Chapter 3
Chapter three
Dawson
The square is a madhouse, precisely the way it is every year, only tonight the chaos feels different. Louder. Brighter. Like someone cranked the volume on the whole world.
I weave through the crowd with my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, nodding at the people who call my name. Kids dart between legs like minnows, and someone’s blasting “Feliz Navidad” from a Bluetooth speaker. The air smells like chocolate, pine, and woodsmoke.
I told myself I was only coming to double-check the star. That’s it. One last look to make sure the wind didn’t dislodge the wiring overnight, then I could disappear back up the mountain with a clear conscience.
Liar.
I climb the ladder, boots steady on the rungs even though my pulse is anything but. At the top, I pretend to fiddle with a connection that’s already perfect, using the height to scan the crowd the way I used to scan ridgelines for movement.
It takes me less than five seconds to find her.
She’s by the cocoa stand in a red sweater that hugs every curve I spent all last night trying not to think about.
Her honey-blonde hair is loose tonight, spilling over her shoulders in waves.
She’s laughing at something Annie Larson just said, head thrown back, throat exposed, and the sight punches me square in the sternum.
Jesus Christ.
I’m thirty-six years old, and one look at Cora McClaine smiling has me half-hard in the middle of the town square with most of Pine Hollow watching.
I force myself down the ladder before I do something stupid like stay up there all night staring at her like a lunatic. Tom intercepts me the second my boots hit the snow.
“There he is, our hero!” He claps me on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. “Star looks perfect, as always. You sticking around for the countdown?”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I mutter, but my eyes are already sliding back to Cora.
Tom follows my gaze, and his grin turns wolfish. “Well, well. Never thought I’d see the day Dawson Hartman had a reason to stick around past five o’clock.”
“Fuck off, Tom,” I say, but there’s no heat in it. I’m too busy watching Cora tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and wondering what that hair would feel like wrapped around my fist.
Tom laughs. “Go get her, you grumpy bastard. She’s been looking over here every ten seconds since you showed up.”
I flip him off without looking and start moving. The crowd parts for me the way it always does. Cora spots me coming, and her whole face lights up.
“Hi, Dawson,” she says when I’m close enough, voice warm and teasing and perfect.
“Hi, sunshine.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it. Her cheeks go pink. I have to shift my weight and adjust the front of my jeans because apparently my body didn’t get the memo about public indecency.
Dottie appears out of nowhere and plants herself between us with a smile. “You two kids need to stop making heart eyes at each other in front of my cocoa stand. It’s bad for business. Take a walk and find a good spot to watch the tree lighting. Shoo.” She actually makes shooing motions.
Cora laughs, bright and delighted. “Yes, ma’am.”
I offer her my arm because, apparently, I’m living in a Hallmark movie now. She slips her mittened hand through without hesitation, and the second her fingers curl around my forearm, every nerve ending I own stands at attention.
We wander toward the edge of the crowd, shoulders brushing, breath fogging together in the cold. She smells strawberries and cinnamon. I want to bury my face in her neck and stay there until spring.
“So,” she says, bumping me lightly, “come here often?”
A laugh rumbles out of me. “Every year. Fix the star, disappear before the carolers spot me.”
“Scared of a little ‘Jingle Bells’?”
“Terrified,” I deadpan.
She grins up at me, eyes dancing. “Favorite Christmas movie?”
“Die Hard.”
“That’s not—”
“It absolutely is.”
She laughs so hard she almost slips on an icy patch. I steady her automatically, hand sliding to the small of her back, and neither of us moves to break the contact.
We talk about our favorite Christmas things. She loves everything, and I tolerate it all. Every time she smiles, my pulse spikes. Every time I make her laugh, I feel ten feet tall.
We end up under the big arbor at the north end of the square, strings of lights overhead dripping gold onto the snow. The crowd is thick behind us, the countdown about to start any minute.
Mrs. Henderson, one of Dottie’s friends, stops dead in front of us, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. She points one finger straight up.
“Well, would you look at that,” she says, loud enough for half the town to hear. “Mistletoe!”
I glance up. Sure enough, there’s a fat sprig of the stuff tied with red ribbon, swaying gently in the breeze.
Cora’s lips part, eyes wide and gorgeous, and fix on me.
Tradition, my brain supplies helpfully, you have to kiss if you’re caught under the mistletoe.
I cup her face in both hands and lean in in one smooth motion. She rises on her toes to meet me halfway. The second our mouths touch, the world disappears.
Her lips are soft and warm, tasting like cocoa and marshmallows.
They are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
I angle my head, deepen the kiss, and she makes this tiny, hungry sound that shoots straight to my dick.
Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer, and I slide one palm to the back of her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin under her hair.
Somewhere behind us, the mayor starts the countdown, but I barely hear it over the roar in my ears and the way Cora is kissing me back like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
Three… two… one…
The tree explodes into light, and the square erupts in cheers, but I don’t look. I can’t. All I can do is kiss Cora McClaine under the mistletoe while the world turns bright around us and every frozen part of me thaws in the space of one heartbeat.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, snow falling soft and slow like the sky itself is celebrating.
“Merry Christmas, Dawson,” she whispers against my lips.
I answer by kissing her again, slower this time, deeper, because some things don’t need words.
Behind us, the town sings “O Christmas Tree,” off-key and perfect, and I smile against her mouth.
Best damn tradition ever.