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

5. Cara

Cara

M y wooden folding chair in the front row at the city council meeting creaks as I shift on it, waiting for my spot on the agenda. I smooth my navy slacks, paired with a stylish but professional cream cable-knit sweater, and adjust my necklace to move the clasp behind my neck. I’m not nervous, exactly. I just don’t want to assume this will be an easy win.

I assured Thomas the other night that securing the funding wouldn’t be a problem, but to be honest, I don’t think it will be that simple. It might take some persuasion for these fine folks to approve support for the Main Street Holiday Festival. But I’m here to convince them this isn’t just what I want. It’s what Magnolia Point needs.

As a debate among council members about road maintenance and repair drones on, my mind drifts to Thomas. The other night, at my shop, when it was clear as day that staying was the last thing he wanted to do, he did. And not only that, but the Scrooge didn’t phone it in once we got going. He was engaged and insightful, and…creative.

The rugged, steel-toed-boot wearing hardware store owner was completely out of place in my boutique, but in all the ways that matter, he was the perfect contrast to my enthusiasm. And the voice of reason I needed. I can still remember the way he lifted his baseball cap and ran an exasperated hand through his unruly brown hair at least a half dozen times, but he never cut me off or dismissed my suggestions without consideration. He listened then took my ideas and built on them or reined me in gently. Plus, he captured the tasks we need to get done to pull off a successful festival while I was spewing out to-dos left and right.

A tap of the gavel snaps my attention back to the meeting. “Motion pass, thank you, everyone. Next on the agenda, we have Cara Livingston presenting a proposal for resurrecting the Main Street Holiday Festival.”

I stand and draw a deep breath, filling my chest. I need to convince the council, so we can move forward, but also so I can stay busy and give back. I need to be doing something this holiday season because my goal of settling down and starting a family, my dream of building holiday traditions of our own, is further out of reach than ever. My heels click against the worn linoleum floor as I approach the podium.

“Good evening, council members,” I begin, gesturing to the easel already set up beside me, where a large map of Main Street is displayed. “I’m here to propose the return of the Main Street Holiday Festival, a beloved tradition that will reignite our community and bring holiday cheer back to Magnolia Point.”

As I launch into my carefully prepared presentation, most of the council members nod along, their expressions a mix of nostalgia and interest. I articulate all the reasons they should green light this project and my confidence grows by the minute, feeling they’ll approve the event.

I can already picture Thomas’ expression when I pop over to Lowcountry Lumber and Hardware in the morning to share the news. He’ll hide his pleasure under that gruff exterior, but I’ll see right through it. Because after spending a few hours in his company, I can read the man like a book. And although Thomas doesn’t always make a great first impression, his surly exterior hides a cinnamon roll on the inside.

But before I can finish my presentation, things take a turn for the worse.

“While we appreciate your enthusiasm, Ms. Livingston,” Councilman Peters interjects, his bushy eyebrows furrowing, “there are some significant concerns about the timeline.”

“The timeline? Yes, of course. Well…” I start, struggling to remember the points I had planned to satisfy any doubts about our ability to pull off this festival in less than two weeks.

As the silence stretches, a deep, familiar voice cuts through the room. “If I may, I’d like to address the concern.”

I spin toward the voice, and there’s Thomas, rising from a seat in the back row next to a photographer from the paper. Our eyes lock as he makes his way up the aisle. A flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the presentation spreads like wildfire, sending tingles down to my fingertips.

“If Thomas is involved, that certainly lends some weight to this proposal,” Councilwoman Martinez remarks, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise as Thomas reaches the podium.

My lips press together, but Thomas brushes a hand against the small of my back as if silently reassuring me he’s more than willing to put himself out there and stand at my side. And just like that, a lump the size of snowball lodges in my throat. No one’s ever done that for me.

Thomas dips his chin in my direction as he addresses Councilwoman Martinez and the rest of the members, his voice strong and clear. “I’m co-chairing this project with Cara, although I can assure you she is more than capable of pulling this off on her own. Her passion and enthusiasm, her commitment to Magnolia Point, is unmatched, and I’m glad to be of service to her.”

