Volunteers scramble, their phone’s flashes turned on, and I can already see the panic in all of the adults’ faces and the disappointment welling up in the eyes of the little kids.
Without the lights, Santa’s boat will be docking in near-blackness. Not great optics for a town that prides itself on Christmas spirit.
My brain kicks into production mode before my common sense can intervene. “I can help!” I shout, already moving toward the edge.
A few folks glance my way, but everyone else is too busy fumbling with extension cords. I kneel beside the small generator, brushing a dusting of snow off the casing, and start tracing cables like I have any idea what I’m doing.
Spoiler: I don’t.
But Idohave a battery operated camera light in my bag—and I’ve fixed enough dying batteries in remote locations to at least recognize a bad connection.
“Tessa Pope,” a voice says behind me, low and rough, unmistakable even after all these years. “Why am I not surprised?”
I freeze, pulse stuttering.
Then I turn, slowly.
Nathan stands just a few feet away, the reflection of his cruiser’s spotlight dancing over his face. He looks bigger up close. Broader. And the look he’s giving me could curdle eggnog.
“Hi, Chief,” I say brightly. “Fancy seeing you again. Still saving the town from reckless delinquents?”
His brows lift a fraction. "Grown-ups usually have enough sense to stay out of trouble."
I grin up at him, unabashed. “What fun would that be? Besides, it’s notmyfault the generator went out.”
He sighs that long-suffering sound I remember vividly and steps closer to peer over my shoulder. “Oh so you’re planning to fix this power problem with a camera light?”
“Hey, don’t knock the tools of the trade,” I shoot back. “It’s either this or everyone watches Santa dock in the dark.”
He mutters something under his breath about “drama in boots,” then crouches beside me, his gloved hands moving with infuriating precision as he checks the same connections I was pretending to understand.
When he leans forward, the brim of his hat nearly brushes my forehead. The scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, maddeningly familiar—wraps around me, and my brain short-circuits for a half second.
“Here,” he says, straightening the wire. “Loose connection.”
“Ah.” I clear my throat. “Exactly what I was going to say.”
He looks down at me, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure you were.”
The generator hums back to life, and the crowd cheers as the lights flicker on again. For one dizzy second, I forget to move—and when I finally do, my balance tilts on the uneven dock.
Nathan’s hand shoots out, catching my elbow and pulling me into him before I can topple straight into the water. His grip is firm, steady, and warm through the layers of fabric.
“You never did know when to stay out of the way, did you?” he murmurs.
“And you never did know how to have any fun, Chief.”
Something flashes in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something heavier—and then he releases me like he suddenly realizes he shouldn’t be holding on.
Across the dock, someone whistles.
“Looking cozy there you two!”
Great. Nothing like the town peanut gallery to make a moment even more mortifying.
Nathan’s jaw tightens, and I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. “Relax,” I whisper. “I’m sure they’ll forget all about this before tomorrow’s gossip column prints.”
He exhales through his nose, muttering something about “Pope-level chaos,” and turns away, radio crackling at his shoulder as he strides off to corral another group of volunteers.
