A Festive Feud: A Holiday Romantic Comedy
Maren Moore
This is for all the girls on Santa’s naughty list who wished their Hallmark movies had a dash of spice, and a pinch of tension.
Welcome to Hallmark after dark.
emma
Santa, I’m in love with a criminal
I love Christmas almost as much as I loathe Jackson Pearce.
That’s saying a lot since Christmas is magical.
There’s just something… whimsical about the snow falling, lights twinkling along the Christmas tree, the smell of pine and fir fresh in the air. Traditions and family. The excitement you feel when you wake up on Christmas morning and rush to the tree. The sense of innocence and wonder that you hold on to well past your childhood years.
Yet somehow, Jackson Pearce still manages to ruin all of that.
“Emmie,” he says, an arrogant smirk tugging at the corner of his full lips. One that I immediately want to wipe right off his stupidly handsome face.
Even I can’t deny that the man is unfairly attractive. Even if I want to hit him with my car.
He’s tall, at least over six foot three if I had to guess, with deep chestnut-colored hair and stubble to match. High cheekbones, warm whiskey eyes, a strong, sharp jaw. He’s always been handsome, and truthfully, it only makes me detest him more.
How dare he be so attractive and yet the most annoying man to ever walk the planet.
And how absolutely rude of fate and the universe to put us together in Strawberry Hollow, which at times feels like the tiniest small town in America.
“It’s Emma,” I respond through clenched teeth. “I hate that you call me that.”
“I know.” He chuckles, plucking a stuffed Santa off the shelf and twirling it in his hand. I try not to watch the thick muscles of his forearms ripple as he does. He’s got the whole “roll up the sleeves of my flannel to show off my hot, veiny forearms” thing down to a science. “Why do you think I do it?”
Rolling my eyes, I step away, ready to rid myself of this conversation and him as soon as possible.
All I wanted was to come to the general store today to pick up the limited edition nutcracker that I have been so patiently—okay, fine, not so patiently—waiting to arrive, and because apparently I’ve been on the naughty list, I’ve run into Jackson in the process.
It’s not just that he does whatever he possibly can to push my buttons, or the fact that his ego is the size of Town Square, or even that he calls me Emmie just to make my blood boil that makes me absolutely loathe him.
Sure, all of those things add to the already burning fire.
But the real reason that Jackson Pearce and I hate each other has everything to do with the fact that our families have been enemies for decades.
The Pearces vs the Worthingtons.
Our long-standing feud has gone back for over thirty years, starting when our parents first met.
The small-town version of the Capulets and the Montagues.
The Hatfields and the McCoys.
Jack Frost and Santa Claus.
The Grinch and the Who.
A rivalry that has withstood time and, at some points, rational thinking.
So even if he wasn’t enemy number one for all of those reasons I listed, we were born to hate each other.
He just simply makes it easier to do so.
“What brings you out of the mansion, Emmie?” He invades my space once more, and I get a whiff of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Bergamot and warm amber. Spice.
He smells delicious.
Add that to the list of things I hate about him.
“It’s none of your bus—”
“Oh, she’s here about the new nutcracker! Goodness, you know, I can’t keep those things in stock. It’s a shame—the manufacturer says it’s the last restock of the season.” Sweet, dear old Clara gestures to the lone nutcracker on the shelf, and my eyes widen.
No. No. No. No. Please, no.
This cannot be happening.
My eyes flit back to Jackson, whose brow is raised in question. For a moment, neither of us moves.
We engage in a silent stare-off.
His eyes dart from mine to the decoration and back, and it’s as if I can read his thoughts.
I know exactly where this is going, which is why I’m the first to move, launching myself at the shelf so I can grab it first.
Except, of course, it doesn’t work that way. Why would anything be easy when he’s involved?
Both of us grab on to the nutcracker at the same time, our gazes locked on each other as we each hold on with no plans to let go.
“Put it down, Pearce,” I whisper-yell as I yank it toward me.
He tugs it back toward him, pulling me along with it. “In your dreams, Emmie.”
Yank. “God, you are the most annoying man I’ve ever met. Like you actually care about this damn nutcracker. You clearly only want it because I want it.”
“No, I want it because it would be perfect for our Christmas party. You know not everything is about you, right?”
Tug.
Scoffing, I pull harder, yanking it back toward me in this ridiculous game of tug-of-war that we’re engaging in. “Oh, that’s fresh, coming from you. I’m surprised that your ego can even fit inside this building.”
“Funny, because your ‘too good for everyone’ attitude makes it feel a bit stuffy in here,” he retorts.
Tug.
Pull.
Yank.
“This is childish. Let go, Emmie. Be the bigger person.”
“Never, Pearce.”
This time, I yank harder than I have yet and lose my footing as I bump into the display behind me. I can feel the air in the room shift before it even happens.
The entire store has gone deathly quiet, and seconds later, there’s the telltale clink of glass as the entire display behind me falls backward and plummets to the floor in a deafening shatter.
Oh. My. God.
A few seconds pass where I’m too afraid to move, like if I do, then I might further the already catastrophic damage that has ensued. Exhaling, I drop the nutcracker as if it’s on fire, my eyes widened in shock as I slowly turn toward the ruins.
Glass ornaments are scattered along the floor in a heap of broken shards.
There are so many of them you can hardly see the floor beneath it.
My eyes dart to Clara’s, her jaw agape in shock and a worrisome dip between her brows, her hand clutched to her chest like she needs to hold on to her heart. Slowly, her hand moves toward the ancient turn-dial phone next to her, and she lifts the receiver, dialing three numbers.
That’s when I realize just how screwed we are, and it’s all because of Jackson Pearce.
“Wayne, come on. You’ve known me since I was in diapers. This feels a little extreme for just a minor… little disagreement,” I mutter.
Wayne scoffs, shaking his head as he adjusts his hat lower, his shiny sheriff’s badge glinting beneath the light of the general store. “Minor, Emma? You two”—he points between Jackson and me—“destroyed over ten thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise! Let’s not even get into the mess that poor Clara is going to have to deal with since the two of you are spending the night in lockup. You almost gave that sweet old lady a heart attack.”
My jaw drops.
Lockup? As in… jail?
Not that Strawberry Hollow has an actual jail. It’s more of just a small four-by-four cell with an old rusty door.