Never Sleigh Never (Man of the Month Club: Christmas Novella)

4. Thomas

Thomas

T he cheerful jingle of bells above the door grates on my nerves as I duck into Coastal Charm, my work boots scuffing against the polished hardwood floor. The shop is only yards away from my hardware store, but it might as well be on a different planet. The smell of peppermint floats in the air, and the place is so warm I start sweating like a pig the moment I step inside. It takes grit not to turn right back around and head home.

But I’m committed. I gave Cara my word. We both knew it, even if I didn’t actually say the words. Plus, I owe it to my dad, rest his soul, to help. He always said a community is only as strong as its willingness to come together. So here I am, feeling more out of place than a sledgehammer at a tea party as Frosty the Snowman plays softly over the speakers.

I haven’t been in here in years, but it feels as if I’ve walked straight into one of those Hallmark movies my mom used to watch twenty-four seven. The ones set in a small town where it’s perpetually snowing, yet nobody ever seems cold and a well-timed kiss under the mistletoe can miraculously save the career-focused city girl’s job just in the nick of time on Christmas Eve.

This place is decorated like a set of one of those movies. Or it could have been ripped straight out of the pages of those fancy home decor magazines my customers bring in when they want to recreate a look that’s either above their budget or skill level, usually both.

Twinkling lights hidden among the displays of fancy clothes and impractical shoes give off a soft glow that reflects off the strategically placed mirrors to make the whole place sparkle. It’s…unnerving, as is the enormous artificial Christmas tree that dominates one corner. Ten feet tall and perfectly shaped, it’s nothing like the fresh, aromatic Virginia pines my dad used to sell all season long out of the back lot at the store.

And the decorations couldn’t be further from the trees that would stand in the corner of our family room every year when I was little. The ones strung with popcorn and cranberries, sagging under the mismatched assortment of homemade ornaments my mom would break out on the day after Thanksgiving.

I close my eyes against the wave of nostalgia that sweeps through me. My molars grind as the long-buried memories of happy Christmas mornings come flooding back with a vengeance. I knew joining this committee would be a bad idea.

But before I can escape, a curse from the back of the store, in a familiar voice and loud enough to be heard over the music, distracts me. Because it wasn’t actually a curse Cara snapped, rather some nonsense along the lines of, “Oh sugar plum fairy.” I turn my head and spot her, head down, concentration locked on whatever she’s doing.

I take a step in her direction, as if tugged by an invisible magnetic force. Cara glances up from a folding table covered with a large map of Main Street, her green eyes widening as she spots me. She scrambles to her feet, smoothing down a gray skirt tight enough to hug her curves.

“Thomas, you’re right on time.” There’s a hint of surprise in her voice, as if she expected me to be late.

I raise an eyebrow, taking in the chaos spread across the table. A faint blush creeps up her neck as she hurries to clear space. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away with some ideas for the festival.”

As she gathers a few sketches, I can’t help but notice the splint still on her wrist. A twinge of concern flickers through me, but I bite my tongue. I’m here to help with the festival, not serve as a nursemaid.

Plus, there’s a more pressing question I need to ask, though I dread the answer worse than I fear a root canal. I glance over her head toward the curtained fitting rooms and stockroom door. Sure enough, both areas are as empty as a ghost town. “Where’s the rest of the committee?”

Cara bites her ruby red lip, and I brace myself for confirmation of my hunch. “Actually,” she says, her nose wrinkling, “it’s just us planning the event. But don’t worry! Lots of folks have offered to help with the execution.”

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to curse like a sailor. And to make the, “You’ve got to be kidding,” that escapes my lips not sound as if I want to strangle this woman with my bare hands this very moment.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she rushes to add, her eyes pleading, “but we can make it work. Unless… Unless you’re going to back out.”

Cara’s fingers twist together, but I hold her gaze, wrestling with my frustration. Every bone in my body tells me to walk away from this disaster waiting to happen without so much as a goodbye. But those damn green eyes of hers, filled with hope and determination, are my kryptonite. Not that I knew that until this very second.

Cara’s tone is desperate, though she’s trying her damndest not to let it show. And, if there’s one thing I’m a sucker for, it’s feeling as if someone needs me. Service is my superpower. I give generously of my time and knowledge and even money, when I can. Lending a helping hand is a skill that comes in handy at the store. Not so much when I end up buying ten rolls of holiday wrapping paper from the kid down the street fundraising for his little league team when I haven’t wrapped a present in over a decade.

“I gave you my word,” I force out finally, my voice as rough as sandpaper.

An awkward silence fills the air until Cara clears her throat and nods. “Alright then. Well, since you’re officially the co-chair now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

Co-chair? What the ever-loving fuck?

And also, how is it possible that, two seconds ago, I would have bet my favorite socket wrench this woman was close to tearing up, and now, she’s got a smile as wide as the Nile?

