Chapter 5
REBECCA
The Timber’s Edge gift shop is a treasure trove of cozy mountain charm. I grab a forest green t-shirt with the lodge’s logo, but make it Christmas—a pine tree wreathed in twinkling lights—and a pair of soft black leggings. I cannot resist the leather fleece-lined slippers either.
After a quick change in my room, if fans take photos, they’ll see that under all the glitz and glam, I’m a normal person instead of someone who perpetually looks like she just stepped off a stage … or escaped the one in Vegas.
Pookie eyes me suspiciously from her spot on the bed, as if questioning my fashion choices.
“Don’t judge me, Pooks. This is called comfort.”
She yawns.
I scoop her up and head to the game room. My stomach does a fluttery thing with every step that takes me closer to Reese. It’s just the cinnamon-scented air. Or the altitude. Definitely not because I’m about to spend the day doing Christmas activities with my brother’s best friend.
The guy I had the most intense crush on before I really knew what the warm and happy butterflies in my belly were trying to tell me.
I only became aware of it when I was sixteen and he had just graduated from high school.
One of my friends asked why I wasn’t interested in the prom king—Joey Gleason was so hot, our entire school had a collective case of swoon.
The boys wanted to be him. The girls wanted to be with him.
But then there was Reese. He was hot but also capable and kind and …
completely oblivious to my existence beyond my being Brady’s little sister.
The guy who still makes my stomach hit the high notes when he smiles.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I can handle this. Probably.
The game room buzzes with activity when I arrive. There is not one, but three Christmas trees by the big bank of windows. They each have a different theme—toys and games on one, animals on the other, and the bigger one in the center has general Christmas-themed ornaments.
String lights crisscross the ceiling and drape along the outside of the pool table, more candles flicker along the windowsills, and decorative holiday throw pillows with playful designs line the various couches and lounge areas.
Families cluster around tables laden with plain sweatshirts, fabric paint, glitter, felt appliqués, sequins, and enough hot glue guns to make a fire marshal nervous. Christmas music plays softly in the background and the scent of sugar cookies drifts from somewhere nearby.
Reese stands by a table near the window, looking adorably uncertain as he eyes the craft supplies like they might spontaneously combust.
“Ready to get festive?” I ask, setting Pookie down on a cushioned chair.
He picks up a hot glue gun with two fingers, as if it’s a live grenade. “I’m more of a ‘destroy things with an axe’ kind of guy than a ‘create things with sequins’ dude.”
“Live a little, Reese. Take a risk.” I nudge him with my elbow.
At the contact, a shiver blazes through me, but I’m not cold. Considering the fireplace is on the other side of the room, the sudden warmth inside can’t be a result of the burning logs.
He says, “I take risks for a living.”
“Then this should be easy.” I grab a red sweatshirt and start sorting through the appliqués—reindeer, snowflakes, candy canes, and all things North Pole. “Besides, you said you still have that reindeer apron my mom gave you. Clearly, you have a secret side that appreciates seasonal kitsch.”
“That apron is practical, so I don’t stain my clothes. This is ...” He gestures helplessly at the mountain of glitter. “Extreme.”
I laugh and thread a needle, bringing back memories of sitting at my mom’s kitchen table, making costumes for school plays.
Back when life was simpler. When my biggest worry was whether the straw and patches would stay attached during my performance as the Scarecrow in my school’s production of The Wizard of Oz.
When the director heard my singing voice, the next year, they cast me as Dorothy.
“My mom taught me to sew,” I say, pinning a felt reindeer to my sweatshirt. “I used to help make all the costumes for school plays. Before ...”
“Before you became famous?”
“Before I let everyone else make all my decisions.” I concentrate on my stitching, trying to keep my voice light. “Including what I wear. What I say. Who I date.”
Reese is quiet for a moment, carefully applying hot glue to a felt snowflake. “For what it’s worth, you looked great in the sparkly dress as well as the t-shirt.”
I blush. I’m grateful for an excuse to focus on my ugly sweatshirt because even though I’m told that I’m beautiful by fans and that I deserve a pie to the face from haters, hearing Reese say it hits different. “Thank you.”
The groups of people at the nearby tables chatter, a few people sing along to “All I want for Christmas,” blaring through the sound system (yes, my version), and I sneak glances at Reese. He’s concentrating hard, sucking in his lip slightly as he positions ornaments on his navy blue sweatshirt.
A soft sigh escapes as I hear my own voice belting out the chorus through the speakers. And yet, no one here has so much as acknowledged me. I haven’t felt this free since the bygone days Reese and I reminisced about.
Reaching for the jingle bells, I say, “Tell me about your firefighting crew. You mentioned a guy named Maverick?”
He nods. “Lieutenant Patton Cross. Everyone calls him Maverick—he’s our officer in charge. Makes all the tactical decisions on scene, handles communications. He’s the steady hand that keeps us in line.”
“So not a Maverick?”
“Was, past tense. He, uh, well, I don’t exactly know what happened. But he’s a pro.”
As we work, he tells me about the rest of the team.
James Sutton—James Bond—the engineer in the driver’s seat of the hose truck.
Austin James—James Dean—the adrenaline junkie nozzle firefighter.
