Chapter 3
THREE
GREER
The lights are winning.
Well—Holt would argue I’m winning, since three strands are now functioning, one is half-functioning, and only one fully died. But right now the ballroom looks like a chaotic mix between Christmas magic and electrical rebellion, and I am two seconds from declaring defeat.
“We can shift the garland to the center beam and hide the dim spot,” Holt says from the ladder. “Unless you want symmetry, which I know you do.”
“I always want symmetry,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Symmetry is sanity. Symmetry is order.”
“Symmetry is optional,” Holt says. “Sanity is not.”
I laugh even though I’m exhausted enough to cry. The ballroom is warm, but my hands are still tucked inside the sleeves of my cardigan. The embroidered hand warmers from my Secret Santa are in my bag because I refuse to get them dirty in here.
Holt adjusts one of the clips on the garland, but I’m only half watching. My mind keeps drifting to the front of the lodge, where Brenton and the fire crew were working earlier.
Where he smiled at me. Where he looked at me like he was thinking something he shouldn’t say.
Where I felt something. Okay, a lot more than something.
Just thinking about it sends a weird flutter through me.
“Greer?” Holt says. “Lighting verdict?”
“Hmm?” I blink. “Right. Lighting. Sorry.”
“You okay? You’re in a fog.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just distracted.”
He squints. “By the wreath? The dead lights? The rapidly approaching deadline? Or the insanely handsome firefighter you were definitely flirting with earlier?”
I choke on nothing. “Excuse me?”
“Greer,” he says, climbing down the ladder. “Please. I’ve seen wet socks flirt with more subtlety than you two this afternoon.”
“I was not—he wasn’t—we weren’t flirting,” I say, which sounds incredibly unconvincing even to myself.
Holt smirks. “Sure. And I don’t steal fudge from the staff fridge.”
“You absolutely do.”
“My point,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “is that you’re allowed to like someone.”
“I don’t—” I start, then stop. My cheeks heat. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is,” he says gently. “Especially when the someone is six feet of firefighter with a smile that could melt snow.”
I glare weakly. “You’re not helping.”
“I am always helping,” Holt says, and returns to the ladder.
Before I can reply, a sharp trill rings through the ballroom.
The lodge emergency line.
Holt freezes halfway up the ladder.
My stomach drops.
“That’s not good,” he says.
I rush to my phone, which is charging on the supply table. The screen lights up with a notification from our lodge alert app:
Possible electrical hazard detected near Maple Ridge Cabins. Fire crews responding. Guests advised to remain indoors.
The words blur for a second as adrenaline spikes through me.
Maple Ridge is barely a mile from the lodge. Those cabins are old. Wood-framed. Thick pines surrounding them. If there’s a problem—
“Is anyone over there?” Holt asks, climbing down fast.
“Four guests checked in today,” I say automatically, mind racing. “And the cabin next door is under renovation. There’s no staff assigned there right now, but if something spreads…”
I stop.
The fire crew responded.
Brenton responded.
A cold wave sweeps through me that has nothing to do with the drafty ballroom.
“It’s probably nothing,” Holt says quickly. “Could be a false alarm or a bad smell from the generator. They’ll check and be back in twenty minutes.”
But his voice is too bright. Too reassuring.
Because an electrical hazard in the snow is never nothing.
My hands tremble faintly.
Focus, Greer.
“I should go to the front desk,” I say. “Make sure we’re ready to communicate with guests.”
“Yeah,” Holt says. “I’ve got the lights. Go.”
I’m already moving.
The hallway outside is buzzing. Word travels fast in a small town, especially when fire trucks go flying past lodge windows. By the time I reach the front desk, two guests are asking questions, and our receptionist, Emily, looks relieved to see me.
“An alert popped up,” she says in a low voice. “I told them we’re waiting on the official briefing.”
“You did great,” I say, taking over. I help reassure the couple, then check the lodge’s emergency binder. Procedure is simple: prepare updates, keep guests calm, stay ready in case we’re asked to assist.
