Chapter 7
REBECCA
The sugar cookie decorating station is straight out of a Christmas bake-off show set with royal icing in every color, sprinkles that shimmer like fresh snow, edible glitter, and cookies cut out like stars, trees, snowmen, candy canes, and other festive shapes.
Pookie, rested from her nap, watches expectantly, likely hoping for some crumbs to fall onto my lap where she perches like the spoiled pugcess she is.
I pick up a piping bag filled with white icing and immediately squeeze too hard. A blob lands on my snowman cookie’s head.
“Smooth,” Reese says, working on his own cookie with more precision than he had using the glue gun or the paint brush.
The feel of us touching makes me hum in a way that’s so much like when I get lost in a song on the piano that I worry I might be dreaming. It comes again now, working side by side. So close, we bump into each other multiple times. This connection can’t be real, can it?
I try to salvage my snowman, but he ends up looking more like a victim of a frosting avalanche. “Turns out that I’m a musician, not a baker.”
Reese holds up his cookie—a perfectly iced Christmas tree with silver sugar pearls arranged like ornaments.
“Show off.”
His grin in response gives me a warm, fuzzy, fizzy rush like I used to feel on Christmas morning.
“As it so happens, I’m a baker in training, so this is good practice.”
I think about the bakery he and his buddies are opening with a twinge of jealousy.
Sure, I wanted to share my music with the world because I saw how it made people happy, but I didn’t factor myself into the equation.
I wasn’t anticipating having to surrender my privacy, my personal life, and my peace in the process.
Working side by side, I’m hyperaware of every time our elbows brush and when we reach for the same container at the same time. It’s hard not to think that every shared laugh and every moment our eyes meet doesn’t mean something.
My hands are sticky with icing and I’m certain there is edible glitter in my hair, but I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun or felt this content.
“Here.” Reese reaches over with a napkin and gently wipes a smudge of icing from my cheek. “I’m not sure if you were sneaking a bite or if this Christmas wreath cookie was trying to eat you.”
My laughter fades as his fingers graze my skin and my breath catches, much like it did when we were outside earlier and before that when he held my hand during the group photo.
If he had any idea how much I appreciate his steady presence, he’d probably tease me. Then again, this is adult Reese and not the goofball kid who was always hanging out with my brother.
Once more, our gazes drift together. The noise of the other guests disappears into the background music. It’s just us and unspoken questions suspended in the air. Is he just my brother’s best friend? Am I only his best friend’s little sister? Or is there something more going on?
Then Pookie whines, likely because she’s snarfled up all the sprinkles out of my lap and is having a sugar crash or she needs to go outside.
I get to my feet, and by the way Reese’s gaze follows me out of the room, something has shifted. I can feel it.
After freshening up for dinner, we meet in the main dining room for self-serve fondue with both sweet and savory options along with multiple charcuterie boards laden with cheese and crackers, fruit, smoked meat, spiced and glazed nuts, and dips and veggies.
Each one is a different shape, including a tree, a star, a Christmas ball, and a wreath.
Fresh pine garlands drape across the mantel above a crackling fire. The scent of woodsmoke and the delicious meal make me forget about the storm outside. The long tables each host several candlelit centerpieces of red berries and winter greenery.
Reese and I sit with some of the other guests, and Hollis leads everyone in a blessing.
I’m struck again by how no one treats me like Rebecca Rios, Pop Star. I’m just Rebecca, the woman in the ridiculous, jingly ugly sweatshirt who’s great at painting but terrible at decorating cookies.
It’s the best gift anyone could give me. Well, that and the man who sits by my side, listens when I talk—and not because he wants something from me. When our eyes meet, it’s like we share a Christmas secret.
After dinner, Noella announces caroling in the main lobby, and my stomach drops.
“We don’t have to,” Reese says, reading my expression.
“No, I want to.” And I do, even though the thought of singing—my actual job—in front of people makes me nervous in a way performing for thousands never has. “It’s ...” But I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. I don’t want this snow globe bubble of real, genuine fun and anonymity to burst.
“No pressure. No performance. Let’s sing Christmas carols with people who are slightly off-key and only know half the words,” he whispers, stirring the loose hair on my neck and sending a delightful shiver through me.
I giggle because that doesn’t sound so bad.
As we gather by the tree, everyone smiles and sings. Nobody cares that I hit every note perfectly or that my voice is trained and polished. We’re all just people celebrating Christmas together.
When we finish the last verse of “Mary Did You Know,” I realize I’m crying. Happy tears, but still.
Reese’s hand finds mine and squeezes.
