Christmas Lights and Pretend Nights

3. The Shared Disaster

The Evergreen Falls Winter Gala is less of a "gala" and more of a competitive sport. Every year, the town square is transformed into a glittering battlefield of artisanal wreaths, overpriced cider, and enough fake snow to bury a small SUV. It is the absolute worst place to debut a fake relationship, which, by my logic, makes it the perfect place.

If we can survive the scrutiny of the Evergreen Falls Garden Club and the local quilting circle, we can survive anything.

“You’re late,” I snap, checking my watch for the fifth time. I’m standing by the central fountain, my breath hitching in little white puffs. I’ve traded my city heels for practical leather boots and a wool coat the color of a bruised plum.

“A Sullivan is never late, Holly. Everyone else is simply early,” a voice drawls from the shadows of a nearby gazebo.

Jack Sullivan steps into the light of a flickering streetlamp. He’s cleaned up, but only just. He wears a dark navy overcoat that looks expensive enough to fund a small non-profit, but his hair is still windblown, and he hasn't bothered to shave the scruff I noticed at the theater. He looks rugged, polished, and entirely too confident.

“Did you bring the ‘prop’?” I ask, gesturing to his empty hands.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, vintage-looking brass key on a velvet ribbon. “The original key to the theater’s projection booth. I told your mother I needed to show you the ‘architectural bones’ of the building tonight. It’s the perfect excuse for us to slip away early if things get hairy.”

“Nice touch,” I admit, my heart doing a traitorous little skip. “Okay. Remember the plan. We aren’t ‘in love.’ We’re ‘reconnecting.’ If we go full Romeo and Juliet, people will know it’s a scam. We need to look like we’re trying to hide it, but failing.”

Jack steps closer, entering my personal space with the casual entitlement of a man who owns the air he breathes. He smells like winter air and that same maddening citrus-and-woods scent. “So, more of this?” He reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm, grazing the sensitive skin of my neck.

I freeze. My skin prickles where he touched me, a delayed reaction that feels like an electric shock. “What are you doing?”

“Selling it, McKay,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my gaze again. “The Mrs. Higgins from the bakery is currently staring at us from behind the gingerbread stand. She looks like she’s about to drop her tongs.”

I force myself not to look. “Right. Good. Keep doing... whatever that is. But maybe twenty percent less ‘smoldering.’ You’re going to give the poor woman a stroke.”

“I only have one setting, Holly. Take it or leave it.” He offers his arm.

I take it. His coat is thick, but I can feel the solid muscle of his forearm beneath the fabric. We begin to stroll through the square, acting for all the world like two people who aren't secretly imagining ways to push each other into the frozen fountain.

As we walk, the "consultant" in me can't help but critique the gala’s layout. "The flow of this square is a nightmare, Jack. They’ve put the hot chocolate stand right next to the main thoroughfare. It’s a bottleneck waiting to happen."

"It's a small town, Holly," he says, his voice vibrating through his arm and into my side. "People like the bottleneck. It gives them more time to gossip. Like how they're gossiping about why the girl who ran away to the city is clutching the arm of the town's most 'objectionable' bachelor."

"I am not clutching," I hiss, though I realize my grip has tightened.

We pass the carolers, their voices rising in a harmony that usually makes me want to roll my eyes, but tonight, with Jack’s warmth seeping through my coat, it sounds... different. More resonant.

The "Shared Disaster" strikes ten minutes later at the Main Stage.

The Mayor is mid-speech, announcing the grand opening of the "Snowflake Path," when my mother appears out of the crowd like a heat-seeking missile. And she isn't alone. Ander McAllister is trailing behind her, carrying two steaming cups of cider and wearing a look of grim determination.

“Holly! Jack!” my mother chirps, her eyes darting between us and Jack’s hand, which is currently resting, quite firmly, on the small of my back. “I didn't realize you two had... caught up so quickly.”

“Mrs. McKay,” Jack says, his voice dropping into a smooth, respectful register that makes me want to kick him. “I hope you don’t mind. I needed an expert opinion on the theater’s structural integrity, and who better than a woman who knows how to tear things down to the studs?”

I lean into him, a move that feels both strategic and dangerously natural. “He’s being modest, Mom. He’s actually quite helpless without me.”

Ander steps forward, his jaw tight. He looks at Jack like he’s a structural flaw in a building he’s trying to fix. “I didn't know you were interested in the theater, Holly. I told your dad I could take you by the new Community Center tonight. Show you the HVAC upgrades.”

I feel Jack’s fingers tighten slightly on my side. “HVAC upgrades? Thrilling, McAllister. Really. But Holly and I have a bit of a... history with the theater. Don’t we, Holly?”

The disaster isn't the conversation. The disaster is the "Great Evergreen Tree" directly behind us.

Evergreen Falls takes pride in its forty-foot Norwegian Spruce. It is rigged with thousands of vintage glass bulbs and a massive, poorly balanced star. As the Mayor hits the final note of his speech, he presses a giant ceremonial button.

There is a pop. A hiss. And then, a shower of sparks.

The wiring, likely older than the town itself, decides to give up the ghost. The tree doesn't just go dark; the string of lights near the base short-circuits with a loud crack. Panicked, a group of carolers nearby jump back, knocking over a display of heavy, wooden nutcrackers.

It is a domino effect of holiday cheer gone wrong. One of the nutcrackers hits a support beam for the Snowflake Path archway—a flimsy structure made of PVC pipe, heavy garlands, and "icicles" that look suspiciously like sharpened plastic stakes.

“Watch out!” Jack barks.

