He looked at me skeptically. “From shrimp and grits? You lying on Darnita name now? That’s how I know you nervous.”
I rolled my eyes. “If I agree to go in here, this counts toward that deal thing.”
“I accept,” he said quickly.
“Good.”
“And if you on probation, this counts as a court-ordered community service outing for one emotionally difficult hill princess,” he added.
I swatted his arm. He caught my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine, warm and familiar in a way they had no business being. The air in the truck shifted. We both felt it. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t push. He just held my hand for a second like he liked the feeling.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I responded honestly.
He smiled. “You coming anyway, though.”
I stared at the glow of the Christmas Village, the silhouettes moving against the lights, the faint sound of a kid screaming about cotton candy. My heart pounded. Fear, irritation, and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.
“Fine. But if I see mistletoe, I’m leaving.”
“Nobody wanna kiss yo’ mean ass,” he teased.
“Times have truly changed,” I shot back.
He chuckled all low and deep in that way that did something to me inside. “I missed you, man.”
That, I couldn’t deal with. “Don’t start,” I warned.
He lifted our joined hands and pressed his mouth to my knuckles before I could snatch them back. The kiss was quick, almost playful, but heat shot straight up my arm.
My voice came out shakier than it had in a long time. “You so aggravating.”
“And you still here,” he said.
He finally let my hand go and hopped out, jogging around to my side. When he opened my door, the sound of laughter and Christmas music spilled in, wrapping around us. He held out his hand again, eyebrows raised.
“You coming, Ms. Grindley Who Stole Christmas? Or you gon’ sit out here and write a strongly worded email about it?”
I snorted and slid to the edge of the seat. “If this is terrible, I’m putting your name in the subject line.”
Against my better judgment, I put my hand in his. We walked toward the lights together, my pulse doing the most… and for the first time in a long time, my dread about this town was mixed with something else. Curiosity.
And maybe—just maybe—a little bit of excitement.
I wasn’tsurprised she hated it.
Iwassurprised she did it anyway.
Kyleigh walked into that Christmas Village like it was a courtroom and she was representing herself against the State of Louisiana. Chin up. Shoulders rigid. Eyes tight, like she was waiting on somebody to try her.
But then, forty-five minutes turned into damn near two hours. We walked the little loop. Kids ran around with light-up swords. Somebody’s speaker was fighting for its life, trying to play “Silent Night” over all the noise. Folks side-eyed us, but nobody said anything slick, not with me right there. They knew better.
Kyleigh kept pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.
She lingered at the cocoa booth. She watched kids lose their minds at the fake “snow” machine. She even laughed out loud when a little boy tried to square up with the inflatable Santa because “he looking at me wrong.”
Damn, I’d missed that laugh.
