Page 69 of Rebel Without a Claus

“Good.” I snuggle his nose one more time before letting Luke help me into the sleigh, steadying me with strong hands. I settle into the sleigh and take a long, deep inhale of the warm, summer air, expecting to find Luke sitting beside me, only when I turn to my right, he isn’t. Instead, I find him lowering to one knee on the ground.

For a heartbeat, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. My brain stutters, refusing to connect the dots—Luke Dawson, mountain of a man, rugged and stubborn as the Rockies themselves, is kneeling. In front of me. In the grass. While wearing the most hideous Christmas sweater, because I made him put it on in the dead of summer.

The world seems to tilt.

“Luke,” I whisper, my voice barely there.

He doesn’t hesitate. His breath hangs in clouds between us, his hands braced on his knee, his eyes fixed on me with that unshakable steadiness that always manages to undo me. “You already gave me the only thing I ever wanted—you.”

The words slam into me, and suddenly my throat burns. I clutch the edge of the sleigh like it can hold me together, because oh God, he’s doing this. We’re doing this.

His voice dips lower, rawer, like he’s stripped everything else away: “But I’d be an idiot not to ask if you’d make it official.”

My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. Somehow, one of our fake snowflakes, actually potato flakes, drifts lazily between us, catching in his hair, in his lashes. Helooks like he belongs to this moment, carved out of winter and truth and something fierce enough to scare me.

“Eve Winters,” he says, steady as stone, “will you marry me?”

I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too much, shallow and ragged, because all at once every version of my life—LA, Holly Ridge, the inn, the chaos, the fights, the laughter, him—all collapse into this single, blinding point.

Tears prick hot at the corners of my eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” I choke out, laughing even as a sob cuts through. “Completely ridiculous.”

His mouth quirks, hopeful but uncertain, and that cracks me wide open. I press a trembling hand over my lips, shaking my head at him, because he has no idea, no idea how impossible he is, how much I love him.

“Yes,” I breathe, and then stronger, clearer, as if that word is the only one that’s ever mattered. “Yes, of course I will marry you.”

Luke launches to his feet, climbing into the sleigh. He glides his arms around my waist and pulls me in just enough to press a deep, steady kiss to my lips. My knees wobble and my heart does a flip, but he just smiles against mine, letting the world fall away for a heartbeat.

I barely have time to catch my breath when Princess Sparkles and Blitzen snort, nudging the sleigh forward. My stomach lurches with the memory of our last runaway sleigh on Christmas Eve, but Luke’s already on it, hands firm on the reins. Unlike last year, his confidence is steady, calm, playful.

“Ready, Mrs. Claus?” he murmurs, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I wrap my arms around him, laughing as the sleigh launches forward, the bells jingling and the sound of hooves stamping the ground beneath us.

“Guess we finally figured it out!” I shout over the chaos, giddy and wild.

Luke grins, leaning down to press a quick, warm kiss to my temple before tilting his head and capturing my mouth. It’s sweet and messy and perfect all at once, and for the first time I feel like the world has finally caught up with us.

The sleigh slides to a smooth stop, reins in his hands. “Mrs. Claus looks good on you, you know?” he mutters, voice low, teasing, but full of everything he feels.

I laugh again, because yes—she does. “I agree. But you know what?” I whisper. “I thinkSantalooks even better on me, don’t you think?” I ask, suggestively.

He smirks, brushing a potato flake from my hair, and leans in so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes burn into mine—heated, possessive, and entirely his own—as if daring me to look away. The world narrows to just us and I swear I can feel the spark of every unspoken word between us. “Careful, Mrs. Claus… I might just let you runmyNorth Pole from now on.”