But my mind is not calm. My mind is full of images—
Brenton’s jacket dusted with snow. Brenton’s laugh. Brenton steadying the ladder. Brenton looking at me like—
Stop. You cannot do this. He is a firefighter. He is trained. He’ll be fine.
Except sometimes . . . Sometimes, they aren’t fine.
The thought hits hard enough that I grip the counter.
“Greer?” Emily whispers. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just—let me check the window.”
I walk to the front of the lodge. Snow swirls in the wind, making the night look deeper and darker than usual. Far up the road, faint red lights pulse through the trees.
I press a hand to the cold glass.
“Please be okay,” I whisper without meaning to.
The next thirty minutes move by at a glacial pace.
I pretend to work, but every sound pulls my eyes to the windows. Every shift of headlights makes my heart stop.
When the lodge front doors finally swing open, I nearly sag.
Two firefighters walk in first, stamping snow off their boots.
And behind them—
Brenton.
He’s dusted in snow, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the cold wind. His jacket is unzipped like he walked straight from the truck without stopping.
He looks…fine. Solid. Alive.
Relief hits me so hard I have to grip the edge of the counter.
He looks around, scanning the lobby, and his gaze lands on me.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Not surprise.
Something warm. Something like he came here looking for me specifically.
He walks over.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough from the cold. “Everything okay here?”
“We’re fine,” I say, trying to sound composed. My pulse is a runaway train. “What about you? Was it bad?”
“No real fire,” he says. “Old wiring arced under one of the cabin decks. Scary-looking but manageable. We cut the power to the whole row as a precaution.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, and I swear my lungs expand for the first time in twenty minutes. “Just some shaken guests. We got them settled at the visitor center for now.”
Relief washes through me again, a warm rush that leaves me dizzy.
“That’s…good,” I say softly. “I’m glad.”
He studies me, eyes tracing my face with a kind of searching focus. “You were worried.”
It’s not a question.
Heat floods my cheeks. “I worry about everyone,” I say quickly. “It’s part of my job.”
He takes one step closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I feel the heat of him even in the cold draft from the doors.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But you were worried about me.”
My heart stutters painfully.
“I just—” I swallow hard. “Holt and I saw the alert. And Maple Ridge is close. And everything’s dry right now. And it’s snowing. And—”
I stop because this is spiraling dangerously close to admitting feelings I am not ready to examine.
He watches me, expression softening.
“Thank you,” he says. “For caring.”
I blink, caught.
He smiles—a small, devastating thing that melts straight through me.
“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle. “You look…shaken.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He takes another step.
And then—
“Brenton?” one of the other firefighters calls across the lobby. “We’ve got to head back. Debrief.”
He exhales and steps back. The moment breaks.
“I should go,” he says. “But… I’ll check in later if you want.”
If you want.
Why does that sound like an invitation to something deeper?
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’d like that.”
He gives me one more look—one that feels like a promise of a conversation we’re going to have later—then turns and follows his crew out the doors.
The cold rushes in as they leave, then the lobby settles again. Calm. Normal.
But nothing feels normal in my chest.
Holt appears beside me like he teleported. “Well?”
I try to speak. My voice does not work.
He nods sagely. “Thought so.”
I grip the counter, steadying myself.
I was terrified he might be hurt. And when he walked through those doors, I felt something I can’t brush away.
Something deep. Something that’s only growing stronger.
I take a slow breath.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
A notification from the lodge system.
New message received from Secret Santa participant.
Gift #2 scheduled for delivery tomorrow morning.
My stomach flips.
Gift #2.
Another clue.
Another chance to fall deeper.
God help me.
Because right now?
I don’t know which scares me more—
Falling for the anonymous Santa.
Or falling for the firefighter who just made me feel like the world had stopped turning until I knew he was safe.
And for the first time, I’m starting to think they could be the same man.
Then again, maybe that’s just wistful thinking.