Page 87 of Never Sleigh Never
Brie groans. “I should have known better.” She laughs, shaking her head.
I steal a quick kiss. “Hey, you still get my undivided attention… during commercials.”
“No, no, I did this to myself. But I’m happy right here.” She curls deeper into me.
“I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.” While keeping my gaze locked on the screen, I press another kiss to the top of her head.
By the second period, my eyelids grow heavy. Brie’s curled up next to me. Her soft, rhythmic breathing almost lulling me to sleep. I press a kiss to the top of her head before turning my attention back to the TV. During the next commercial break, I lower my lids for a couple of seconds. I don’t need to watch a boy band sing about laundry detergent.
I lift my eyelids and blink a few times to clear my vision. The TV comes into focus. The game is long gone—replaced by a blender infomercial. Carefully, I lift my arm from around Brie’s shoulders and stretch my limbs.
Brie stirs awake, stretching her arms above her head. “What time is it?”
I check my phone. “Two in the morning. I should probably get going. Chances are high fewer people will see me leaving now than at seven.”
She stretches, sleepy-eyed and gorgeous. “Good idea. Mrs. Emerson across the street loves to spill the tea. I’d rather not give her an overflowing kettle.”
She rises off the couch, and I do the same. We stroll to the foyer, and I put my coat and shoes on. I wrap an arm around her waist, my fingers brushing warm skin where her sweater rides up. “When can I watch hockey with you again? And maybe not fall asleep.”
“My schedule is pretty busy until after Christmas with the festival. Maybe New Year’s?” She smirks.
“You say that as if you don’t think I’ll wait. New Year’s it is.” Her hands rest on my chest. Bending down, I brush my lips over hers. “Good night, Snowflake.”
“Good night, Logan.”
She opens the garage door for me, and I get in my truck and drive home. Living in Mount Holly is getting better and better every day.
Twenty-Eight
You’ve Ruined Me
Brie
I yank open the front door, already late, mostly because after Logan left last night, sleep never came. All I wanted was to curl against him, let the rise and fall of his chest lull me under. Instead, I spent two hours staring at my ceiling, shivering in sheets that suddenly felt much too big.
Before I can step outside, I freeze. Sitting on the “Merry AF” doormat is a perfectly wrapped box—red paper, silver bow, no card. My brows pinch together. I scoop it up, give it a shake. Nothing. Hold it to my ear. Silence. Not even a threatening jingle. I carry it inside and slowly tug at the ribbon, bracing myself for confetti, glitter, or worse, a spring-loaded Santa clown. But it’s none of those. Instead, nestled inside red tissue, is a postcard.
This is truly the superior Christmas treat.
I peel back the tissue paper to reveal a flawlessly decorated Yule log under a plastic dome. My grin hurts my cheeks. Logan. This has Logan written all over it. I tuck the box into my fridge before heading to the festival grounds.
The days leading up to Christmas Eve are always the busiest. All the kids are desperate to get their last-minute wish lists to Santa, parents frantically buying cookies for parties, and me, running around like my life depends on it. Which, career-wise, it sort of does. And I only have two days to prepare. Today is our annual bake sale. Vendors line the pathways with cookies, cakes, pies, bars, and breads. Later this evening, the Crooked Reindeer will host the annual Christmas ham bingo.
When I arrive at the festival, the grounds are already bustling with people wandering from stand to stand.
“Brie! Brie!”
I spin to see Lauren barreling toward me, breath puffing like a steam engine. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me Mr. Coleman is hiding free samples in his pockets again. He’s running out of warnings.”
“No.” She doubles over, catching her breath. “It’s about the budget.”
My stomach nosedives. “Oh no. Please tell me we don’t have another expense. I don’t think I’ll be able to recover from this year.” Scenarios of bills from contractors race through my head. I shouldn’t have strayed from last year’s plans. Then none of this would have happened, and maybe my promotion wouldn’t be in jeopardy.
She shakes her head, grin spreading. “No. An anonymous donation came in this morning. The festival isn’t in the red anymore.”
I blink. “Wait… what?”
“Everything’s paid for. Everything. Plus, there’s enough left to keep the rink open through February. Isn’t it amazing? It’s a Christmas miracle!”