After caroling comes Christmas bingo, which turns out to be hilariously competitive. Reese gets three bingos in a row and wins a stuffed reindeer that he immediately presents to Pookie, who looks insulted or terrified, I can’t be sure which.
Next, we get to participate in a live Nativity scene. Pookie rebels against playing baby Jesus in the manger and opts to be a smug pug who parks herself next to the camel.
Watching the reenactment is a much-needed reminder of the reason for the season—the pageant and story, not my dog. I’ve let so many things that are important to me fall by the wayside and for what? To please Lilith? To make money? At some point, I lost track.
By the time we migrate back to the fireplace, I’m exhausted in the best way. The kind of tired that comes from a full day of actual living instead of performing.
Noella appears, making her rounds. “We’ve done the evening turndown in all the rooms. Don’t forget—Santa is coming tonight, so be sure to get some sleep!”
She winks, but her words make me suddenly realize something I should’ve thought about hours ago.
Where is Reese going to sleep?
“Um,” I start.
He shifts uncomfortably, seemingly having the same realization at the exact same moment because his eyes widen slightly. “I should’ve asked this morning, but do you have any vacancies?”
Noella smiles apologetically. “The inn is fully booked. In fact, Rebecca got our last room. The storm has everyone staying put. But your suite has a couch, doesn’t it, dear?”
“It does,” I manage.
“Perfect! Well, Merry Christmas Eve to you both.” She bustles away before either of us can respond.
“I can sleep in my truck,” Reese says immediately. “It’s not a big deal.”
“In a blizzard? Absolutely not.” I stand up, brushing cookie crumbs off my leggings.
Pookie goes to town, “vacuuming” the floor.
Something she never would have done a couple of days ago, but something has changed.
She’s a refined pooch, but we’re living on the edge, here.
Even more so now with the sleeping arrangements situation.
Shaking my head, I say, “The couch has to be more comfortable than your truck.”
He looks uncertain, and I don’t blame him. “Um, Brady wouldn’t like this.”
“Brady isn’t here.”
“But he’s my best friend and this—”
This is definitely wandering into out-of-bounds territory. We both know it. My brother was super protective of me when we were younger and anyone who so much wanted to look my way knew they had to clear it with my big bro.
“I’m an adult and have outsourced a lot of my decisions lately. You were kind enough to stay with me today even though you’d worked all night and were probably exhausted. You need a good night’s rest and the least I can do is offer you a warm place to sleep.”
He reluctantly nods as if bracing himself for Brady’s wrath. Not that he needs to. If my brother feels argumentative, he and Lilith can fight and lose over who gets a say in my life because, from now on, I’m making my own choices.
“Come on,” I say. “But first, we need pajamas.”
The gift shop has matching flannel sets—red plaid with little Christmas trees. I grab two pairs in our sizes, then pause at the tiny dog section.
“For Pookie?” Reese asks.
“Obviously.”
I also sneak back while he browses a display of reindeer carvings and grab Reese a small gift—something to remember this Christmas by.
A version of “A Christmas Carol” plays on the big screen in the game room when we pass.
“Should we?” Reese asks.
“It wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without watching such a classic film.”
With bowls of festive popcorn, we settle in with the other guests to watch.
I’ve seen this movie a dozen times, but watching it with Reese makes it feel new.
He smiles at the funny parts. During moving scenes, his eyes get a little misty.
Unlike some people in my industry, he’s not afraid to be a goofball, show his emotions, be real.
He’s genuine, honest. And I’m falling for him. Like the snow outside. Fast and heavy. Like a snowball rolling downhill.
When the movie ends, Noella—still in full Mrs. Claus mode—sits in a large armchair and pulls out a worn copy of Twas the Night Before Christmas. Her voice is warm and theatrical as she reads, and everyone listens with the rapt attention usually reserved for children’s story time.
She stops just before the end, right at “‘Happy Christmas to all—’”
“‘And to all a good night!’” everyone finishes together.
Guests begin drifting to their rooms with calls of “Merry Christmas Eve!” and “See you in the morning!”
Reese and I are among the last to leave after a pooch potty break. I have Pookie tucked under my arm in her new Christmas pajamas—which, unsurprisingly, she looks adorable in.
The walk to my room feels longer than it should. We’re both quiet, the weight of the situation settling over us. I’m going to share a room with Reese Marchiano. My brother’s best friend. The guy I’ve been halfway in love with since I was sixteen.
The weather outside is frightful and the warmth in my chest is delightful. I’m all about letting it snow, however, the forecast can’t possibly predict what’s going to happen next because we have snowhere to go, but closer …