits of the movie.
On the front of the trailer is a red bag filled with wrapped boxes.
The karaoke machine Leonard stole from the senior center sits near the back, along with tubs full of candy to toss along the parade route.
The rest of the space is taken up by a massive Christmas tree like the one from the final scene of the movie.
Leo slides a finger over the silver garland. “I recognize this tree.”
“You’ve seen the film?” I didn’t mean to sound doubtful, but this guy doesn’t seem like a song-and-dance movie lover. He looks more like a Die Hard person. I bet every Jolly Rancher in those buckets that Leo has the movie memorized.
He points at me with a teasing smile. “Just because I didn’t know your romance flicks doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of all movies.”
“Only the best ones,” I counter. “But yeah, I stayed up most of the night finishing this.” Which is why my feet and back hate me right now. “Anything for Gran.”
His head tilts in question. He ditched the baseball cap in the truck, so that lone curl topples over his forehead.
“Oh, I went all out this year in her honor.”
“Everything looks amazing.” His reassurance bolsters my hope.
We need to hitch the float to Leo’s truck, but first, I grab Bruce’s costume from the standing rack in the corner. I skirt around the large dressing screen. Over the past years, this storage unit has also served as my personal changing room for parade night.
I grip the costume, hesitation flooding through me.
Because I didn’t want to risk the seventy-five-year-old Maverick catching pneumonia, I purposely made the shirt larger to allow for Bruce to dress warmly beneath.
My gaze toggles between the shirt and Leo’s frame.
I’m unsure if it will fit, and I’m not about to break out my measuring tape to gauge his chest. Oh well.
It’s too late to adjust anyway. “Might be a tad snug.” As for the pants, I’m not going to bother.
Leo’s at least a foot taller than Bruce.
Guess Leo’s black joggers will have to do.
His gaze roves over the shirt. Most guys wouldn’t be thrilled to wear a red button-down with decorative sequins and faux fur trim, but appreciation warms Leo’s eyes. “You made this, didn’t you?”
“Of course. You, my friend, are Bob Wallace tonight.” I plop the Santa hat on his head. “There.”
His eyes dart to the rolling rack, which holds my dress. “Are you Betty?”
“I am.”
He steps closer. “And we’re recreating the final scene of the movie?” His tone takes on a sudden interest. “The entire scene?”
“Um, no,” I sputter. “We’re not making out behind the tree.
” Awareness pricks like a hundred pine needles across my skin.
Nope. I will not acknowledge this … or even name it.
Gran once warned me—when a stray cat took refuge under our porch— never to name something, unless I want it to become mine.
Because once I named it, my heart would take ownership of it.
She knew that about me. And I need to take heed of her words.
Leo is not mine. So I will not claim this attraction.
I brush away that pesky feeling, refusing to feed it.
He shrugs with an easy grin. “Just want to stand by my promise of full cooperation.”
“That’s too much cooperation.”
“Anything for Gran,” he tosses back, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Instead of noting how the left side of Leo’s mouth climbs higher than his right when he smiles, I force my focus on the costume. “Maybe you should try it on.” If it doesn’t fit, I’ll have to improvise.
He nods and tugs off the Santa hat and hands it to me.
With smooth finesse, he removes his hoodie, revealing a snug tee beneath.
I remember once laughing how women from the Regency era never showed their ankles because it was considered scandalous.
Ankles, really? But this is the first time I’ve seen Leo in short sleeves, and I’m feeling stupidly warm about something so basic.
His biceps are certainly worth noting, but I’m oddly drawn to his wrists, which are twice the size of mine.
So while ankles were the hot joints two hundred years ago, in modern days, for Greta Carlton, it’s wrists, specifically Leo’s.
Now I’m annoyed at my own weirdness and am super relieved when Leo reaches for the costume, our fingers brushing in the process.
I don’t know why I hold my breath as he masculinely slips the shirt over his form. Something about him wearing my creation makes my pulse pound faster. I’m a hundred percent certain I wouldn’t have this reaction for Bruce.
I was right. It’s a snug fit, but it’s not exactly awful. “Maybe just don’t, like, flex or anything.” The second that’s out of my mouth, I regret it.
Leo’s roguish grin unleashes.
And of course, because I’m me, I follow up with something even worse. “You know, because the seams could rip. I won’t be able to fix it on the parade route.”
He reaches for the hat I’m currently strangling. “But it would be like old times.” His thumb runs over my knuckles, then he hooks my fingers in his and tugs me a step closer. “You have a habit of demanding I take off my clothes.”
A sharp squeak rattles my throat. “What?”
“To mend them.”
Oh, that’s right. Last year, I fixed the hole in his jacket. But I cannot come up with a witty reply because Leo knocked my brain out of service. I make a show of checking the time on my phone screen. “We should probably hurry.” I grab my gown from the rack.
“Got it, Betty.” He nods. “Any last-minute instructions?”
“Nope. Well, maybe. You’ll be driving along the parade route, but when we get to the judging station, I need you to put the truck in park and join us on the trailer. We have exactly two minutes.”
“And that’s when?—”
“You wow the masses by singing ‘White Christmas.’”
He runs a hand over his face. “Okay.”
“Are you regretting your offer to help?”
He looks at me with a curious bend to his brow. “Will this make you happy?”
“Very.”
“Then no regrets.” He tugs his keys from his pocket. “But don’t expect a perfect Bing Crosby performance.”