I slap a hand over my mouth to keep the laugh from bursting out. Across the table, Dylan looks like he just swallowed a Christmas ornament. “You’re… you two… are…?”
“Engaged,” Penn says easily, sliding an arm around my shoulders like he’s done it a thousand times. “Why do you seem so surprised?”
His warmth settles against me, and I lean in, looking up at him with stars in my eyes. Okay, sure, it's all for show. But it doesn’t feel fake. Not when he’s putting Dylan in his place so effortlessly. Not when he’s stepping in, showing up, and playing the part, even when it doesn’t benefit him.
I haven’t spent much time with him, but maybe Penn Radford isn’t like my ex after all. Maybe he’s something better.
“We snagged the Peppermint Honeymoon Suite over at the Snowberry Inn,” Penn announces with a grin. “Not married yet, but hey, good practice, right, babe?”
He looks down at me, all warmth and charm, and I somehow resist the urge to fan myself with my clipboard.
“I…you didn’t tell me you were engaged,” Dylan snaps, eyebrows practically leaping off his forehead.
I open my mouth to respond, but Penn beats me to it. “Why would she tell you that?” he says, tilting his head. “Actually, we haven’t told anyone, and I didn’t mean to let it slip. We were planning to announce it tomorrow night at her family’s big dinner. You weren’t invited, were you?”
Dylan stiffens. “No. I wasn’t.”
“Right,” Penn says, not even pretending to be sorry. I watch Dylan stew in silence and realize, this man might be the youngest mayor of Rutledge, but Penn is playing chess while Dylan’s still trying to figure out how the checker board works.
I tap my pen on the table, trying to steer the train back on its snowy tracks. “Okay, let’s get back to business. Barry, do up the new parade route and email it to me. I’ll forward it to all the participating businesses. Town Hall’s already prepped for the craft fair this weekend, and all the kids’ activities are good to go. The beer tent—sorry, beer town hall—will run in the evenings. Garrett and Gary are overseeing that with a small army of volunteers. I want fun, not a frat party.”
“As long as Santa’s not going to be there,” Dylan snorts, glaring at Penn. “We don’t need an incident.” When he doesn’t get an immediate response, his gaze flicks to me and narrows as I lean toward Penn, and I wonder if he’s sensing our lie. The man knows me. We dated for a long time.
I rest my hand on Penn’s thigh and slowly start rubbing, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe in this fake life I can also rub other… areas. I give Dylan a sweet, closed-mouth smile as his eyes drop to my arm and narrow with suspicion, or jealousy. Honestly, it’s hard to tell with him.
“For the record,” I say crisply, making sure Mr. Tingley’s pen is scratching away on his notepad, “Dylan will now be working the kissing booth, and Penn is officially our Santa Claus. Which means he will be at the beer tent. And unless Penn plans to deck himself in the face, I think we’ll all survive the night just fine.”
Dylan slouches in his chair like a moody teenager who just got grounded. I know it’s petty, but God help me, I’m enjoying it. Just a little.
“Oh, and the Rotary Club has agreed to make the post-parade meal,” I add. “Gateway Grocery is donating turkeys.”
But then Dylan’s eyes narrow, his tone shifting from sulky to sly. “Turkey,” he says slowly. “Maybe it’s not a Santa incident we need to worry about after all.”
The room goes quiet.
I put my hand over Penn’s when he makes a fist and meet Dylan’s gaze and glare, refusing to flinch. I picture him choking on a wishbone and briefly feel better. Then I lift my chin and straighten my spine. I will not let him rattle me. Not today. Not ever again.
“Right,” I say, voice calm. “We’ve covered the carolers, live music, the ice rink, carol karaoke, kids’ crafts and face painting, the ugly sweater run, and the tree lighting after the parade. Anything I’ve missed?”
I hope not, because if not, I have a peppermint honeymoon suite—and a fake fiancé—to get back to.
“If Penn is playing Santa now,” BJ Webb says, tilting her head with open admiration, “Someone’s going to have to let the suit out a bit.”
All eyes shift to Penn like we’re all just now seeing him for the first time. Tall. Broad shoulders. That casually muscular frame. The way he somehow makes flannel look like a fashion statement. And not even a hint of a pot belly. Just pure, unwrappable holiday thirst trap.
“He’s not that much bigger,” Dylan grumbles, arms crossed and ego bruised.
BJ ignores him completely, eyes still locked on Penn. She giggles like a teenager with a backstage pass. “Might need to order in more fabric.”
A few nods circle the table. Someone coughs. I pretend not to hear someone mutter “Ho-ho-holy hell.”
“Okay, is that everything?” I ask, desperate to wrap this circus up before someone offers to climb into Penn’s lap and test his ‘naughty or nice’ list.
Silence.
“Can I have a motion to close the meeting?”
Peppermint Barbie—bless her shimmering soul—raises her hand, only for Dylan to place a firm, awkward hand on her wrist and gently lower it.