Chapter 2
T he next day passed in no time. The work wasn’t so bad when I had something to look froward to. Obviously, I kept the ornate card that Ella had given me in my pocket, and I kept rubbing it to make sure that it was real, and that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
After I’d served the day’s final customer and locked up, I made my way over to Santa's Grotto. Even though my store was closed, the mall still buzzed with life around me—shoppers darting in and out of stores, kids laughing, someone yelling about a sale—but everything else blurred. My gaze stayed locked on the archway ahead.
It shimmered, catching the light from hundreds of twinkling bulbs threaded through it. Snowflakes—glittering, oversize, and impossibly perfect—hung suspended from the peak like they’d been plucked straight from a dream. A soft, golden glow spilled out from inside, pooling over the tiled floor and licking at my boots. It was magnetic. Almost... alive.
I swallowed hard, my heart beating too fast in my chest. What was I even doing here? This wasn’t normal. People didn’t get invited to private visits with Santa by cryptic cards handed off by co-workers. Especially not fully-grown adults. But still, I couldn’t make myself leave. Something about this felt—important. Like if I walked away now, I’d miss something I wouldn’t get back.
"Just go," I whispered under my breath, forcing my legs to move forward.
The elf guarding the entrance noticed me immediately. His costume was ridiculous—bright green, striped tights, a floppy red hat. But his grin was sharp, mischievous, almost knowing as he looked at me. He took the card without a word, flipping it open like he’d done this exact thing a hundred times before.
"Gemma Star," he said, dragging out my name like it was some kind of secret joke. Then he winked. "We’ve been expecting you."
"Uh . . ." I blinked, unsure how to respond to that. "Great?"
"Come on in." He unhooked the velvet rope with a dramatic flourish, stepping aside to let me pass. "He’s waiting."
"Who’s—" I started, but before I could finish, he waved me forward, gesturing toward the glowing entrance.
"Go on," he said with a sly smile, like he knew something I didn’t. And maybe he did.
The moment I stepped through, the noise of the mall vanished. Just gone, like someone had flipped a switch. In its place came the faint tinkle of bells and a melody I couldn’t quite place—a music box, maybe, soft and haunting. The air shifted, too. Warmer. Richer. It smelled like cinnamon rolls, straight from the over, and fresh-cut cedar, earthy and sweet all at once.
My boots crunched softly on what looked like snow but felt more like crushed velvet underfoot. I stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.
It was . . . magical. There wasn’t another word for it.
Snow-dusted pines stretched up to a ceiling I couldn’t see, their branches twinkling with tiny lights. They formed an archway above, like walking through the night sky. Little cottages dotted the cobblestone path ahead, their windows glowing amber, the kind of warm that made you think of crackling fireplaces and mugs of hot cocoa. Somewhere deeper in, a bell tinkled faintly, joined by the soft hoot of an owl.
I struggled to understand how this place even worked. Were the cottages real? Was it some kind of virtual reality trick? However they’d achieved the effect, it really felt bigger on the inside than it did on the outside.
"Wow," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. I felt ridiculous for being so awestruck, but it was like stepping into one of those storybooks I used to bury myself in as a kid. The ones where magic was real and happy endings weren’t just for other people.
I forced my legs to move, following the path. My fingers brushed the edge of one of the cottages as I passed, half expecting it to feel cold or fake. But the wood was solid and warm under my hand, the glow from the window spilling out onto my skin. Someone had put thought into this, every little detail. It didn’t feel like a mall attraction. It felt alive .
At the end of the path, the chair came into view.
"Chair" was putting it lightly. This thing looked like it had been carved by elves—or maybe gods. Reindeer leapt along the armrests, holly leaves winding through the intricate carvings. Gold trim caught the light, making the whole thing shimmer. It was massive, commanding, like something straight out of Narnia.
And sitting on it—well. That wasn’t Santa Claus.
Not the Santa Claus, I’d been expecting, anyway.
He wasn’t round or cheerful or any of the things I’d been taught to expect. No belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly here. Instead, he was tall, broad-shouldered, his crimson suit fitted perfectly to a body that could’ve belonged to a lumberjack—or a Roman god. His beard was short, neat, framing a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. And his eyes—God, his eyes. Green, bright as emeralds, glowing like they held their own light.
I froze halfway down the path, heat creeping up my neck. What the hell was this? Some kind of joke?
"Gemma." His voice reached me before anything else. Deep and smooth, like whiskey poured over ice. Warmth rolled through me, uninvited, pooling low in my stomach. He smiled—a slow, easy curve of his lips that made my knees wobble. "You’re here." No on had ever looked this happy to see me before.