Everything slows down. I see the archway groan, the heavy "Welcome to Evergreen Falls" wooden sign tilting forward. My boots slip on a patch of black ice. I’m going down.

Jack doesn't hesitate. He doesn't just grab my arm; he lunges, his boots skidding as he throws his entire body weight into me. He wraps his arms around my waist and spins us, placing himself between me and the descending wreckage.

We hit the ground hard.

I land on top of him, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. The archway crashes down around us, the heavy wooden sign landing with a dull thud just inches from Jack’s legs. A decorative bucket of "snow,” which turns out to be a high-pressure mix of soapy bubbles and foam—explodes nearby, dousing us both in white suds.

For a moment, the world is silent, save for the distant sound of a car alarm and my own frantic breathing. I can hear Jack's heart thumping beneath his coat—a rapid, heavy rhythm that matches my own.

“Jack?” I whisper, pulling back slightly.

He is lying flat on the ice, his expensive navy coat covered in suds and pine needles. He groans, his eyes fluttering open. He looks up at me, and for the first time since I’d returned to this town, the smugness is gone. There is something raw in his expression—something that looks suspiciously like genuine concern.

“You okay, McKay?” he rasps. His hand is still gripped tightly around my waist, pulling me into the heat of his body.

“I’m fine. You i***t, you could have been killed by a ‘Welcome’ sign. The irony would have been too much.”

“Would have been a hell of an obituary,” he jokes, though his voice is strained.

The crowd descends. My mother is screaming, Ander is trying to lift the PVC pipe, and several people are snapping photos with their phones. We are the center of the universe. I realize I’m still straddling his chest, our faces inches apart, covered in soap bubbles that look like ridiculous white beards.

“Holly! Jack! Oh my goodness!” Mom wails, kneeling in the slush next to us.

I look at Jack. He looks at me. This is the moment. The performance of a lifetime.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, so low only I could hear.

He sits up, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, drawing me into his side. He looks at the crowd, then at my mother, and then—with a level of dramatic flair that would have won him an Oscar in the senior play—he leans in and presses his forehead against mine.

“I told you I’d catch you,” he says loudly enough for the front row of onlookers to hear.

Then, he doesn't wait for me to respond. He kisses me.

It isn't a "fake" kiss. It isn't the chaste, polite peck of a childhood friend. It is a Sullivan-brand, high-stakes, "I-just-saved-your-life" kiss. His lips are cold from the air but hot with intent. It tastes like peppermint cocoa and adrenaline. It is a kiss that means business—a kiss that says we are definitely together and everyone else can go home.

My brain short-circuits. My hands, which should be pushing him away for the sake of the "act," instead find purchase in the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer. The suds from the bubble bucket are dripping down my neck, the ice is soaking into my leggings, and I’m pretty sure I have a pine needle in my ear, but none of it matters. The world is just the taste of him and the sound of the crowd gasping.

When he finally pulls back, the square is dead silent. Even the car car alarm has stopped.

Jack clears his throat, looking at my mother, who is currently clutching her chest like she’s seen a vision.

“Sorry, Mrs. McKay,” Jack says, his smug smirk returning like a slow-creeping fog. “I’ve been trying to keep my hands off her since she got into town, but a near-death experience tends to break a man’s resolve.”

Ander looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. He drops the cider cups, the plastic hitting the pavement with a wet splat.

“We... we should probably get out of these wet clothes,” I manage to say, my voice an octave higher than usual. My face is flaming, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“Agreed,” Jack says, standing up and pulling me to my feet in one fluid motion. He doesn't let go of my hand. He threads his fingers through mine, his grip firm and possessive. “I think we’ve had enough ‘holiday spirit’ for one night.”

As we walk away, with Jack limping slightly and both of us looking like we’ve survived a foam party at a lumber yard, the whispers start. They are loud, frantic, and exactly what I’d asked for.

“Did you see that?” “Since when are the McKays and the Sullivans...?” “I thought they hated each other!”

We make it to his truck—a heavy, black beast of a vehicle—before I finally find my voice. I stand by the passenger door, my legs shaking.

“What was that?” I demand, spinning to face him the moment he unlocks the doors.

“That,” Jack says, wiping a glob of soap off his shoulder and leaning against the driver's side door, “was a Shared Disaster. And for the record, you’re welcome.”

“You kissed me! You didn't say the plan involved a public display of... of whatever that was! That wasn't a 'reconnecting' kiss, Jack. That was a 'we're-having-an-affair-in-the-janitor's-closet' kiss!”

Jack leans his head back against the truck window, the neon light of a nearby "Open" sign casting a red glow over the sharp angles of his face. He looks at me, his gaze heavy and unreadable. “You told me to sell it, Holly. You told me I had to make everyone believe it.”

“I didn't think you’d take the role so literally!”

“I’m a Sullivan,” he reminds me, stepping around the front of the truck until he’s inches away, pinning me against the passenger door. “We don’t do anything halfway. If we’re going to lie to this town, we’re going to do it so well they’ll be talking about it until next Christmas.”

He reaches out, his thumb brushing a stray bubble from my chin. The touch is light, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

“Now,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Do you want a ride home in my heater-blasting truck, or are you going to stand here in your wet clothes and wait for Ander to come over with a toolbox to fix your 'reconnection'?”

“Shut up, Jack.”

“Get in the truck, McKay.”

I get in. As we drive away, the silent car is filled with the sound of the heater and the heavy, unspoken weight of that kiss. My car is still parked at my parents' house, sitting in the driveway like a reminder of the life I’m supposed to be living. But right now, sitting in the passenger seat of Jack Sullivan’s truck, covered in soap and pine needles, I’ve never felt further away from the city, or closer to trouble.