Chapter 13 Holly
Holly
“ ... and then there's the romance author panel at five!” Jocelyn hasn't stopped talking about book events since we got in the car. “Three authors doing holiday romance readings. I heard rumors someone big might show up as a surprise guest. Romance at the holidays is peak BookTok content.”
“I cannot believe you're voluntarily coming back.” I watch Evan navigate the familiar route. “The Johnsons are recovered. You're officially off the hook.”
“Maybe I like being on the hook.” His thumb taps the steering wheel once, twice.
We haven't talked about the kiss—that perfect, world-tilting kiss on the balcony two days ago. We've texted about gala wrap-up, about today's schedule, about anything except the fact that I grabbed his jacket and kissed him like oxygen was running out.
“You're very excited about this,” Evan observes to Jocelyn.
“It's ROMANCE at CHRISTMAS in a SMALL TOWN.” She punctuates each word with a hand gesture. “This is every trope I love happening in real life. The bookstore has themed hot chocolate! Author readings by a fireplace! Build-a-Boyfriend stations!”
“Build-a-what?”
“You'll see.” Her grin turns wicked. “You're both doing it. Non-negotiable.”
Evan's mouth tilts up at one corner—that half-smile that sneaks through when he's amused but trying not to show it. The one that makes my fingers itch to reach across the console and touch him.
“Josh is going to lose his mind when he sees you,” I tell him. “He's been practicing that tap step all week. Marie says he's driving everyone crazy tapping under his desk at school.”
“Good for him. Everyone should have something that makes them feel that alive.”
The town square bustles with holiday vendors. Pinewood Falls takes its holiday baking seriously—I can smell cinnamon and chocolate from three booths away.
“I'll register us for the tasting!” Jocelyn announces, already speed-walking toward the competition tent with her enormous tote bag bouncing. “Meet you there in five!”
She vanishes into the crowd.
“She's up to something,” I say.
“Without question.” Evan's palm settles at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. Like he's done this a thousand times. Like we do this.
We pass a booth selling ornaments made from old sheet music, another with knitted chickens wearing Santa hats. Evan stops at one displaying wooden signs with increasingly silly holiday sayings.
“'Sleigh My Name, Sleigh My Name,'“ he reads. “That's terrible.”
“That's AMAZING,” I correct.
He points to another. “'All I Want for Christmas is Food and Naps.'“
“Finally, honesty in advertising,” he says.
“Should be the town motto.”
He steers me around a cluster of kids waiting for face painting, and we reach the cookie competition—three long tables displaying numbered entries.
"Should we?" I nod toward the tables.
"Sure." He hands me a plate before I can reach for one. "Where do we start?"
“Entry number seven—maple bacon cookies?”
We split one. The sweet-savory combination works.
“Dangerous,” Evan admits, reaching for another half.
At the next table, entry fifteen catches our attention for all the wrong reasons. Dark green cookies with white chocolate chips.
“Are these supposed to be,” I squint at the card. “Mistletoe cookies?”
We each take a careful bite. The taste is aggressively herbal, bitter, with an aftertaste like lawn clippings.
Evan's trying not to make a face. “Is this—?”
“Actual mistletoe?” I whisper, horrified. “Isn't that poisonous?”
“Let's hope it's just badly judged herbs.” He discreetly wraps his half in a napkin while I scan the crowd, hoping whoever made these isn't watching.
We move to the third table, and I stop short.
“Oh wow, look at these!”
Entry twenty-three: cookies shaped like sturdy mugs, glazed with chocolate swirls, crushed peppermint on top.
I pick one up and bite into it. My knees actually wobble.
It's my peppermint mocha. Not an approximation—it IS my winter morning addiction transformed. The chocolate has that slight bitter edge I love, the peppermint bright but not medicinal, and underneath, the ghost of espresso.
“Oh my goodness.” I take another bite. “Who made these?”
Evan's watching me with his boardroom face except his ears are pink.
“You.” The word barely makes it out. “You made these.”
“I might have.”
“Evan.”
“Jocelyn handled the entry, I experimented with the recipe.” His ears go from pink to red. “The first night, the chocolate ratio was wrong. Wednesday I over-corrected with peppermint. Last night I think I finally—”
“You spent three nights making me cookies.”
“It seemed important to get them right.”
I feel the unmistakable prickle behind my eyes that means tears are coming. This impossible man who questions the need for Christmas trees spent three nights perfecting cookies for me.
“Holly?”
“They're perfect.” My voice cracks.
“They didn't win.” He nods toward judges, already awarding ribbons elsewhere.
“I don't care. These are still the best. You made them for me.”
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
EVAN
Evergreen Books has been transformed into holiday romance novel heaven. Pink and red everything, mistletoe in doorways, standees of cover models with impossible abs.
"Build-a-Boyfriend station!"
Jocelyn drags us to a table covered in construction paper gingerbread people and containers of colorful trait stickers shaped like frosting blobs. A hand-lettered sign reads: "Build Your Dream Boyfriend or Girlfriend!"
Jocelyn's already grabbing supplies.
"This is ridiculous," I inform Holly.
"This is fun." She's reaching for a gingerbread cutout. “Okay, ridiculous but also fun.”
We're performing "casual friends" for Jocelyn while every look between us tells another story.