She must see the steam shooting from the top of my head because she spins and grabs a plate. “Cookie?”

Cookie? This is worse than I thought.

But I eye the gingerbread men warily, and then, because it’s late and I haven’t eaten dinner, I take one. A single bite and a rich, spicy-sweet flavor explodes on my tongue. Damn, it’s good. Like really good. I reach for a second one before I can stop myself.

Her wide smile curls into a satisfied grin as she sets the plate on the table close to me, and I get the sense I’m nothing more than putty in her hands. “I might be terrible at power tools, but give me a mixing bowl and wooden spoon and I’m set.”

“I guess I’m here to help with the power tools then,” I say, flipping around a chair to straddle it and resigning myself to this crazy situation.

“Power tool operator and truck driver,” she confirms, looking genuinely grateful.

I can’t help it. “And don’t forget about the muscles.”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens and then closes again as if she’s suddenly at a loss for words. A warm sensation spreads throughout my chest. Who knew ruffling Cara Livingston’s feathers could be so…enjoyable?

As we get down to business and she reviews the plans so far, I’m torn between admiration for her enthusiasm and exasperation at her impracticality. Snow machines? A giant snow globe photo booth she insists is a must-have to capture the memories of the night? Where does she come up with this stuff?

“Whoa, slow down there, Tinkerbell,” I interrupt. “Have you thought about the cost of all this? Or how we’re going to set it up in two weeks?”

She deflates a little but rallies quickly. “The mayor has given me free rein, and I’m presenting to the city council on Thursday night to ask for a small, but manageable budget. I’m sure if we get the community on board—”

“In,” I check my watch, “thirteen days?” I shake my head, ignoring the twinge of guilt I feel at crushing her dreams, but this is worse than I thought. “Cara, be realistic. We can’t pull off all of this.”

“Yes, we can!” she insists, her voice rising with determination. “Come on, Thomas. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

Gone a long time ago, sweetheart.

But that’s not what she wants to hear. Plus, something in my gut tells me there’s more to her motivation than she’s letting on. “Why are you so insistent? Where’s this drive to resurrect the Main Street Holiday Festival coming from all of a sudden, anyway?”

She hesitates for a minute, her gaze dropping to the floor before she answers. “I just miss the way Magnolia Point used to be during the holidays.”

I do, too, honey. But the past is dead and buried.

I study her for a minute and can tell she means what she says, but I can’t shake the feeling this girl’s holding something back, another reason she doesn’t want me to know. Before I can press further, she turns the tables on me. “What do you think is doable if you don’t like my ideas?”

I lean forward, spreading out her sketches. “I didn’t say I don’t like them,” I admit grudgingly. “And maybe, next year, we can incorporate some of the more ambitious suggestions, but for now, we need to keep it simple.”

To my surprise, I find myself getting caught up in the planning. As we go back and forth, finding compromise is easier than I thought it would be. With my pragmatism balancing her enthusiasm, a more manageable plan starts to take shape.

“We could use some old wooden pallets from behind my store to build small vendor stalls,” I suggest. “With a fresh coat of paint and some string lights between them, it would create a kind of Christmas market feel.”

Cara blinks at me, impressed. “That’s…a really great idea.”

I shrug, fighting a smile. “I’ve been known to have a good idea or two.”

As we continue planning, I find myself studying Cara more closely. The way her brow furrows in concentration, the excited gleam in those expressive eyes as she describes her vision. There’s more to this woman than I realized, and it’s…intriguing.

No, not intriguing. I mentally shake myself. Remember why you’re here, Crawford. You’re just helping out a neighbor, nothing more.

Finally, after an hour of hashing out details, we have a solid to-do list. Cara stares at it, a mix of excitement and trepidation on her face, and she lays a hand on my forearm. “We’re really doing this, huh? If I can convince the city council to give us the funds?”

I stare at the connection, the gentle way her fingers grip my arm, and can’t help the surge of jealousy that burns hotter than a welding torch at the thought of her boyfriend. I have no doubt Cara could charm a broken chainsaw into purring like a kitten if she sets her mind to it. Her boyfriend is one lucky guy. I nod, resigned but oddly satisfied. “Hope you’re ready for some long days.”

“You’re the one who better try to keep up.”

I chuckle, surprised by how much I’m looking forward to the challenge, although I can already tell not falling for this woman will be harder than any of the festival preparations.

As I get up to leave, I reach for another couple of cookies. “Thanks for these,” I say. “See you soon?”

A light pink flush spreads up her neck as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, see you soon.”

I duck out of the store, the bells jingling behind me as the sight of her standing there in that tight skirt with a rosy hue tinting her cheeks burns itself into my memory.

The night outside feels frigid as I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head of the scent of peppermint, and stare at the homemade cookies in my hand, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into and why I can’t wait to see Cara Livingston again.