Chapter 5 Jaylynn
Jaylynn
If Peppermint Barbie clicks her nails on the long boardroom table one more time, I swear I’m going to stab myself in the eye with my pen. Honestly, it might be less painful. At least that injury comes with a trip to urgent care and an excuse to leave early.
“So,” I say, dragging out the word with as much subtle irritation as I can pack into a single syllable. “Is that it? Did we cover everything?”
Sometimes these town meetings feel like a group therapy session nobody asked for.
I mean, half of this could’ve been an email.
But our town clerk, Mr. Ben Tingley, likes to hold them in person.
Ever since Marianne passed, I think he just…
needs the company. Which makes me feel like a monster for even wishing this was a Zoom call with a mute button.
“Where are we with the signs?” I ask Cassie, our spirited library trustee, who’s currently wearing a cardigan covered in miniature snowmen. “They should’ve been here weeks ago,” I add.
She huffs dramatically. “It took far too long for Ben to agree on the theme.”
“That’s because ‘Peppermint Wishes and Mistletoe Kisses’ is ridiculous,” Ben grumbles.
“It’s romantic,” Cassie shoots back, eyes narrowed, as if daring him to challenge her Hallmark-level vision of joy.
“There’s nothing romantic about couple sleigh rides, mistletoe selfie stations, or peppermint-flavored everything,” he mutters.
“I’m with ya, buddy,” Penn murmurs under his breath beside me, and I nearly choke on my laughter. I nudge him with my elbow, my mouth twitching. His lips curl into that slow, crooked smile that should come with a warning label.
Ben crosses his arms. “I still say ‘Twelve Nights of Snowberry’ would’ve been better.”
“We’ll keep that in mind for next year,” I say diplomatically, mentally counting down how many more comments until I can leave and eat dinner without a headache.
“Fine,” he mutters, sinking back into his chair.
“The signs are arriving today,” Cassie says, adjusting her glasses with purpose. “I’ve already got Gerald and Gus lined up to put them up.”
I glance at Mayor Banks to check for his input, but his eyes are closed, and I hear soft breathing sounds.
“I can help too,” Sheriff Garrett Reynolds chimes in from the far end of the table. His tone is casual, but his eyes keep drifting toward Penn. It’s either concern or mild flirtation—I haven’t decided yet. Honestly, with Garrett, it could be both. He’s nothing if not thorough.
“With the potholes that still need fixing,” Gary Garner from Fire & Emergency says, shooting a death glare at Barry Madison, the road commissioner, “We’ll need to reroute.”
Barry straightens like he’s been personally insulted. “If you gave us more budget money, maybe we could actually fix the roads,” he fires back at Monica, our unflappable treasurer, who doesn’t even blink.
I glance toward the exit, wondering if anyone would notice if I pulled the fire alarm just to end the meeting. Next time, I’m bringing snacks—and maybe a flask.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache starts brewing behind my eyes. I flick a glance at Penn, who looks just as thrilled to be here as I am. He slouches in his chair like he’s watching a mildly entertaining sitcom, while I’m reminding myself to breathe.
But I force a smile anyway. This festival has to go off without a hitch. Because I need this job. I need something real, something steady.
“And what will you be doing during the festival?” Dylan asks, his voice sharp, almost accusatory.
My gaze snaps to him. But he’s not speaking to me. Oh no. He’s locked in on Penn, like this is a showdown at the Snowberry Corral.
I open my mouth to interject. To explain that Penn will be helping me coordinate events and manage crowd control and a million other thankless tasks. But Penn doesn’t need rescuing. Not from Dylan. Not from anyone.
“Kissing booth,” he says smoothly. “Thought we could raise money for the hospital. If you want to be first in line, I’ll save you a spot.”
I choke back a laugh. Dylan blinks like someone just slapped him with a candy cane. Honestly, we’ve never had a kissing booth before, and while it’s silly, it’s not a bad idea to raise money. Especially if a hot hockey player is involved.
Peppermint Barbie, who’s somehow been both scrolling her phone and absorbing every juicy detail, perks up and sets it down. “You can save me a spot in line,” she says sweetly, fluttering her lashes in Penn’s direction.
Dylan turns to her, aghast. “What?”
She gives a casual shrug and loops her arm through his. “It’s for a good cause, Dylan. Don’t be such a Grinch.”
I nearly applaud. I might even hire her as my PR intern if she keeps this up. That image alone—her wrapping herself around him while making eyes at Penn—will do wonders on my socials. Especially with Penn being, you know, a hot NHL player and all.
Dylan sputters. “Yeah, well, I’m the mayor of Rutledge. Youngest mayor ever.” He puffs up his chest, what little there is of it.