Scotty Hodges, the grumpy lumberjack single dad who’s secretly a softie.
And Hayes, the eager rookie they call Handsome.
“Wait, how many guys are named James?” I pause mid-stitch.
“Two Jameses, one with the first name, the other with the last, hence the nicknames. Having a handle is also a firefighter thing.”
“Sounds like a real brotherhood.”
With a nod, he holds up his sweatshirt with a crooked snowman and iron-on letters spelling Chillin’ with my Snowmies. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re better at this than you claim.” I show him mine with an explosion of reindeer, snowflakes, candy canes, and approximately a billionty jingle bells. Every available inch of red fabric is covered, which kind of felt like my life before I made a great escape. “Too much?”
“I think you’re going to sound like Santa’s reindeer when you walk.”
“There are worse things.”
I pull it on over my Timber’s Edge t-shirt, and sure enough, every movement creates a symphony of jingles.
Reese shakes his head, but his expression is open, eyes bright with delight.
“And what do you do besides break things?”
“Utility and tools. I handle forcible entry, ventilation, and extrication. Basically, if something needs to be destroyed in a controlled manner, that’s me. I’m the guy with the Halligan and the axe—the irons.”
“So you’ve saved people’s lives?” The question comes out hesitant, like I’m entering uncertain territory because it comes with the recognition that the opposite might also be true.
Reese’s expression turns serious. “I have.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s the job.” The way he says it so humbly makes me think that he doesn’t see himself as a hero. Like risking his life for strangers is what anyone would do.
My heart swoops again. Reese Marchiano is genuine and kind. One of the good guys.
And I’m supposed to date bad boys. At least, that’s what Lilith always says. She tells me that my brand needs edge and has set me up with debaucherous rock stars and actors with bad reputations.
Tearing my thoughts out of what’s quickly becoming a bitter rut, I rummage through my gift shop bags, pushing away thoughts of my so-called team.
From what Reese has said, it seems like he and his fire crew have each other’s backs, unlike mine, who’d just as soon stab each other in the back.
Lilith’s signing me on for the concert is a betrayal, especially after I specifically asked for Christmas off.
I exclaim, “We need one for Pookie!”
“The dog needs an ugly Christmas sweatshirt?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. My pugcess deserves an ugly Christmas sweatshirt.”
Twenty minutes of laughter and creative license later, Pookie has her own tiny red creation with iron-on letters spelling Sleigh Queen. She looks absolutely mortified, sitting in her chair like a disgruntled Christmas ornament.
I’ve never had more fun in my life.
“Goofs!” a voice calls from the doorway.
I turn to see a guy in his thirties wearing a Timber’s Edge staff shirt, grinning at us from the entrance. He’s got an easy smile and the kind of build that suggests he’s no stranger to physical work.
“Hey, Corbin,” Reese says.
“Looking good, man! Didn’t know you were spending Christmas here.
” Corbin’s eyes flick from the ugly Christmas sweatshirt to me with friendly curiosity, but no recognition.
It’s refreshing. Slightly concerning. But overall, absolutely wonderful not to have people clamoring for a piece of the Rebecca Rios.
“It was a last-minute change of plans,” Reese says.
“Well, Merry Christmas! I’d better get back to work before Noella catches me sneaking cookies.” Corbin waves and disappears down the hallway.
“Goofs?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Reese.
His neck turns red. “That would be my nickname. The crew started calling me Goose because someone said I looked like the character from Top Gun. But we already have a Maverick, and apparently, I’m a bit of a goofball, so Goofs it is.”
“Goofs,” I repeat, filing that away for future teasing. “I like it. It suits you.”
“Thanks?” he says it like a question.
I laugh and start cleaning up our craft station. The outside edges of our hands brush as he helps and instead of ignoring the contact, our eyes meet. Smiles are exchanged, quick as a flash, before we both look away.
I feel a pull between us. A sense that something is shifting. Or maybe it’s the weather … unless he feels it too.
However, Reese is my brother’s best friend. The unspoken rule that’s been in place since we were kids is that he’s off-limits. I mean, Brady never expressly said that, but it was implied. I was the annoying little sister who’d tag along and make them listen to me play piano and sing.
Besides, I’m a pop star. I’m supposed to want the bad boys, the guys with danger and drama. Not a steady, caring firefighter who saves lives and makes terrible puns and wears an ugly Christmas sweatshirt without complaint.
Except why does that rule exist again? Since when are the good guys on the no-date list? It seems completely backward.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as I gather Pookie.
“For what?” Reese inclines his head toward me as if curious as to what I’m going to say.
The look in his eyes strikes a chord in me, vibrating my pulse like a piano string.
It takes me a moment to find my voice, a rarity.
“For staying. For already making this Christmas feel real, special instead of ...” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass my entire complicated life in one motion. “Whatever my life has become.”
Reese’s evergreen eyes hold mine, and for a moment, the game room with its glitter and glue and chattering families fades away. It’s just him and me and this moment that feels suspended in time, like a snowflake caught on a windowpane.
“There’s snow place I’d rather be,” he says, and despite the terrible pun—or maybe because of it—I feel warm all over and flooded with something that feels dangerously like hope.