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Wayne snorts.

Rex says, “June told him to.”

“Also that,” Fletcher admits.

Mars looks back at me. “We could use you.”

I rub a hand over my stubble. “I don’t exactly personify holiday cheer.”

Fletcher looks me up and down.

Black boots. Dark jeans. Black shirt. Leather cut. Tattoos disappearing under my sleeves. Scar over my brow. An expression that makes children hide behind their mothers until they realize I have candy.

“Depends on the holiday,” he says. “You’d crush Halloween.”

Wayne finally stands, wiping grease from his hands. “You don’t need to look cheerful. You need to lift things and not scare the donors.”

“I can do at least one of those.”

“Try for both,” Mars says.

Rex tips his head. “Kids like you.”

I give him a withering look.

“They do,” he says. “Evan thinks you’re hilarious."

I shrug. “The twins think I’m a bear.”

“Kids like bears.”

“Not real bears. Not in their houses.”

Fletcher grins. “You gave Evan that carved wooden motorcycle last month. He’s slept with it ever since.”

“That’s a choking hazard,” I point out, secretly gratified.

“It’s the size of his head.”

“Still.”

Wayne’s face softens at the mention of his son. Doesn’t matter how much grease and temper the man wears, talk about Evan and he turns human real quick.

“He likes you,” Wayne says. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I make everything weird,” I say.

“That’s also true, but people can change.”

Mars flips a page on her clipboard. “We’re doing wrapping at the garage the Thursday before. Market collection that Saturday. Deliveries the following weekend. We’ll have a staging area in the back, sorted by family.”

“How many families?”

“Twenty-three confirmed. Maybe thirty by the end.”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it.

Thirty families in a town this size means more need than people want to admit.