Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

19. Nick

nineteen

Nick

“ A what?” I ask at the same time Carol sputters, “What in blue blazes? No. Just slap his cocky face and be done with it.”

I lean past Summer to stare at the woman who’s never taken to me no matter how many times I’ve fixed the broken things in her house, or contributed to her church’s donation drives, or mentored her nephew before he moved to Texas—probably to get away from her.

“Seriously?”

Carol shrugs. “You have a very slappable face.”

I glance at my friends for backup, but they’re all looking at me with wrinkled foreheads like they’ve never noticed this trait before. “Really, guys?”

“As I was saying ,” Summer raises her voice over my co-workers’ snickers, “there can only be one.”

“ Highlander reference.” Ezra nods in appreciation. “Nice deep cut.”

I’m so thoroughly confused at this point I’m wondering if someone spiked my cranberry crush cocktail with something other than vodka. Carol flaps her hands at us before cane-walking away, and I have half a mind to join her. The only thing stopping me is Summer, and the insatiable need to know what she has in store for me. Whatever she’s playing at, I’m game. I’ve always been game when it comes to her.

“You and I are going to sing a Christmas song, and the town will vote who’s the king or queen of Christmas.”

“You should sing a duet. That way, he can’t claim that your song was better when you win,” Ruby adds before swallowing the dregs of her beer in one gulp.

I splay my hands over my chest like Don’s wife just filled it full of bullet holes. “Et tu, Ruby?

A chuckle rounds the table, but Summer is delighted by this idea, practically luminescent. On one hand, it’s so breathtaking my heart stops for a few beats. On the other, it’s exceedingly annoying that I’m still responding to her like this when she’s been Stubborn Summer since we got here.

“A duet it is.” Summer gives me a tight smile before speaking with Izzy, Bayside Table’s event coordinator.

By the time I arrive at the small stage area, Izzy’s jubilant grin has doubled.

“All right, folks. We’ve got an exciting turn of events,” she says into the mic. “We’re having a Christmas competition between these two to see who sings the next song better. Listen carefully because we’re unofficially crowning one of them the king or queen of Christmas.”

Alcohol-emboldened cheers go up from the audience, including several chants of encouragement for “Surfing Santa.” I smirk at Summer, tilting my head.

“Hear that?” I lean close, my words only audible for her. “While you’ve been off—”

“Earning a degree to dedicate my life to the well-being of children.”

I ignore her snappy, yet accurate, comment. “Living elsewhere… I’ve been Mr. Christmas to the people of this town.” My grin widens. “I hope you like pie, because the kitchen is serving humble tonight.”

Summer rolls her eyes at me, taking the proffered mic from Izzy. When the familiar intro to “White Christmas” plays over the speakers, a roguish smile splits my face. Summer has lost this competition before it’s even started.

Only…when Michael Bublé begins the lyrics, Summer overtakes the line, lowering her voice. The crowd hoots and claps in response to her shockingly accurate portrayal of the true Mr. Christmas. Grinning, I lift my hands then give a half bow, graciously relinquishing the part to her.

The gleam in Summer’s eyes is premature because she doesn’t know I’m a huge Charlie Puth fan. When Shania Twain begins her embellished lyrics, I not only carry the falsetto, I crush it. After shooting Summer a flirty wink, I casually stride around the small stage, soliciting whistles from the crowd. Before long, she’s singing along with Bublé’s part, placing a hand to the center of my chest to stop my grandstanding.

During the short instrumental interlude, I trap her in a simple dance frame. Summer tersely smiles but follows along for the sake of our audience, allowing me to spin her a few times before we have to sing again. I nearly guffaw into the mic with the amount of distance she puts between us once we begin the last lines of the song.

Before the final bars of music finish, Izzy turns on her mic. “That was quite a performance, but we need to know who did it best.” She takes my hand, raising it like I’m a prized fighter. “Is it Nick?” The restaurant cheers. “Or is it Summer?” Again, another burst of enthusiastic applause. “Or…” Izzy pauses with a wicked grin as she joins our hands in front of her. “Were they the best together?”

The building explodes. That’s the only explanation for why my eardrums are ringing.

“Not gonna lie,” Izzy continues. “I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.” She releases us to fan herself. “King and queen indeed.”

While I gamely smile, Summer sets her mic on a nearby table and cuts toward the exit. The first notes of “Mele Kalikimaka” chase me from the stage as I follow.

“Summer,” I call after her. “Summer, wait.”

I’m about to throw locals out of my way, like Hulk barreling through buildings, when she gets stalled by a group of pregnant women who’ve decorated the bellies of their maternity shirts to look like snowmen.

“Can we talk for a second?”

Her lips firm into a line as I pull her aside, behind the empty hostess stand.

“I— I don’t know what I did to upset you tonight, but whatever it was, I wasn’t trying to make you mad. I don’t want to be your villain anymore, Summer.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks with so much sass that even a preteen would be impressed. “What do you want?”

“What I’ve always wanted.” The words leave my mouth before I can censor them.

“And that is?”

Her lifted brows should be irritating, her snarky tone should grate on my nerves, but I can already feel my pulse thick in my neck, my chest rising and falling too quickly. It’s not because I’m annoyed.

Far from it.

I want to gently brush away the stray eyelash that’s fallen onto her cheek. I want to cup my palm around the back of her neck. I want to slide my arm around her waist until there isn’t a millimeter of space between our bodies. Most of all, I want to bring her lips to mine.

“Decent show, you two,” Carol interrupts our stare-down on her way out, wrapped in what looks like four coats. “Much better than what you could’ve done with that ex-boyfriend of yours, Summer. A tip from me: stay single as long as you can. Men only drain the years from you.”

A gust of wind ruffles my hair as my focus snaps back to Summer. “You broke up with your boyfriend?”

She huffs. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Summer, I—” My eyes close with a nasally exhale. “I would very much like to make that my business.”

“What are you talking about?”

I almost rake my hands through my hair with frustration, but then I spot the mistletoe a few feet away. There are two very distinct outcomes to the idea hitting my brain like a sledgehammer—one with an irreparable consequence. The old me would have spent way too long weighing each option, trying to pick the best route. But my life for the last decade has been run by trial and error, by instinct. The gruff words leave my mouth a second before my hands grip Summer’s upper arms.

“Screw it.”