“There’s nothing romantic about couple sleigh rides, mistletoe selfie stations, or peppermint-flavored everything,” he mutters.
“I’m with ya, buddy,” Penn murmurs under his breath beside me, and I nearly choke on my laughter. I nudge him with my elbow, my mouth twitching. His lips curl into that slow, crooked smile that should come with a warning label.
Ben crosses his arms. “I still say ‘Twelve Nights of Snowberry’ would’ve been better.”
“We’ll keep that in mind for next year,” I say diplomatically, mentally counting down how many more comments until I can leave and eat dinner without a headache.
“Fine,” he mutters, sinking back into his chair.
“The signs are arriving today,” Cassie says, adjusting her glasses with purpose. “I’ve already got Gerald and Gus lined up to put them up.”
I glance at Mayor Banks to check for his input, but his eyes are closed, and I hear soft breathing sounds.
“I can help too,” Sheriff Garrett Reynolds chimes in from the far end of the table. His tone is casual, but his eyes keep drifting toward Penn. It’s either concern or mild flirtation—I haven’t decided yet. Honestly, with Garrett, it could be both. He’s nothing if not thorough.
“With the potholes that still need fixing,” Gary Garner from Fire & Emergency says, shooting a death glare at Barry Madison, the road commissioner, “We’ll need to reroute.”
Barry straightens like he’s been personally insulted. “If you gave us more budget money, maybe we could actually fix the roads,” he fires back at Monica, our unflappable treasurer, who doesn’t even blink.
I glance toward the exit, wondering if anyone would notice if I pulled the fire alarm just to end the meeting. Next time, I’m bringing snacks—and maybe a flask.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache starts brewing behind my eyes. I flick a glance at Penn, who looks just as thrilled to be here as I am. He slouches in his chair like he’s watching a mildly entertaining sitcom, while I’m reminding myself to breathe.
But I force a smile anyway. This festival has to go off without a hitch. Because I need this job. I need something real, something steady.
“And what will you be doing during the festival?” Dylan asks, his voice sharp, almost accusatory.
My gaze snaps to him. But he’s not speaking to me. Oh no. He’s locked in on Penn, like this is a showdown at the Snowberry Corral.
I open my mouth to interject. To explain that Penn will be helping me coordinate events and manage crowd control and a million other thankless tasks. But Penn doesn’t need rescuing. Not from Dylan. Not from anyone.
“Kissing booth,” he says smoothly. “Thought we could raise money for the hospital. If you want to be first in line, I’ll save you a spot.”
I choke back a laugh. Dylan blinks like someone just slapped him with a candy cane. Honestly, we’ve never had a kissing booth before, and while it’s silly, it’s not a bad idea to raise money. Especially if a hot hockey player is involved.
Peppermint Barbie, who’s somehow been both scrolling her phone and absorbing every juicy detail, perks up and sets it down. “You can save me a spot in line,” she says sweetly, fluttering her lashes in Penn’s direction.
Dylan turns to her, aghast. “What?”
She gives a casual shrug and loops her arm through his. “It’s for a good cause, Dylan. Don’t be such a Grinch.”
I nearly applaud. I might even hire her as my PR intern if she keeps this up. That image alone—her wrapping herself around him while making eyes at Penn—will do wonders on my socials. Especially with Penn being, you know, a hot NHL player and all.
Dylan sputters. “Yeah, well, I’m the mayor of Rutledge. Youngest mayor ever.” He puffs up his chest, what little there is of it.
Second-hand embarrassment hits me like a rogue snowball to the face. But Penn? He’s loving every second of it. He leans back, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.
“Then maybe you should run the kissing booth,” Penn says coolly. “Sounds like it’s more your speed.”
Dylan smooths down his lapels. “Of course, it should be me.”
Penn grins, pouncing like a cat with a laser pointer. “Perfect. Then I’ll take your spot on the float as Santa. Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder—especially since my fiancée is playing Mrs. Claus. And, you know, tradition says Santa should be her…” He pauses, then flashes a wink so devastating it could probably be fined.
“…Big Daddy.”
Big Daddy.
Oh. My. God.