“You told my sister there’d be cinnamon rolls,” Eli said.
“I lied,” Noah said cheerfully. “But thereishot cocoa.”
Eli’s lips twitched. “Good to know your moral compass is flexible.” He raised his eyebrows. “You thought I’d bail?”
“No,” Noah said quickly. “Yes. Maybe. It’s Monday. People bail on Mondays.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t do anything embarrassing. “Reporting for wreath duty. Or manual labor. Or emotional support. I’m very versatile.”
Noah grinned. “You’re already my favorite volunteer.”
“You say that to everyone,” Eli said.
“No,” Noah replied, his tone mock-serious. “Some people show up late and drink cocoa in the corner. You came on time and made a joke. That puts you at the top of the list.”
“High standards.”
“Always,” Noah said. The little flicker of earnestness across his face made Eli’s chest feel weirdly tight.
Just for the season. Because if Eli didn’t keep reminding himself, who would?
“Come on. Let me introduce you to the madness.” He led Eli into the chaos, gesturing with his clipboard.
“This,” Noah said, pointing to three older women untangling a mountain of garland with the focus of bomb defusal experts, “is the Garland Task Force. Donotmess with their system.”
One of the women, a compact lady with steel-gray hair and a cardigan that could stop a bullet, looked up and pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at Eli.
He nodded solemnly. “Understood.” One of the women glared at a strand of lights as if that would make it untangle itself.
“They take their job very seriously.”
“I can see that,” Eli murmured.
“Over there,” Noah went on, “we’ve got the Tree Committee, arguing about whether the big spruce in the square needs colored lights or warm white. I try to stay out of it unless there’s blood.”
“Is there usually blood?”And what have I gotten myself into?
“Only metaphorically.” Noah pointed toward the stage. “And that’s the Set Crew—building the photo backdrop. This year’s theme is ‘Cozy Winter Magic.’”
“What was last year’s theme?” Eli asked.
“We don’t talk about last year’s theme,” Noah said. “It involved live geese.”
Eli winced. “Enough said.” He snapped his fingers together. “Because… beaks.”
Noah turned back to him. “I’m putting you on lights and window dressing.”
“Is that a promotion or a punishment?”
“Promotion.” Noah’s eyes were warm. “You have an eye for this. I saw your sister’s bakery window.”
“I didn’t do much,” Eli said.
“You did enough to impress me.” He said it casually, but it landed somewhere tender.
Eli felt a ridiculous bloom of pride.
Every time Noah smiled at him, something in Eli’s chest tightened, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to recognition, memory, longing, or maybe a mix of all three, tangled up in ways he didn’t want to examine yet.
