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Audrey props her list against the dash, and I see it's filled with sponsor stops, photo locations, and safety notes.

But within ten minutes of pulling out of the parking lot, the work assignment has died a quiet death because we're judging Christmas lights like it's some kind of ridiculous competition.

"Another deduction," Audrey announces at the first chalet, where an inflatable Santa has been wedged upside down into the chimney, boots kicking at the sky. "That Santa is clearly in distress. That's a rescue situation, not a decoration."

"I'd argue it's realism." I lean across and look out her window. "You ever tried getting down a chimney? Poor fat man's just doing his best."

The next chalet has synchronized its entire light display to some kind of heavy metal version of Jingle Bells. It's obnoxiously loud and so fucking aggressive it sounds like the song is being performed at us as a threat.

"They've weaponized Christmas," Audrey whispers, delighted.

"Their neighbors must want them dead."

"Or not. Miles, look." Audrey squeaks in her seat and grabs my arm, eyes still locked out through the window. "Their neighbors have four hundred glowing reindeer. Look at that lawn, Miles. That's not decorating, that's an illegal breeding program. Santa's running livestock out here without a permit."

I laugh a little too hard at how hilarious this woman is.

"You're taking this very seriously."

"You slowed down at every single house so I could see them properly. Don't pretend you're above this."

She's right, and I don't care.

I'd drive this goddamn loop until New Year's if it kept that look on her face. Her cheeks are pink, eyes brighter than I've ever seen, and she's laughing at glowing reindeer like a week ago her whole life didn't burn down.

She opens the peppermint bark, snaps off a piece, and holds it to my mouth while I drive away from the reindeer breeding program.

"Open."

I open. Her fingers brush my bottom lip on the way out, slow enough that I know it wasn't an accident. She's teasing me. My grip tightens on the wheel while chocolate melts against my tongue.

She does it again at the next stop. And again after that.

Every piece, her fingertips linger a half-second longer, dragging across my lip, and by the fourth one I'm doing hockey drills in my head to keep my body from responding.

"You're testing me," I say.

"I'm just feeding you. You bought the snacks."

"You're feeding me like it's some kind of sexual experiment."

"And how are the results?"

"The results are that if you touch my mouth one more time, this inspection is ending with us naked in the back seat, and the sponsors can find their own fucking photo locations."

Audrey laughs an enormous laugh and drops her hand onto my thigh to steady herself. Then she leaves it there while the truck rolls down the mountain and the whole town of Chilmore opens up below us in a bowl of Christmas lights.

"Miles," Audrey breathes, her breath almost fogging the window. "The town has gone full Christmas."

She's right.

In the tiny town that's barely ten streets wide, wreaths hang from every lamppost, shop windows glow with miniature winter villages, and kids drag sleds along the sidewalks while adults cluster outside Frost Café with steaming cups.

It looks like my entire childhood all in one tiny little town.

Then we round the corner and the local hockey arena, The Leopard Den, takes over the sky.

The arena rises above town blazing purple and gold, its glass front glowing against the snow. Enormous illuminated claw marks rake across the entrance, and in the plaza, a snow leopard statue the size of my truck wears a purple Santa hat with total dignity. Banners the height of buildings advertise holiday games and skate-with-the-team nights.