I reach for a blue frosting blob sticker. Holly reaches for a green one. Our fingers collide, then tangle. Every accidental touch is a negotiation—do we acknowledge this? Do we pull away? Do we lean in and see what happens?
She pulls back first, her smile perfectly innocent. I press the blue sticker onto my gingerbread person. Holly peels a purple sticker from its backing and places it on hers.
As she moves around the table, surveying all the sticker frosting blob options, I try not to be obvious about tracking her.
But my peripheral vision is Holly, Holly, Holly.
The way her hand hovers over the pile. The angle of her shoulders.
How close she is. The want I feel is so loud I'm sure the entire store can hear it.
"Okay, so mine is—" Jocelyn's narrating the traits as she adds them to her new boyfriend. "Tall, obviously. Great hair. Oh! And 'Looks good in a suit.' And 'Has a boat.' Do people actually have boats?'"
Holly and I are both nodding along, overcompensating hard. I select a red sticker, place it on my cutout’s knee, then reach for a yellow one. Holly's hand wavers over two piles of stickers, as if deciding between them. She takes one of each.
"'Remembers my birthday without reminders!'" Jocelyn continues, selecting from a new pile. "'Good at karaoke!' That's important, right?"
"Absolutely crucial," Holly says, pressing another sticker in place.
I'm running out of spots. I add another sticker to the cutout’s knee, then one more to the shoulder. Holly's doing the same, filling in the empty spaces.
“Okay, time for the reveal!" Jocelyn announces.
She holds up her gingerbread person—a dozen frosting-like traits covering every available surface. "I may have gone overboard."
"It's perfect," Holly assures her.
“Thanks,” Jocelyn says. “Your turn, Holly.”
Holly holds up hers. I read each trait aloud.
"Steady. Generous. Shows Up. Secretly Soft. Supports Your Dreams."
Did she build me? Interesting.
"Now you," Jocelyn prompts me.
I hold up mine. Holly leans forward, reading each frosting blob.
"Organized," she says. "Clever. Warm. Dry Sense of Humor. Makes Everything Better."
Holly looks up from my creation and meets my gaze. “You built me too.”
"I know what I want."
She gives me a coy smile.
“Geez, you guys—” Jocelyn starts.
“Announcement!” The speaker crackles. "Romance author panel begins in ten minutes!"
"Oh! I should go grab a seat!" Jocelyn bounces toward the back room.
"Have fun," Holly calls. "We'll see you at the theater—just come backstage after."
"Perfect!" She's already gone.
Holly turns back to me, and her hand finds mine as we leave. She traces her thumb across the ridge of my knuckle once, twice. Again. My heart stumbles into a new pattern, trying to match her rhythm.
HOLLY
The Johnsons are in full party parent mode when we arrive, Mr. Johnson practicing his formal walk while Mrs. Johnson adjusts her costume jewelry.
“Holly!” Mrs. Johnson waves us over. “Thank you again for covering last week.”
“Happy to help.”
Mr. Johnson executes a theatrical spin. “Like we never left. Though I heard your Evan was quite the hit.”
Your Evan. When did that start to feel so true? I look over to find him crouched down, watching Josh demonstrate his tap step.
“I've been practicing every day,” Josh says. “Morning before school and night before bed.”
“Your rhythm's much cleaner. Try letting your ankles relax more.”
Marie rockets over. “You came back!”
“Wouldn't miss it,” Evan says.
“Five minutes to places!”
We move to the same spot hidden in the wings, stage left, where we watched last weekend. Evan reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together.
The lights dim. Music begins.
During the battle scene, Evan whispers commentary about the mice that has me pressing my face into his shoulder to muffle laughter. His arm circles me, and I melt into him.
Act I flows into Act II. Evan grins with delight watching Marie and the other kids. Almost to the finale now. The music builds to a crescendo and paper snow begins to fall.
"Beautiful," Evan says.
"What part?"
I glance at him and realize he's watching me, not the stage.
"You. Getting to see you here." He catches a piece of snow. "This is who you are."
“Evan. What do you mean?"
"I mean you're someone who embraces all this magic with no apology,” he says. “And then makes it real for everyone else too."
I rise up and kiss him.
He pulls me close and kisses me back with such tenderness my eyes burn. We kiss like we have all the time in the world, like the show isn't happening around us. His lips are soft against mine, patient, learning the shape of this new thing between us.
JOCELYN
I slip backstage, still breathless from my sprint from the romance panel, and stop in my tracks.
They're kissing in the wings—she's on her toes, his arms are wrapped around her, and the paper snow is catching the lights like actual magic. My head is swimming in dreamy holiday book covers, and I just stepped into one!
The Billionaire's Secret Cookie Recipe, my brain supplies. No, these two deserve better. The Christmas We Fell.
I reach for my phone. The photographer in me can't resist this composition—the majestic tree set piece framing them, the golden glow making everything soft-focus perfect.
Click.
My fingers fly:
WHEN REAL LIFE LOOKS LIKE A BOOK COVER This is what happens when you attend a romance book festival and then stumble on ACTUAL ROMANCE backstage at the Nutcracker. I'm deceased. The paper snow! The lights! THE KISS! #NutcrackerRomance #HolidayMagic #BookTok #RomanceReaders #ChristmasFeels
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