“We’ll make it,” Kane mutters.
“We have to,” I say, tightening my grip on the wheel. “And if Corn Dog destroys this truck, we’ll deal with that later.”
Corn Dog honks loudly behind us, then nose-dives into a pile of jackets like he’s burrowing for winter.
The truck swerves a little.
And we keep driving like lunatics toward town, our lights piercing through the dark, praying we’re not too late to save Hannah’s entire event.
Corn Dog suddenly dives forward, bumps my elbow, and we’re swerving all over the road.
“Stop moving,” Kane states, shoving him into the back.
I’m laughing despite everything—the pain in my ribs and the absolute insanity of driving down a mountain road with a lunatic reindeer in our truck.
23
HANNAH
The town square is absolutely packed, and I’m about thirty seconds from losing my mind completely.
Families crowd every available inch of space in front of the enormous Christmas tree, children perched on parents’ shoulders, couples pressed together sharing body heat. The choir is singing carols to fill the awkward waiting time, their voices rising into the crisp night air, and the sky above is black and absolutely dripping with stars.
It’s perfect. The decorations I spent weeks coordinating. The atmosphere and crowd are exactly what I wanted.
Except my reindeer isn’t here.
My star attraction that I promised the council would blow everyone’s minds—currently missing somewhere between a mountain cabin and this town square.
I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both, in some order I haven’t determined yet.
“They’re on their way,” Chris says quietly, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, his solid warmth the only thing keeping me from falling apart. “Won’t be long now.”
That slight tension threading through his voice tells me he’s just as worried as I am but doing a better job of hiding it than me.
I check my phone for what has to be the hundredth time. No new messages. The last text from Kane just said “Driving fast” with about seventeen exclamation points and what I think was supposed to be a reindeer emoji but came out as a horse wearing a party hat.
Margaret, the council woman who’s been alternating between being my biggest champion and my harshest critic throughout this entire process, is approaching with that tight-lipped smile that means bad news is coming wrapped in professional politeness.
My stomach clenches.
“Hannah.” She checks her watch. “We really need to start. The schedule called for the lighting to begin ten minutes ago. We can’t keep everyone waiting much longer. Parents have children who need to get to bed, the elderly are getting cold, and frankly, people are starting to get restless.”
I straighten my spine and force every ounce of confidence I don’t actually possess into my voice. “Just a few more minutes. I promise. We’re starting very soon.”
“You said that five minutes ago.”
“And now we’re five minutes closer to it being true.”
Her eyebrow arches, but I hold my ground, keeping my expression pleasant and professional even though my insides are staging a full rebellion.
“Trust me,” I add, because apparently I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation. “It will be worth the wait.”
Margaret’s expression says she’s not remotely convinced, but she nods curtly and retreats to where the other council members are clustered together like a flock of judgmental birds, all checking their watches and exchanging meaningful glances.
The second she’s out of earshot, I deflate against Chris. “I’m dying. This is what dying feels like.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
