Why did I sign up for this?

Oh yeah. I didn’t.

I park Mom’s car in the town square, where the bell is decorated with a giant, red bow. Before she left, she let slip that she forged my signature as a volunteer in the Christmas parade. She made me promise to dress up as Mrs. Claus during the event.

If she weren’t my mom, I’d have killed her already.

The parade every year. It’s over-the-top, but this town takes its stupid traditions seriously. So seriously that they hold auditions for a hand-waving role on the float.

Usually, the part of Santa and Mrs. Claus goes to a couple in town. For whatever reason, they’re out of commission. The party-planning committee needed volunteers, but no one wanted the job, so my mom wrote down my freaking name. Apparently, more Christmas cheer is the medicine for my horrific breakup.

Lovely.

I swing from the seat, sinking ankle-deep in slush. The stabbing cold penetrates my skin and muscle. Shaking the water from my sneakers, I slam the door and approach the sidewalks decorated with white lights. Storefronts are packed with Christmas décor: pine trees and stenciled letters wishing me Happy Holidays. It’s a cute street filled with boutiques, wine bars, and bakeries. I could really go for a stiff drink, but I’m headed into the community center for my costume fitting.

A banner hanging above the brick building advertises the upcoming festival. I grit my teeth and climb the steep staircase, shouldering the door wide. Inside the library, I find a door marked "Santa Claus Parade Meeting."

I push it open, and it swings into a control hub for all Christmas-related events. A wall-sized whiteboard stands at the front of the room with a giant schedule of December. Hundreds of headshots are taped up, connected by dashes.

"Did I walk into a murder investigation?"

A man in a burgundy vest pours over a table of fabric swatches. He straightens, rolling up his green sleeves. "You were supposed to be here five minutes ago."

I’m distracted by the crap hanging everywhere. There’s even a mannequin in the room with various pieces pinned to its chest. A privacy screen is stuck in the corner with a Santa suit dangling over it.

"I—sorry. Are you Spencer?"

Spencer nods, unsmiling. An artful tangle of black curls sits on his head. "And you’re Marguerite."

"Gigi. Everyone calls me Gigi."

Impatient, he waves me forward. "Whatever you are, come here. We have a lot to get through and not much time." He yanks yellow measuring tape from his tweed pants and measures from my shoulder to my arm. "Oh no," he moans. "You’re so much thinner than Veronica."

I’m lost. "Who?"

"Veronica! The woman you’re replacing." Spencer takes a few more measurements, voice growing higher and thinner. "I just can’t take this. They want a parade in ten days when every seamstress in the city is working round the clock fixing holiday dresses. First the Santa Claus suit, now this. I swear to God—never again!"

Blinking back tears, he balls the measuring tape and throws it onto the table.

"Hey, it’s okay." I pat his shoulder awkwardly. "I can, like, get a costume at Party City."

A surprisingly deep laugh bursts from his chest. Then his smile flat lines. "Seriously, I quit. This is ridiculous."

"For heaven’s sake. It’s just a parade."

"At first, I thought Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham retiring would be a good thing, you know? Give someone else a try—someone with charisma and artistry—but no one showed up to the audition. And now I have ten days to sew two new outfits. Kill me."

"Spense, I’m ready." A deep voice booms from the privacy screen.

I jump. "Someone’s here?"

Spencer rubs his eyes, confused. "Oh—yeah. Show me how badly we’re fucked."

A man in a sagging Santa suit walks from the privacy screen, a fake white beard hanging from his handsome face.

Oh my God. "Ronan?"

Dimples carve into his cheeks. "You’re Mrs. Claus, eh? Small world."

A loud slap drags my attention to Spencer, whose forehead hit the table. "I can’t do this, guys. It’s too much pressure."

Ronan walks to Spencer’s side, patting his back. "Er—it’s not that bad. You can tighten it up, right? All it needs is a bit more volume."

"Look, buddy. Even if I could do this in time, you’re too lean." Spencer crosses his arms, voice going shrill again. "I can’t sell a meathead—no offense—to little kids as Santa Claus."

"None taken," Ronan says, his eyes twinkling. "I put a lot of effort into this body."

Hope expands in my chest. "Maybe we can just cancel the appearances."

"Cancel Christmas?" Spencer’s haunted gaze finds mine. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Dude, you really need to relax." Discomfort fills Ronan’s gaze. "It’s like I told you before. You’ll get through this."

"Forgive me, but I don’t share your optimism."

I set my purse on the table. "Seriously, what’s the big deal? Why do they need us there?"

"You think I can sign off on a Christmas parade without Santa?" Spencer thunders. "Over my dead body."

Ripping the hat off his head, Ronan dissolves into giggles. "I’m sorry. I’m not trying to laugh."

"I’m glad my suffering amuses you."

"What do you want us to do?" Ronan asks.

"Shoot me," Spencer mutters. "Let me take your measurements and see if anyone in this godforsaken town can make two costumes. I don’t care how much it costs. My reputation’s at stake."

"Okay," Ronan says. "I’m taking this off."

