Chapter 5 Jaylynn #2
“If Penn is playing Santa now,” BJ Webb says, tilting her head with open admiration, “Someone’s going to have to let the suit out a bit.”
All eyes shift to Penn like we’re all just now seeing him for the first time. Tall. Broad shoulders. That casually muscular frame. The way he somehow makes flannel look like a fashion statement. And not even a hint of a pot belly. Just pure, unwrappable holiday thirst trap.
“He’s not that much bigger,” Dylan grumbles, arms crossed and ego bruised.
BJ ignores him completely, eyes still locked on Penn. She giggles like a teenager with a backstage pass. “Might need to order in more fabric.”
A few nods circle the table. Someone coughs. I pretend not to hear someone mutter “Ho-ho-holy hell.”
“Okay, is that everything?” I ask, desperate to wrap this circus up before someone offers to climb into Penn’s lap and test his ‘naughty or nice’ list.
Silence.
“Can I have a motion to close the meeting?”
Peppermint Barbie—bless her shimmering soul—raises her hand, only for Dylan to place a firm, awkward hand on her wrist and gently lower it.
“I’ll motion,” he mumbles.
Barbie blinks up at him, lips pursed into a pink, glossy O. The filler makes forming words a little tricky, but hey—those lips are doing their best. And I’m not jealous. Not at all. I’m just…observant.
I’m sure Dylan will explain she needs to actually be a member to motion in a meeting. Or not. Maybe deep conversation isn’t a cornerstone of their relationship.
“I’ll second,” Garrett Reynolds says with a shrug, and that’s all I need.
I close the cover over my iPad and collect myself before addressing the room. “Thanks again, everyone. I appreciate the time and energy you put into making this festival special. If anything goes off the rails, don’t hesitate to reach out. You all have my number.”
“Pretty sure I don’t,” Dylan tosses out with a smug little grin.
Before I can respond, Penn’s hand slides over mine, still resting on his thigh beneath the table. He gives it a squeeze. Steady. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels… really, really good.
“Fine,” I mutter, rattling off my number. Dylan types it into his phone like he’s just won something, and I stand with full intent to walk away from his smug little face forever. Or at least until our next meeting.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask Penn.
He stands, leans in and nuzzles my neck, playful and warm, and even though I know it’s all for show, it sends a jolt straight through my body. “Been dying to get you all to myself,” he murmurs, loud enough for Dylan to hear, of course.
We step outside together, and the clouds have rolled in, painting the sky with deep charcoal shadows. The air smells like snow. The kind that cancels school and makes you crave hot chocolate and fuzzy socks.
“I hope it doesn’t dump on us,” I say, glancing up. “I don’t want the weather interfering with the festival.”
Penn reaches down and laces his fingers through mine.
There’s no one watching.
No crowd. No cameras. No Dylan.
Just us.
And yet… he holds on.
And I don’t let go.
We walk hand in hand down Main Street, where wreaths sparkle from every lamppost and the shop windows glow with warm light. The whole town looks like it’s been professionally gift-wrapped, and I feel that deep, old-school kind of Christmas magic settling into my bones.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starving,” he says. “But I’ve had enough peopling for one day.”
I laugh. “Same. Let’s order in.”
“And maybe shower off the Dylan exposure.”
“Definitely.”
We head back to the inn, our hands still intertwined. And even though the fake engagement is barely 24 hours old, my brain’s already skipping ahead to tomorrow night—family dinner. The moment when I have to tell the people who raised me that I’m engaged to Penn Radford.
“They’re going to have questions,” I say, chewing my lip. “We need a good back story.”
Penn nods without hesitation. “We met on an app.”
“During my time in Boston,” I add. “Whirlwind romance. I came home, we tried long-distance, but it didn’t work. But when we saw each other again at the inn...”
“I dropped to one knee. You said yes. Cue fireworks. No time for a ring.”
“Boom. Sold.” I glance at him. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”
We reach the inn just as the sky lets out a soft flurry, and Belinda, stationed behind the front desk, lifts an eyebrow as Penn and I brush past her, laughing a little too loudly, hands tangled like we can’t quite keep from touching.
Inside the suite, Penn gestures toward the bathroom. “I’m going to jump in the shower real quick. I didn’t even go into the house but I have cat hair all over me.”
“I think I might soak in the hot tub,” I reply, already peeling off my cardigan.
He pauses, hand on the doorframe. “Maybe I’ll join you after I clean up?”
“Yes,” I say sweetly, then smirk. “But only if Mr. Elf hasn’t joined me first.”
He flashes that crooked grin. “Jay. You can’t do naughty things to the elf. Santa’s watching. You will go on the naughty list.”
With a wink, he disappears into the bathroom, and I flop backwards onto the bed with a groan that comes straight from my soul.
I stare up at the peppermint-swirled chandelier above me, which is aggressively festive—like it’s judging me for every life decision I’ve made that brought me to this exact moment.
Which, to be fair… is kind of a lot.
I hear the shower start and close my eyes, letting the hum of water fill the space. The idea of Penn, six-foot-plus of NHL-grade temptation, standing in that shower just a few feet away... well, it does something to my stomach. And my chest. And every inch of my overheated skin.
I invited this. I asked him to play boyfriend. I suggested we share a bed. I asked him to act like he’s in love with me—for two full weeks—in front of everyone I know.
And he’s doing it. Perfectly. Naturally. Like it’s no big deal to be completely convincing as someone who’s completely smitten with me.
What would it actually be like to be engaged to someone like Penn? Someone who makes people feel safe and seen. Someone who makes you laugh in the middle of a town meeting meltdown. Someone who can turn a fake engagement into something that feels dangerously close to real without even trying.
Would he wrap his arms around me when I’m overwhelmed?
