Chapter 30 It’s a Miraclemas
Thirty
It’s a Miraclemas
Brie
The next morning, I’m at the festival grounds before the sun has breached the horizon, triple-checking every detail in Santa’s Workshop. Presents stacked just right, garland fluffed to within an inch of its life, candy canes angled at exactly forty-five degrees. It’s perfect. Or it should be.
But as I line up the last gift box, flashes of Logan hit me like a reel I can’t turn off. Him between my thighs, his mouth on me. The night we were finally honest with each other. It feels like forever ago, when in reality, it’s been—what?—less than a week.
Last night after Christmas ham bingo ended, Willa and Sloane came over to tell me Logan was seconds away from being shanked for interrupting the bar.
They insisted I tell them why he was looking for me, which makes sense why he showed up at my door, using it like a confessional.
After peeling myself off the floor, I pressed against the other side of the wood, listening.
A part of me melted. The bigger part—the one that knows I’m not his first choice—iced over.
I can’t be the rebound. I can’t be the woman he’s with while secretly still living in someone else’s memory.
Which means it’s better to pull the plug now before my heart loses any more pieces. I need to focus on the festival. No distractions. Especially not six-foot-two, hockey-god-shaped ones.
I smooth the final bow into place and march across the grounds to the changing area to check on Santa.
When I step inside, it’s empty. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I glance at the clock, and my pulse spikes.
He’s thirty minutes late. I pace from one side of the changing room to the other while I dial his number.
Straight to voicemail. Again. My face burns hot with irritation.
This is what happens when you trade in reliable Santa for “fresh and new.” Santa better not have ghosted me on Christmas Eve.
Because if he did, I will personally smother him with his own big, red sack.
Finally, my phone rings. Scott. My Santa. I stab the answer button. “Where are you? You’re late.”
“I was in the emergency room with a broken ankle.”
I blink. “What do you mean you broke your ankle? Santa doesn’t break bones.” This can’t be happening. Not today of all days. Not Christmas Eve. Nausea turns in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m sorry, Brie. They have me in a boot, and I’m not supposed to put weight on it.”
“You’re Santa. You sit in a chair. Can’t you hobble over here and sit all day? That’s what Santa does.”
“I’m sorry, Brie. I hate to do this, but I just can’t.”
My vision goes red. I have no Santa. A cold sweat prickles my skin as I squeeze my eyes shut.
It’s not like he did this on purpose. Right?
“Okay. Get better soon.” Santa is gone. On Christmas Eve.
The one non-negotiable day of the year. This is it.
Career over. I shove my phone into my pocket and do everything in my power not to scream.
Of course, this would happen. Why wouldn’t it?
For the first year, everything, or almost everything, goes as planned.
This is karma. Revenge for all the bad things I did in my life like stealing a candy bar when I was five.
Yelling at other drivers who don’t know how to zipper merge.
Not rounding up my grocery bill so the few extra cents get donated to charity.
Oh god. I drop into a chair and fold myself in half, head between my knees, as stars dance at the edge of my vision.
“Goodbye, promotion,” I whisper to the floor.
“Hello, lifetime career in selling snow shovels.”
Bootsteps creak across the wooden floor, and Willa’s MUK LUKS appear in my eyeline. “What’s wrong?”
“Christmas is ruined, and it’s all my fault.” Sitting up, I wrap my arms around my waist and rock back and forth. Anything to keep myself from bursting into uncontrollable tears.
“Why is it your fault?” She kneels beside me, resting a hand on my knee.
“I’m Santa-less. For the first time in festival history, there will be no Santa on Christmas Eve. The children of Mount Holly are about to stage a mutiny, and I’ll be the first casualty.”
Her brows knit. “Oh no. What happened?”
“Santa broke his ankle. And instead of hobbling here to sit his jolly ass in a chair like a champ, he bailed. Now I have no Santa, no backup, and apparently no foresight to book a backup.” I press my hands to my temples as the pounding intensifies.
“I’m sorry. What about Henry? Simon? Mason?”
“Henry’s wrangling sleigh rides. Simon’s at the bar, drowning in toy donations. Mason’s on fire duty.” I groan. “And me? I’m about to be the only event coordinator in history who tanked her shot at the job by having no Santa Claus.” I flop backward dramatically, hand to my forehead.
“It’s not that bad. We still have, what, an hour? We’ll find you a Santa. This will be the best Christmas Eve this town has ever seen.” Willa’s voice is an octave higher, but her enthusiasm is faker than snow in Aruba.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “But it’s too late.”
“Nope.” She jumps to her feet. “It is never too late. The Brie McKenna I know does not get defeated.”
“The Brie McKenna you know just did.” My head droops forward, my shoulders sagging. “Story of my life. Second place, every time.”
Her eyes light up with dangerous glee. “What if you played Santa?”
I stare. “That’s absurd. I could never pass as Santa.
” Could I? This might be my only option.
Luckily, the suit is here. Jumping to my feet, I sprint to the rack and yank the red coat free.
“Okay. Maybe I could shove some pillows under here. Lower my voice. You know, ho ho ho!” My attempt rumbles low in my throat.
“Totally believable!” she squeals.
I jab a finger toward a stack of throw pillows.
“Hand me those.” She passes them over, and I shove them under my sweater, puffing out my belly until I look less jolly old elf and more lopsided snowman.
“Hmm. Kind of looks like Santa needs medical attention.” I squish the pillows around, trying to smooth the lumps. “Maybe the jacket will cover it?”
Willa hands me the beard, and I hook it over my ears. She fluffs the synthetic strands, then steps back, pursing her lips. “Maybe Santa’s on a diet. Mrs. Claus told him no more cookies.” She shrugs.
“Ugh.” I flop onto a chair, burying my face in my hands. The fake beard tickles my palms. “Why did I ever think this would work?”
Willa’s phone chimes with the message. “Santa’s at the workshop!”
My head snaps up. “Wait—what? Scott? He made it?”
“All Sloane says is Santa’s there.”
I shoot out of the chair, yanking off the beard, coat, and pillows in record time.
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.” We dash across the festival, cutting through the crowd.
Parents and kids line the paths, craning their necks, waiting for the sleigh’s grand arrival.
“Change of plans, everyone!” I shout, waving my arms. “Santa’s already at the workshop and eager to see you!
Follow me!” The line snakes all the way to the hot cocoa stand by the time we get there.
I stand at the front of the crowd, waving my hands until the chattering fades.
“Alright, I’m just going to go check and see if Santa’s ready to take all your wish lists! ”
I push open the door and peek inside. There he is, perched in the big red chair like he’s been waiting all along. “Oh my god, I’m so happy you made it. I was five seconds from cardiac arrest.” My gaze drops automatically to his leg. “Where’s your boot? Did you not need one after all?”
He gives me a hearty ho ho ho!
“Okay, not very chatty,” I mumble. “Guess you’re really leaning into the character.” I admire the enthusiasm.
I push open the door, and children from two to ten rush inside.
All afternoon, Santa chats with the kids as they tell him all their last-minute Christmas wishes and get a picture taken.
I pass out candy canes as they leave. By the end of the afternoon, the workshop is buzzing with holiday magic.
To call it a Christmas miracle would be an understatement.
This is more than a miracle. It’s a miraclemas.
But as I watch Santa pose for another photo, my chest tightens with a thought I can’t shake. What’s the point of getting exactly what I want… if it isn’t him?