“Five!” “Four!” “Three!”
Ethan stands beside me at the base of the spruce. His arm is warm, even through his coat, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how close we are. He glances down at me and the nerves in my stomach settle just a little. He’s been so sweet today for a giant, gruff guy who doesn’t do people. Could it be just for me? I’m not sure. Both of us are not ones to adore the limelight.
“Two!” “One!”
We flip the brass switch together.
The tree bursts into sparkling white and gold light, ribbons catching the glow, ornaments glittering like stars. The crowd cheers. Bells chime from the chapel tower. Children shriek with delight and parents clap and take photos. And for amoment, we just stare at the glowing branches … then at each other.
He looks different in the warm light — softer, less guarded, almost like he’s enjoying himself in spite of everything. Despite being shoved into a town event. Despite being stared at. Despite having me as his accidental holiday wife for the week.
And something in me opens up a little. Just enough to feel dangerously warm.
He clears his throat. “Nice lights.”
“Nice flipping,” I say lightly.
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“I could’ve fallen off the platform,” I offer.
“Or I could’ve crushed the switch,” he replies.
We both laugh — awkward at first, then easier, warmer, like a knot loosening between us. I realize I don’t feel nervous. I’m not flustered. I’m not the girl who fell asleep practically on top of a man she barely knows. I’m just … here. With him. Like it’s natural. But then the cheering fades, the crowd disperses, and Ethan leans slightly closer.
“You hungry?”
My stomach answers before I do. “Starving.”
“Millie’s?” he asks.
I nod. “Always Millie’s.”
Ethan leads me toward his truck again and it now sits under a dusting of light snow. Up close, the thing looks well-loved. Actually, well-loved might be generous. The driver’s-side door is a different color from the rest of the body. The bumper is held on by what appears to be hope. On the way here, I noticed the engine makes a low growling sound that feels vaguely threatening.
He opens the passenger door for me, which sticks halfway before giving way with a metallicscreechthat echoes off the nearby buildings.
I blink at him. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”
“That’s the hinge warming up,” he replies simply.
“Warming up,” I repeat.
He nods once. “It gets stiff in the cold.”
The seat is covered in a patchwork of duct tape. Ethan gets in and turns the key. The engine roars to life, coughs a couple of times, then roars some more. The whole cab vibrates a little. He pats the dashboard affectionately. “She runs like a dream.”
“A nightmare is technically a kind of dream,” I murmur under my breath.
“I heard that.”
I smile despite myself. “I’m not judging. Just observing.”
“It’s reliable,” he says. “Doesn’t need fancy tech. Doesn’t need to look pretty. It just works.”
I glance at him, surprised at the sudden seriousness in his tone. There’s something honest in it.
“I like it,” I say softly. “It feels like … you.”
