Page 41 of Her Cowboy Christmas
We hurry over to our booth and slip behind the tables.Then we get to work.
I hand out candy canes and brochures, answer questions about rates, explain that, yes, you can keep documents and keepsakes and grandma’s pearls in a box, and no, we don’t allow explosives.That one gets a laugh every time.
Larsen handles the prize tickets when someone lands a bag, and I stamp our little snowflake logo on kids’ hands because apparently that’s now a thing and they’re obsessed.Each time I look up, I find Cole’s eyes on me.A smile that’s just for me crooks at the corner of his mouth.My insides tangle and flutter.I still have the impulse to look behind me to see who he’s really staring at.
Then he winks, and it’s all over; I’m a puddle in snow boots.
“You two are disgusting,” Larsen mutters, but I can hear the affection beneath her exasperation.“How serious are we talking?On a scale from ‘I made him a playlist’ to ‘we picked out baby names’?”
“Larsen.”I laugh, but it hiccups into something a little breathless.“It’s… good.He’s good.I—” Admitting this out loud feels like stepping onto a frozen pond, the first crack loud in your ears.“I think I’m in trouble.”
“Good trouble,” she decides.“The best kind.”Her expression softens.“You look like you.But lighter.”
I swallow hard and nod.
“I feel like me.But… warmer.”
We fall into an easy rhythm.She stamps hands, I pass out flyers, we both cheer when someone hits the board.People I recognize from the bank stop to chat.A couple of older ladies tell me how much they love the lights and ask if I’ve tried the cider at the stall by the tree.
It’s crowded in that small-town festival way where you can’t go two feet without being hugged, handed a baked good, or introduced to someone’s cousin.Crowds make my edges go fuzzy, the words on signs blurring into wavy lines, noise pressing on my skull, but tonight, I ride the surface of it like I’m learning how to swim.
“We’re out of flyers,” I tell Larsen and Cole.“I’m going to run over to the bank and grab the other box.”
“I can go,” Cole says, but I wave him off.
“I need the break,” I admit.“Be right back.”
I dart out from behind the table and weave my way through the crowd.
Roger is outside the bank with his wife, and he smiles at me as I approach him.“Hey!We were just headed your way!How are things going?”
“Merry Christmas!”his wife says, pulling me in for a hug.
“Merry Christmas!I was just coming to grab some more brochures for the table.We ran out.”
“Oh, I’ll grab them,” Roger says.“You head back to the table, and I’ll drop them off in a minute.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, we’ll be right there.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, then turn and head back to the booth.
I don’t make it far before I see him and freeze.
“Well, if it isn’t Blair Benson.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.It’s been years since anyone called me by my last name.Years and miles and a whole new life away from lockers and hallways and a girl who always felt like she’d shown up to a game everyone else had memorized the rules for.
“Wow,” the voice goes on, footsteps closing in.“Didn’t think it was you at first.The hair threw me.You finally stopped hiding behind it?”
I turn slowly.He’s exactly the kind of handsome I learned to distrust early: slick.The same too-white teeth and letterman jacket posture, despite being too old for either.Time has either been too kind or just hasn’t gotten around to him yet.The recognition hits, and my stomach pitches.
“Robert,” I manage.
I hate that my voice comes out small.
“Thought so.”He glances down, then up, blatant and mean in a way only practice can make perfect.“Still… you know”—he gestures vaguely at my body—“bold of you to squeeze into leggings in public, Benson.”