He continues, unaware of the way his public support causes the fissure in my chest, which cracked open when Wayne dumped me, to begin to mend, as if it’s a ripped seam being handstitched back together. “The timeline is tight, but doable. We’ve got a plan in place, and we’ve already gathered verbal commitment from almost all of the Main Street business owners to participate.”

As he continues laying out our plans in his no-nonsense manner, he takes a couple of steps forward, offering a view of his back. The worn jeans he wears hugs his ass, and the caramel-brown flannel stretched across his broad shoulders makes my mouth go dry. Thomas may be a man of few words, but the ones he says, he means. There’s a quiet strength and loyalty about him I didn’t realize existed and certainly never appreciated.

The direction of my thoughts sets off a flare of warning. I’m sworn off men and for good reason. But as Thomas fields questions from the council with ease, an undeniable warmth, like molten lava, fills the fissure, those fragile stitches keeping it from flowing out. This man is here for me when I didn’t even ask him to be.

Councilman Peter’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “All in favor of approving the event and making the budget allocation for the Main Street Holiday Festival say ‘aye.’”

A chorus of “ayes” fills the room, and just like that, it’s done. We have our approval and our budget. Thomas turns to me, a twinkle of satisfaction in his rich brown eyes. I want to throw my arms around his neck but swallow the impulse and offer a sincere smile instead.

“Thank you,” I murmur as he escorts me from the room, his hand skating the small of my back again.

“Anytime.”

I glance over because the way that single word rumbles quietly from his chest hits me like a tidal wave. The set of his jaw and the press of those lips leaves no doubt that the offer wasn’t just a flippant response, tossed out carelessly without thought. Nope, it was a full-fledged vow. A promise. An oath. And never in my life have I ever felt such unconditional support from a man. The realization makes me feel lighter than air, like a cloud of peppermint cotton candy that’s just been spun.

But it’s crazy because this is Thomas, a man who couldn’t be further from my idea of an ideal boyfriend. Or husband. Right?

We step out into the crisp night air, the star-filled sky illuminated with a soft glow, and stop to face each other as the door closes behind us. The loss of warm pressure from the small of my back is acute, and I shiver, the sudden temperature change prickling my skin. Thomas notices, because of course he does, and for a moment, I think he’s about to offer me his jacket. But instead, he takes a step back and clears his throat, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

His gaze drops to my hand.

“No splint?” he asks.

I raise my hand, flexing my fingers. “It’s feeling better. Still a bit sore, but the EMT said I could see how it felt without the splint after a week or so.”

“Glad to hear it’s on the mend.” There’s something in his piercing gaze that makes my stomach do a little flip, but I can’t examine the sensation too closely because he continues, “You’ll need both hands to wrangle this festival into shape.”

“Yeah, can’t let you do all the heavy lifting, right?”

“That’s what I’m here for. The muscles, remember?”

Oh, I remember all right.

“Well,” he says, jingling his keys. “I should get going. Early start tomorrow.”

I nod, suddenly not wanting him to leave. “Right, of course. Thanks again, Thomas, for coming tonight. It…it meant a lot.”

“I’ll see you off,” he says, dipping his chin toward my car, his voice like rough sandpaper.

See me off? Since when do men wait until a girl leaves to make sure they get on their way okay? Wayne would have been revving the engine of his beloved Beemer and pulling out of the lot by now.

Thomas escorts me to my car, close enough that his woodsy, clean scent drifts on the breeze. The scent is familiar now. It’s the same way he smelled the other night, at our committee meeting. It’s nothing like a fancy designer cologne but somehow, more appealing.

He holds open my car door, but I don’t slide in because he clears his throat and scuffs a boot on the gravel. There’s something on his mind, something bothering him, and I want to know what it is.

“Everything okay?”

He lifts that ballcap and rakes five fingers through his hair, blowing out a long breath. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he firmly closes my door and steps back, crossing his arms over his chest.

As I start up the engine and turn onto the street, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. And suddenly, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about my vow—or Thomas Crawford—anymore.