Would he kiss me just because I looked tired?
Would he wait up for me when I got home late?
I shake the thought away. It's just pretend.
Totally, completely pretend.
I strip off everything but my bra and underwear, then lift the hot tub cover, turn on the jets, and slip into the water.
Instantly, my body thanks me. Muscles I didn’t even know I had start to unwind.
I lean back and let my head fall to the side, the soft sound of bubbles and the distant hum of water from the shower lulling me toward a half-doze.
Then the bathroom door creaks open. My eyes flutter open just in time to see Penn walk out, toweling his hair dry.
He’s in a plain white T-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders like it was designed by a sculptor with an agenda.
His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’ll be sharing a bed again.
“Nice,” he murmurs, eyeing the hot tub. He walks over and dips his fingers into the water. “Want me to order something in?”
“Yes, please,” I say, trying not to sound breathless.
“What’s good?”
“I’m so hungry I could eat a reindeer.”
“You leave those poor reindeer alone,” he says, grinning as he grabs his phone. “Pizza?”
“Nothing says holiday romance like meat lovers,” I reply, leaning my head back with a sigh.
He orders while I soak. When he hangs up, I point a finger at him. “Turn around.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, turning his back, and I step out, wrap a towel around me, and hustle into pajamas. Moments later, I crawl beneath the cozy sheets. I flick on the TV, and when the food arrives, Penn fills two plates and joins me.
We eat in bed—because we’re monsters—and it’s the best thing I’ve tasted all week.
With the TV low in the background, he tells me about his aunt, about growing up in Boston, and how his favorite Christmas ever was the one he spent snowed in with no power and nothing but canned soup and board games.
I talk about how my parents still make us wear matching pajamas for Christmas Eve.
Eventually, we brush our teeth together. I catch our reflection in the mirror—shoulders bumping, sleepy grins, toothpaste foam—and something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Back in bed, we end up watching a holiday romcom, some predictable but charming mess with a predictable but charming guy who realizes the love of his life was the girl next door all along. By the end of it, I’m blinking heavily, my body sinking deeper under the covers.
Penn glances over, his voice low. “You okay?”
I nod, curling on my side. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He turns off the TV and lights. The room goes quiet except for the low hum of the heating vent and the gentle hush of wind outside. He slides in beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight, and even though we don’t touch, I can feel him there.
Warm. Steady. Real.
And for one tiny, ridiculous second, I wonder what it would be like to fall asleep every night next to someone like Penn Radford.
From the darkness, Penn says softly, “We did good today.”
“Yeah. Real good.”
“I hope you’re okay that I tricked Dylan into letting me play Santa.”
“More than okay.”
There’s a shift in the mattress, and then he’s closer. Not touching me, but I can feel the heat of him curling toward me. “Night, Jay.”
“Night, Penn.”
A pause. And then—
“Jay?”
“Yeah?”
“I really hate Dylan. And I don’t hate a lot of people.”
I turn toward him, the edge of my pillow muffling my smile. “You don’t have to hate him for me.”
“One,” he says, holding up a finger I can barely see, “He’s an attention-seeking douche. And two, yes I do.”
There’s a rustle of sheets, then his hand finds my face, brushing a piece of hair gently away. His fingers linger for a second too long, and when he pulls back, it’s like the air cools. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve asked.”
“Right,” I whisper. “Because consent is sexy.” I say it like a joke, but it lands somewhere serious.
His eyes flick to my mouth, and I see it—need, want, hunger.
“You’re sexy,” he says, quiet and almost to himself.
“What?” My voice cracks like a twelve-year-old boy.
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he breathes. “We should—uh, we should build a pillow wall.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Last night, you starfished across the whole bed. I thought you were going to break my nose.”
“Fine.” I shove a bunch of pillows between us. “Great idea.”
“This is excellent,” he says, fluffing one. “But what are we going to do about your snoring?”
I grab a pillow and smack him in the face.
He laughs. “Easy, Jay. Santa’s helper is watching, and violence is definitely naughty-list behavior.”
He shifts again, lying back, and his voice turns thoughtful. “I really liked watching you work today. You’re… you’re good at what you do.”
I exhale slowly. “If only a real firm could see that. But apparently, one turkey incident is a career death sentence.”
He laughs gently. “Okay, yeah, that one’s a little hard to recover from.”
“It was kind of funny though. I know I’m not supposed to laugh when people fall, but when SpicyGranny74 went down…hilarious.”
“Want to watch it?” he teases.
“Hell no.” I grin. “We could always watch you decking Santa.”
“Trust me, he had it coming.”
“I believe you.”
There’s another pause, quieter this time.
And I feel it again, that warmth that comes off him in waves.
Not just his body, but him. That quiet steadiness, that deeply buried sweetness he tries so hard to hide.
Honestly, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, being given up as a baby, told it was for his own good.
Even if it was… it still had to hurt. That kind of pain leaves fingerprints on a person’s soul.
And somehow, he still turned into this, this good, solid man who protects, and listens, and volunteers to play Santa just to help me. I glance at the window. Snow is falling again, thick and dreamy. The whole town wrapped in a blanket of magic.
“Beautiful, huh?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say softly. But I’m not looking at the snow anymore.
I’m looking at him.
And for a split second, I wonder what it would be like to actually be engaged to someone like Penn Radford. To have this not be a performance. To fall asleep next to him night after night. To let him kiss me for real. To let him keep brushing my hair away like I’m something to be cherished.
My throat tightens a little.
I shift closer, just enough to feel the pillow wall bend between us.
And then I whisper, almost daring myself to say it—
“Penn?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I want to be on Santa’s naughty list.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Good,” he says. “Because that’s exactly where I want you.”