Reese stands by a table near the window, looking adorably uncertain as he eyes the craft supplies like they might spontaneously combust.
“Ready to get festive?” I ask, setting Pookie down on a cushioned chair.
He picks up a hot glue gun with two fingers, as if it’s a live grenade. “I’m more of a ‘destroy things with an axe’ kind of guy than a ‘create things with sequins’ dude.”
“Live a little, Reese. Take a risk.” I nudge him with my elbow.
At the contact, a shiver blazes through me, but I’m not cold. Considering the fireplace is on the other side of the room, the sudden warmth inside can’t be a result of the burning logs.
He says, “I take risks for a living.”
“Then this should be easy.” I grab a red sweatshirt and start sorting through the appliqués—reindeer, snowflakes, candy canes, and all things North Pole. “Besides, you said you still have that reindeer apron my mom gave you. Clearly, you have a secret side that appreciates seasonal kitsch.”
“That apron is practical, so I don’t stain my clothes. This is ...” He gestures helplessly at the mountain of glitter. “Extreme.”
I laugh and thread a needle, bringing back memories of sitting at my mom’s kitchen table, making costumes for school plays. Back when life was simpler. When my biggest worry was whether the straw and patches would stay attached during my performance as the Scarecrow in my school’s production of The Wizard of Oz. When the director heard my singing voice, the next year, they cast me as Dorothy.
“My mom taught me to sew,” I say, pinning a felt reindeer to my sweatshirt. “I used to help make all the costumes for school plays. Before ...”
“Before you became famous?”
“Before I let everyone else make all my decisions.” I concentrate on my stitching, trying to keep my voice light. “Including what I wear. What I say. Who I date.”
Reese is quiet for a moment, carefully applying hot glue to a felt snowflake. “For what it’s worth, you looked great in the sparkly dress as well as the t-shirt.”
I blush. I’m grateful for an excuse to focus on my ugly sweatshirt because even though I’m told that I’m beautiful by fans and that I deserve a pie to the face from haters, hearing Reese say it hits different. “Thank you.”
The groups of people at the nearby tables chatter, a few people sing along to “All I want for Christmas,” blaring through the sound system (yes, my version), and I sneak glances at Reese. He’s concentrating hard, sucking in his lip slightly as he positions ornaments on his navy blue sweatshirt.
A soft sigh escapes as I hear my own voice belting out the chorus through the speakers. And yet, no one here has so much as acknowledged me. I haven’t felt this free since the bygone days Reese and I reminisced about.
Reaching for the jingle bells, I say, “Tell me about your firefighting crew. You mentioned a guy named Maverick?”
He nods. “Lieutenant Patton Cross. Everyone calls him Maverick—he’s our officer in charge. Makes all the tactical decisions on scene, handles communications. He’s the steady hand that keeps us in line.”
“So not a Maverick?”
“Was, past tense. He, uh, well, I don’t exactly know what happened. But he’s a pro.”
As we work, he tells me about the rest of the team. James Sutton—James Bond—the engineer in the driver’s seat of the hose truck. Austin James—James Dean—the adrenaline junkie nozzle firefighter. Scotty Hodges, the grumpy lumberjack single dad who’s secretly a softie. And Hayes, the eager rookie they call Handsome.
“Wait, how many guys are named James?” I pause mid-stitch.
“Two Jameses, one with the first name, the other with the last, hence the nicknames. Having a handle is also a firefighter thing.”
“Sounds like a real brotherhood.”
With a nod, he holds up his sweatshirt with a crooked snowman and iron-on letters spelling Chillin’ with my Snowmies. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re better at this than you claim.” I show him mine with an explosion of reindeer, snowflakes, candy canes, and approximately a billionty jingle bells. Every available inch of red fabric is covered, which kind of felt like my life before I made a great escape. “Too much?”
“I think you’re going to sound like Santa’s reindeer when you walk.”
“There are worse things.”
I pull it on over my Timber’s Edge t-shirt, and sure enough, every movement creates a symphony of jingles.
Reese shakes his head, but his expression is open, eyes bright with delight.