Second-hand embarrassment hits me like a rogue snowball to the face. But Penn? He’s loving every second of it. He leans back, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.
“Then maybe you should run the kissing booth,” Penn says coolly. “Sounds like it’s more your speed.”
Dylan smooths down his lapels. “Of course, it should be me.”
Penn grins, pouncing like a cat with a laser pointer.
“Perfect. Then I’ll take your spot on the float as Santa.
Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder—especially since my fiancée is playing Mrs. Claus.
And, you know, tradition says Santa should be her…
” He pauses, then flashes a wink so devastating it could probably be fined.
“…Big Daddy.”
Big Daddy.
Oh. My. God.
I slap a hand over my mouth to keep the laugh from bursting out. Across the table, Dylan looks like he just swallowed a Christmas ornament. “You’re… you two… are…?”
“Engaged,” Penn says easily, sliding an arm around my shoulders like he’s done it a thousand times. “Why do you seem so surprised?”
His warmth settles against me, and I lean in, looking up at him with stars in my eyes. Okay, sure, it's all for show. But it doesn’t feel fake. Not when he’s putting Dylan in his place so effortlessly. Not when he’s stepping in, showing up, and playing the part, even when it doesn’t benefit him.
I haven’t spent much time with him, but maybe Penn Radford isn’t like my ex after all. Maybe he’s something better.
“We snagged the Peppermint Honeymoon Suite over at the Snowberry Inn,” Penn announces with a grin. “Not married yet, but hey, good practice, right, babe?”
He looks down at me, all warmth and charm, and I somehow resist the urge to fan myself with my clipboard.
“I…you didn’t tell me you were engaged,” Dylan snaps, eyebrows practically leaping off his forehead.
I open my mouth to respond, but Penn beats me to it. “Why would she tell you that?” he says, tilting his head. “Actually, we haven’t told anyone, and I didn’t mean to let it slip. We were planning to announce it tomorrow night at her family’s big dinner. You weren’t invited, were you?”
Dylan stiffens. “No. I wasn’t.”
“Right,” Penn says, not even pretending to be sorry. I watch Dylan stew in silence and realize, this man might be the youngest mayor of Rutledge, but Penn is playing chess while Dylan’s still trying to figure out how the checker board works.
I tap my pen on the table, trying to steer the train back on its snowy tracks.
“Okay, let’s get back to business. Barry, do up the new parade route and email it to me.
I’ll forward it to all the participating businesses.
Town Hall’s already prepped for the craft fair this weekend, and all the kids’ activities are good to go.
The beer tent—sorry, beer town hall—will run in the evenings.
Garrett and Gary are overseeing that with a small army of volunteers. I want fun, not a frat party.”
“As long as Santa’s not going to be there,” Dylan snorts, glaring at Penn. “We don’t need an incident.” When he doesn’t get an immediate response, his gaze flicks to me and narrows as I lean toward Penn, and I wonder if he’s sensing our lie. The man knows me. We dated for a long time.
I rest my hand on Penn’s thigh and slowly start rubbing, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve done it a thousand times.
Maybe in this fake life I can also rub other…
areas. I give Dylan a sweet, closed-mouth smile as his eyes drop to my arm and narrow with suspicion, or jealousy. Honestly, it’s hard to tell with him.
“For the record,” I say crisply, making sure Mr. Tingley’s pen is scratching away on his notepad, “Dylan will now be working the kissing booth, and Penn is officially our Santa Claus. Which means he will be at the beer tent. And unless Penn plans to deck himself in the face, I think we’ll all survive the night just fine. ”
Dylan slouches in his chair like a moody teenager who just got grounded. I know it’s petty, but God help me, I’m enjoying it. Just a little.
“Oh, and the Rotary Club has agreed to make the post-parade meal,” I add. “Gateway Grocery is donating turkeys.”
But then Dylan’s eyes narrow, his tone shifting from sulky to sly. “Turkey,” he says slowly. “Maybe it’s not a Santa incident we need to worry about after all.”
The room goes quiet.
I put my hand over Penn’s when he makes a fist and meet Dylan’s gaze and glare, refusing to flinch. I picture him choking on a wishbone and briefly feel better. Then I lift my chin and straighten my spine. I will not let him rattle me. Not today. Not ever again.
“Right,” I say, voice calm. “We’ve covered the carolers, live music, the ice rink, carol karaoke, kids’ crafts and face painting, the ugly sweater run, and the tree lighting after the parade. Anything I’ve missed?”
I hope not, because if not, I have a peppermint honeymoon suite—and a fake fiancé—to get back to.