"Uh." Brilliant response. My brain seemed to have short-circuited somewhere between his shoulders and his smile. "Hi?"
"Come closer," he said, his tone gentle but firm, like he was used to being obeyed. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The movement made the fabric of his suit stretch over his chest, and I had to fight not to stare.
I swallowed hard, forcing my feet to move again. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the air around him had its own gravity, pulling me in. By the time I reached the base of the chair, my pulse was hammering in my ears. Up close, he was even more overwhelming—heat radiating off him, the scent of cedar and something darker, muskier, wrapping around me like a blanket.
"Are you—" My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, mortified. "Are you supposed to be Santa?"
"Gemma," he said, his voice low, steady. It ran through me like a slow, rolling wave, heat trailing in its wake. My name sounded different coming from him. Intimate. Like he’d practiced it, tasted it before saying it out loud. “I am Santa.”
I froze. His eyes locked onto mine, that twinkle of green pulling me in like quicksand. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck, spilling onto my cheeks. I hated how obvious it was, but there was no hiding anything under his gaze. He looked at me like he already knew me—like every secret I kept buried might as well have been written on a billboard.
"I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We’ve never met before, have we?" The corners of his mouth curved up just slightly, enough to make my pulse stutter. He extended a hand, gloved and open, waiting.
My feet stayed planted, nerves buzzing down to my toes. I wasn’t sure why this felt so big. Why he felt so big. But the way the air around him seemed to hum, warm and alive, made it impossible to ignore. Slowly, I reached out, slipping my hand into his.
“No. We’ve never met. Pleased to meet you.”
The leather of his glove was smooth and cool against my skin, but his grip was firm, grounding. He gave the faintest squeeze, just enough to say, I’ve got you . My chest tightened as I took another step forward, then another. Each one felt like crossing some invisible line I hadn’t noticed until now.
"Would you like to sit?" he asked, patting his knee with a broad hand. His tone was calm, easy, but there was something beneath it. Something that made my stomach flip.
I stopped short, blinking up at him. Sit? On him? My breath hitched, caught somewhere between my throat and my ribs. He was still watching me, patient but expectant, his hand resting where he'd patted.
"Uh . . ." My voice cracked embarrassingly, and I cleared my throat. "On . . . your lap?"
"Of course!" He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t even flinch. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it should’ve been, but nothing about this felt normal. My head spun, heart racing as I tried to decide what the hell I was supposed to do.
"Unless you'd rather not," he added, tilting his head just slightly. There was a softness to his words, an understanding that somehow made everything worse. Because now it was my choice.
I swallowed hard. This was ridiculous. Sitting on Santa’s lap was practically a childhood rite of passage, right? Except this wasn’t that Santa, and I wasn’t a kid anymore. Not by a long shot.
"Okay," I heard myself say, barely above a whisper. My legs moved without permission, carrying me closer until I was standing between his knees. I hesitated for half a second before lowering myself onto his lap.
His arm came around me immediately, steadying me. Warmth radiated through the thick velvet of his suit, and I found myself leaning into it almost instinctively. His chest was solid beneath me, the strength of him impossible to ignore.
"That’s better," he murmured, his voice a quiet rumble against my ear. His arm settled around my waist, firm but gentle, holding me like I belonged there. Like I wasn’t just some stranger who’d wandered into his world.
I sat stiffly at first, unsure of what to do with my hands, my body, my everything . But then his thumb brushed small circles against my side, his touch light enough to be reassuring without overstepping. My shoulders relaxed, melting into him despite myself.
"See? Not so bad," he said softly, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.
"No. Not so bad," I muttered before I could stop myself. My face flared hot again, but he only chuckled—a low, rich sound that sent goosebumps skittering down my arms.
His voice broke through the haze of warmth that had settled over me. “So, Little One, Tell me, what do you wish for this Christmas?”
The question caught me off guard. My head tilted slightly as I looked up at him, his green eyes so steady on mine it was like he could see right through me. There were a million things I could have said—a new job, a weekend away, someone to split rent with. But none of it felt right. Not here. Not now.
“I . . .” My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve, and I tried not to squirm under his gaze. “I don’t know.”
One of his dark brows arched, but he didn’t press me. I let out a shaky laugh, more nervous than amused, and shrugged. “Maybe just . . . a bit of happiness?” The words sounded small, almost silly, and I immediately regretted saying them. My eyes darted down to the buttons of his suit, unable to hold his gaze any longer.
