“Don’t you ever get tired of being in a good mood?” I asked, tossing the empty light box onto the pile.
“Not really,” he said, flashing that infuriatingly calm smile. “You should try it sometime.”
“Pass,” I said. “Happiness looks exhausting.”
He laughed, brushing snow off his jacket. “You’re such a grouch.”
“I prefer realist.”
“Pretty sure the Grinch said that too.”
“Pretty sure the Grinch had a point.”
Callum rolled his eyes and reached for the ladder, leaning it against the front wall ofThe Rusty Stag.The sky had gone that soft blue-gray that meant the sun was bowing out early for theday. A few lazy snowflakes floated down, catching in his beard. Lydia would probably call itmagical.I called itcold.
He climbed up to check the top row of lights, humming again, and I considered cutting the power just to stop the noise. But then he glanced down, grinning like a man whose life had finally fallen into place, and I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it.
It was weird, watching your brother turn into the responsible, settled one. He’d always been the wildest between us. Now he was the guy who cooked dinner, decorated for Christmas, and smiled like it didn’t cost him anything. Love did weird things to people.
“Can’t believe you roped me into this,” I muttered.
“You volunteered,” he said, not even looking down.
“I was drunk.”
“Still counts.”
“Pretty sure I also volunteered to adopt a raccoon once.”
“That sounds about right.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “You know, you’re irritating now.”
He grinned. “That’s what Lydia says. Usually right before she kisses me.”
I groaned. “For the love of—can you keep it PG? You’re turning into a walking Hallmark special.”
“What can I say?” He shrugged. “I’m happy.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You’re glowing. It’s weird. If you weren’t my brother, I’d think you were pregnant.”
He just laughed again, which was his new default setting. I swear, the man used to brood like it was his job, and now he smiled at everything. It was unsettling.
We were halfway through wrestling a reindeer decoration into place when the crunch of tires on snow made both of us look up. A silver car turned onto Main Street, crawling past the row of shops.
Callum froze mid-lift, the world narrowing to a single focus.
I didn’t need to ask. I knew that car.
“Lydia,” he said, voice low and soft, like the name itself was a prayer.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “And unless my eyes are broken, that means the driver is—”
“Melanie,” he said at the same time.
My stomach did something stupid…some combination of twist, drop, and tighten.
The vehicle rolled closer, headlights glinting off the fresh snow, windshield wipers squeaking in rhythm. Lydia sat in the passenger seat, waving like she was Santa arriving at the North Pole. Melanie, on the other hand, looked like she was preparing for battle.