Spencer flips through a phone book, ignoring him completely as Ronan undresses behind the screen. Then he grabs the tape and finishes taking my measurements. I look at the door with longing, counting down the minutes until I’m at home.

What are the freaking odds Ronan signed up to be Santa?

"Can I go now?" I check my watch. "It’s just—I was under the impression this wouldn’t take long."

Miserably, he waves me off. "Both of you, leave."

Works for me.

I seize my purse and head the way I came, until a pair of jogging footsteps catches up to me. "Gigi, wait!"

"Go away."

Ronan hooks my arm, slowing me to a halt. "Some guy, huh?"

I shake free from his grip, walking outside. Ronan broke into my house and humiliated me, just like he terrorized me when we were younger. I’m so angry, I fly down the stairs.

Ronan struggles to keep up. "Would you slow down? I’m trying to say something."

"You’ve said enough." I whirl around, shoving him back. "Stay out of my life."

He throws up his hands, alarmed. "I don’t understand why you’re so angry."

"You broke into my house and insulted my body!"

"No, I didn’t! Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you’ve been an ass my whole life." I race the streets, scanning for a bar to disappear into.

"You misunderstood me, Gigi. If you weren’t so insecure, you would’ve realized I was hitting on you." Ronan releases me, his warmth lingering on my skin. "Your body is perfect."

I tear my gaze from his. It’s as though I walked into a fire.

Why is he following me? And why am I blushing over him like a love struck teenager?

"What do you want from me?"

"I’ll tell you about it over drinks. My treat."

"No. I’m going home."

Ronan takes my hand, the boldness of the gesture stunning me. "One drink," he promises.

"Fine." Just because I want him to pay for it. "But only one."

"Great."

Ronan’s periwinkle gaze gleams with triumph as he leads the way. He’s always had a way with people that transcended his football god status. I never thought it’d work on me.

It’s not. I just want a free drink.

Ronan releases me, jerking his head to a building wrapping around the block I’ve never noticed before. My stomach ties in knots when he swings open the door and palms my back. I walk into a high-ceilinged brewery with concrete walls and glass separating dining room and bar from the steel vats, quietly churning. We bypass the barstools for a private booth with warm leather seats and a hardwood tabletop.

Fancy.

Ronan slides across, so big that his knees brush mine. A heavy weight settles in his deep blue gaze. "Just one drink, Gigi. I won’t bite."

"I’ll be the judge of that." It’s never just one anything with him. I grab the draft menu and frown at the list of IPAs.

A waitress in black leggings and a cute, low-cut blouse floats to our table. She smiles at me, and then does a double take at Ronan. "What can I get you?"

He barely looks at her. "I’ll have the stout."

"Tangerine hef."

"And bring some roasted Brussels sprouts."

Surprise balls in my throat as he sits back into the booth with a sigh, looking as though he’s had a long morning. "So why am I here?"

"Well, we have an important job ahead of us. Mr. And Mrs. Claus can’t look like they hate each other."

"That’s a matter of opinion. Maybe she’s tired of her husband refusing dinner because he ate too many cookies."

A smirk broadens his face. "We’re selling a fantasy, not real-life relationship drama."

"Why did you even sign up for this?"

"Mom," he says simply. "She can be very…persuasive."

The waitress returns a moment later, dropping our foaming mugs onto the table. She lingers a few seconds, eyes trained on Ronan, but he’s dead-set on ignoring her.

"Anyway." He clinks his mug against mine. "To performance art…or whatever that Spencer guy said."

"He’s a character." I sip the beer, disguising my smile under the glass. "Some people take their job way too seriously. I vote that we just drop out."

"You can’t. Spencer will have an aneurysm."

"Yeah, well if I’m forced to be in your presence for the parade, the festival, and the toy drive I’ll probably gouge my eyes out."

He licks foam off his lips. "Or you’ll cave to your deepest, darkest desire. I saw how you looked at me."

"Not this again. I didn’t look at anything."

"If I recall correctly, you stood there for a minute and stared while I was innocently shaving—"

"At least I didn’t break into your home and take a peek while you were showering!"

"Details. The way I see it, we’re even."

A fire climbs inside me, raging with every sarcastic comment. "Nowhere close. After everything you put me through? Maybe if I went to one of your games, made you stand in the middle of the stadium, and yank down your pants."

Ronan raises an eyebrow as though considering it. "That’d probably be more humiliating for you than me. Security would drag you off the field. My fans would relentlessly stalk you. Bad idea, Good Girl."

"Stop calling me that."

"You realize I do it because it pisses you off, right?"

"Yes. I’m perfectly aware that everything you do is a calculated attempt to get under my skin. Congratulations, you’re a master."

Smug, Ronan toasts the air. "Thank you."

I can’t stand another minute with this aggravating man. "Okay, I’m done. Thanks for the drink."

Annoyance flickers across his handsome features. "I’m just trying to make things bearable until this is all over."

"You want to make things better? Give up the suit."

"You give up the suit," he growls. "I promised my mom."

Bitterly, I stand from the table and stalk toward the exit.

"By the way," he yells at my back. "You sing off-key!"