But then he smiled. A soft, knowing smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I think we can arrange that,” he said, his voice low and gentle.
For some reason, the way he said it made me believe him. Like he could snap his fingers and make every bad thing in my life disappear. For a moment, the knot in my chest loosened, and I felt myself relax against him just a little more.
“What makes you happy, Gemma?” he asked, his tone curious now, like he genuinely wanted to know. His thumb brushed another slow circle against my side, steady and soothing.
I hesitated, unsure where to start. “Books,” I said finally. “I love books. I always have.” The confession came easier than I’d expected. “When I was a kid, they were kind of . . . my escape. You know, when things got tough.” I glanced up at him, half expecting to see boredom or disinterest, but his expression stayed open, encouraging.
“What kind of books?” he prompted, leaning back just slightly so I could see him better. His arm stayed around me, though, holding me close.
“Stories about magic,” I admitted, my voice quiet. “Adventures, far-off places. Anything that felt bigger than the world I was in.”
He nodded, like he understood, and something about that made me keep going. Before I knew it, I was telling him about the time I’d hidden in the school library for an entire afternoon, devouring The Polar Express because the thought of believing in something—anything—had felt so important back then. His laughter rumbled beneath me when I told him how the librarian had caught me and let me take the book home anyway.
The sound of his laugh warmed something deep inside me, and I found myself smiling, too. It felt . . . easy, somehow. Like I wasn’t trying so hard to keep my walls up.
“And now?” he asked after a moment. “What makes you happy these days?”
The question gave me pause. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, realizing I didn’t have an answer. “Honestly? I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
His face softened, his hand stilling against my waist. “We’ll have to fix that.”
The certainty in his tone sent a strange flutter through my chest. I shifted slightly, my fingers brushing against the velvet of his jacket. He was so solid, so present, and I wasn’t used to anyone looking at me the way he was now—like I mattered. Like he saw me.
“What about you?” I asked, desperate to turn the attention back on him. “What makes you happy?”
His lips curved into a sly grin, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Oh, lots of things,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “But right now? You.”
“Me?” I blinked, caught off guard.
He chuckled again, quieter this time. “The way your nose scrunches when you’re thinking too hard. It’s adorable.”
My face went hot, and I ducked my head, trying to hide the blush I knew was creeping up my cheeks. “You’re ridiculous,” I muttered, but there was no bite to it. If anything, I sounded breathless.
“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “But I’m not wrong.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, but I felt the heat of his gaze all the same. The air between us seemed to hum, electric and unspoken. Time slowed, the world outside the grotto fading completely from existence. It was just him and me, the soft glow of lights casting shadows across his sharp features, the distant melody of bells filling the quiet spaces between words.
“Well, sweetie, I’ve checked, and it seems like you’ve been a very good girl this year.”
Even though he said it to everyone, I felt a sudden burst of pride surge through my.
Santa leaned back slightly, his hand disappearing behind the ornate chair. I watched, curious, as he rummaged for something hidden from view. When he straightened again, he held a small box wrapped in shimmering gold paper, topped with a silver bow that caught the light like frost on a windowpane.
"Here," he said, holding it out to me. "A little something for you."
I stared at it, blinking. My hands stayed in my lap for a beat too long, unsure if this was really happening. "You didn’t have to," I murmured, though my voice wavered, betraying how much the gesture made my chest tighten.
"Everyone deserves a gift at Christmas." His gloved hand reached forward, brushing lightly against my cheek. The touch was warm despite the leather, and it lingered—just long enough to make me forget to breathe. "Especially you, Gemma."
I swallowed hard, nodding as I accepted the box. My fingers trembled around its edges, the weight of it feeling far heavier than it should’ve. He watched me closely, his green eyes soft but sharp, like they were taking in every part of me all at once.
"Go on," he encouraged, his deep voice coaxing. "Open it."
The paper crinkled under my touch as I peeled back the layers, careful not to tear anything. It felt too beautiful to rush through, too deliberate to ruin with haste. Beneath the wrapping lay a simple white box, and when I lifted the lid, my breath hitched.
Nestled inside was a stuffed kitten, its fur as white and soft as freshly fallen snow. A tiny red and white knit hat sat perched on its round head, its pom-pom slightly off-center. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it out in a shaky exhale.
"Do you like it?" he asked, his tone quieter now, almost tentative.
I couldn’t answer right away. My fingers traced the plush fur, the delicate stitching of its embroidered eyes, the way the little hat fit snugly over its ears. The details were perfect, almost painfully so. The kind of perfect that pulled memories from places I’d long since locked away.
"Yeah," I managed finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "I—" My throat tightened before I could finish. I cleared it quickly, forcing myself to look up at him. "It’s . . . it’s amazing. Thank you. I’ll call him Christmas."
"A perfect name." The corners of his mouth tugged upward, but there was something else in his expression I couldn’t quite place. Relief? Satisfaction? Maybe both. "You deserve it. A happy Christmas."
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Something about the way he said them, like he meant them more than anyone ever had before. Like he knew exactly how much that stupid little kitten meant to me, even without me saying a word.
I looked down again, cradling the toy in my hands. Memories swirled unbidden—of sitting cross-legged on threadbare rugs in cold rooms, clutching a different stuffed kitten while the world outside felt impossibly big and unforgiving. That one had been gray, with a pink bow around its neck. I’d loved it fiercely, the way only a child could love something so small and helpless. And then, one day, it was gone. Just another casualty of moving boxes and foster homes and people who never stayed.
But this one . . . this one felt like it was mine in a way nothing had been in years. Maybe ever.
"Are you okay?" His voice broke through the haze, grounding me.
"Yeah," I said quickly, though the lump in my throat begged to differ. I forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to convince him—and maybe myself. "Just . . . you don’t know what this means to me."
"Maybe I do," he said softly, his gaze steady and unyielding.
For a moment, I thought I might cry. But instead, I pressed the kitten closer to my chest, letting its softness soak up the ache.
I looked up at him, kitten still cradled tight against my chest. The tears I’d been fighting prickled harder, but I blinked them back. "It's perfect," I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. "Thank you."
The world around us had started to shift—voices echoing faintly from outside, the distant sound of a janitor’s mop bucket rolling across tile floors. Closing time.
"Will I see you again?" The question spilled out before I could stop myself, too raw, too needy. My cheeks burned immediately, and I wanted to take it back. God, I sounded desperate.
But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock me. Instead, his smile turned mysterious, like he knew something I didn’t. "You never know when magic might find you," he said, his voice warm and teasing all at once.
Magic. Right. I pressed my lips together, trying not to look as disappointed as I felt. Those kinds of answers lived in fairy tales, not real life.
"Goodnight, Gemma," he added softly. His green eyes lingered on mine for just a beat longer than necessary, and then he stood, gesturing toward the path that led back to the mall.
"Goodnight," I murmured, clutching the kitten tighter as I turned away.
The air outside the grotto hit me like a splash of cold water, sharp and brisk after the cozy warmth inside. My boots clicked against the slick mall floor, the sound echoing in the mostly empty space. Christmas music still played faintly over the speakers, but it sounded tinny and far-off now.
I hugged the toy closer, the knit hat brushing against my chin. It smelled faintly of cedar and something else—a hint of spice, maybe? His cologne, I realized, and the thought sent a shiver down my spine.
Everything felt different. Brighter. Like someone had turned up the saturation on the world. Even the garish holiday lights strung across the atrium looked softer somehow, their colors blending into one another in a way that felt . . . magical.
I couldn’t stop replaying it all in my head. The way he’d looked at me. Touched my cheek. Spoke to me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
My heart swelled, then twisted. It wasn’t fair, really. People like him didn’t happen to people like me. That kind of attention, that kind of care—it was borrowed, at best. Temporary. Just like everything else in my life had always been.
T he feeling of intensity stayed with me that evening. It stayed with me on my walk home, and it stayed with me as I slipped into the tub.
Steam curled around me as I sank deeper into the bath, letting the heat work its way through the knots in my shoulders. The lavender bubbles popped softly against my skin, their scent wrapping around me like a warm hug. I closed my eyes, but his face was there immediately—those green eyes that seemed to see everything, the way his smile had tilted just enough to feel like it was meant only for me.
My fingers trailed over my collarbone, brushing against the surface of the water. The memory of his touch lingered, uninvited but persistent. That gloved hand resting on my waist, firm yet gentle, as if I might shatter under too much pressure. I let out a shaky breath and slid my hand lower, the heat from the bath mingling with a different kind of warmth spreading beneath my skin.
My pulse quickened as I explored further, trailing my fingertips down my stomach, following the invisible path where Santa's gaze had lingered.
As my fingers traced the curves of my body, a surge of desire coursed through me. The steam-filled room cocooned me in a haze of longing and yearning. The memory of Santa's touch on my skin ignited a fire within me, a passionate flame that demanded release.
With trembling hands, I abandoned all restraint and let my thoughts wander to him. The water rippled with my movements as I surrendered to the fantasies that swirled in my mind, painting vivid pictures of whispered promises and stolen moments.
I hadn’t touched myself in a long time. I’d forgotten how good it could be. I bit my lip, stifling a gasp as pleasure rippled through me.
"Get it together, Gemma," I muttered, forcing my eyes open and sitting up. “He’s a mall Santa. Why is it such a turn-on?” The water sloshed against the porcelain, cooling now, the bubbles thinning. My cheeks burned, though not from the heat. I grabbed the edge of the tub and stood, reaching for the towel draped over the heater.
Deep down, I knew why it was such a turn-on. I craved exactly the kind of attention Santa had given me. That caring, confident, dominant tone. He was everything that I dreamed of in a man.
Shame I’d never see him again.
I got out, and wrapped a robe around me, cinching the tie tightly around my waist. My gaze landed on the kitten toy perched on the vanity where I'd left it. Its tiny knit hat sat crooked, one little ear poking out awkwardly.
"Aw, buddy," I murmured, crossing the room. Picking it up, I smoothed the hat down carefully, fingers brushing over the soft fabric. A faint crinkle stopped me.
I frowned and adjusted the hat again, pinching the edge gently. There it was—a rustle, something small hidden inside. My stomach flipped. Slowly, I tugged the hat off, turning it over in my hands. Something thin and folded slipped free, landing on the counter with a soft whisper.
A note.
"What the . . ." With trembling fingers, I unfolded the note. The paper felt fragile, like it might crumble under my touch if I wasn’t careful. His handwriting—elegant and deliberate—spread across the page in dark ink.
“I’d love to see you again. Maybe a meal? I know a good place. —Santa.”
Below that, a phone number.
My breath hitched. For a second, I just stared at it, my brain struggling to keep up with the rush of emotions flooding through me. Excitement. Disbelief. A flicker of nervousness. It was him. Him .
"Okay," I whispered to myself, clutching the paper tighter. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through my ribs. I pressed the note to my chest for a moment, letting the words settle into my skin, their meaning sinking deeper.
I didn’t let myself overthink. If I did, I’d chicken out. Instead, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, my fingers shaking as I unlocked it. The screen lit up, too bright in the dim light of my bedroom. My thumb hovered over the keypad.
"God, Gemma, just do it," I muttered under my breath. I punched in the numbers before I could talk myself out of it, each one echoing in my head like a drumbeat. My thumb hesitated over the green call button.
A deep inhale. A shaky exhale. Then, I pressed it.
The line rang once, then twice. Each tone seemed to stretch forever, tension coiling in my stomach. What if he didn’t answer? What if this was some kind of joke? What if—
"Hello?"
His voice. Warm. Deep. Like velvet wrapping around me.
"Hi," I managed, my breath catching halfway. "It’s . . . it’s Gemma."
A pause. Then, his chuckle, low and rich. "I’ve been hoping you’d call."
That single sentence sent a shiver through me, every nerve in my body sparking to life. God, how did he do that?
"I, um . . ." My mouth went dry. Words suddenly felt slippery, impossible to hold onto. "I found your note."
"Did you now?" He sounded amused, teasing almost. I could picture the way his lips would curve into a smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "And what did you think of it?"
What did I think? That he was insane? That I was insane for dialing the number? That I couldn’t remember the last time someone made me feel this… alive?
"I think . . ." I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "I’d love to see you too."
"Good answer," he said, the approval in his tone unmistakable. It sent a thrill racing down my spine.
"Is this where you tell me the ‘good place’ for a meal?" I asked, leaning against the wall, one hand gripping the edge of my robe.
"Patience, little one," he said, and something about the way he said it—low, deliberate—made my knees go weak. "Let me plan something special for you."
"Special, huh?" I tried to sound casual, but my voice came out softer than I meant it to.
"Only the best," he replied, and the sincerity in his voice stole the breath from my lungs.
"Okay," I whispered, barely able to get the word out.
"Tomorrow evening," he said. "I’ll text you the details."
"Tomorrow," I echoed, my pulse kicking up another notch.
"Looking forward to it, Gemma," he murmured. There was a pause, a beat of silence that felt heavy, intimate. "Sweet dreams."
"Goodnight," I said, my voice trembling just slightly.
The line clicked off, but the sound of his voice lingered, curling around me like a warm blanket. I set the phone down carefully, staring at it as if it might vanish or burst into flames.
"Tomorrow," I repeated quietly, a small smile tugging at my lips.