Chapter 3
A few days later, I stood outside a restaurant I’d never even seen before. Noel’s Haven. A Christmas-themed place, according to Google. Weirdly, though, it didn’t have a single review online. Maybe it was new.
It was a bitterly cold day. This morning had seen the first snow of the year. My breath puffed in little clouds as I stared at the building.
The place was smaller than I expected—charming but almost too subtle, like it wanted to stay a secret. Tiny lights blinked along the edges of the roof, and a wreath with red berries hung on the door. I pressed my free hand to my stomach, trying to calm the nerves churning there.
"Okay, Gemma," I whispered to myself. "Just breathe."
But how was I meant to breathe when I was about to have a date with Santa? I didn’t even know his name yet. I guess I’d just call him Santa until he told me otherwise.
I glanced at the frosted window, catching my reflection. The emerald-green dress fit perfectly, snug around my waist before flowing softly to my knees. It made my eyes look brighter—or so I'd been told—and I’d paired it with simple black heels. My hair was loose, tumbling over my shoulders in waves I’d spent way too long perfecting. Did it look too much? Not enough? I smoothed the fabric down and adjusted the tiny gold chain around my neck.
In my other hand, I held Christmas—the stuffed kitten he’d given me. I wasn’t sure why I brought it. Maybe for comfort. Maybe for him. Either way, its soft fur brushed against my fingers as I clutched it tightly.
His voice played in my head again. Warm. Steady. Inviting. “Seven o’clock. Noel’s Haven. You’ll love it, I promise.”
I swallowed hard, nerves and excitement tangling together until I couldn’t tell which was winning. One more deep breath. Then I gripped the handle and pushed the door open.
The smell hit first. Sweet cinnamon, toasted nuts, something richer—maybe mulled wine? It was warm, like stepping into a hug. My heels clicked softly on the hardwood floor as I took it all in.
Snowflakes floated from the ceiling, faintly glowing before they disappeared just above everyone’s heads. They weren’t real, obviously, but the illusion was perfect. Having said that, I had no idea how the effect was achieved. Had to be . . . lasers? Tables were tucked into little corners surrounded by pine trees dressed up in glittering ornaments. Lanterns flickered on the walls, their light golden and soft.
I exhaled slowly, my grip on Christmas relaxing just a bit. It felt like walking into a storybook. Something about it wrapped around me, tugging at the part of me that still believed magic could be real. For a second, I forgot why I was nervous.
Then, I got a big reminder.
"Gemma," his voice cut through the soft hum of conversation around me. Deep, steady, unmistakable.
I froze for just a second, my fingers tightening on Christmas before I turned toward him. There he was, standing by a table near the fireplace. The firelight caught the edges of his figure—broad shoulders, strong jawline, that burgundy sweater hugging his chest in all the right ways. Not a Santa suit, but somehow still . . . festive. Like he carried Christmas with him no matter what he wore. Snowflakes were stitched into the fabric, subtle but glinting when the light hit them just right.
And his eyes. God, those eyes. Green, piercing, locked on me like I was the only person in the room.
"Hi," I managed, my voice coming out softer than I intended. My feet started moving before I could think too hard about it, carrying me toward him, toward the table where shadows danced against the walls and everything smelled like pine and warmth.
"Hi," he echoed, his smile spreading slow and sure, like he knew exactly how to put me at ease—and maybe how to make my knees just a little weak while he was at it. He stepped forward, pulling out the chair for me with a casual grace that felt both old-fashioned and entirely natural.
"You look stunning," he said as I slipped into the seat, his words landing somewhere between a compliment and something more intimate. His tone was warm, low, and it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the snow outside.
"Thank you," I said, ducking my head slightly as heat rushed to my cheeks. I smoothed the skirt of my dress, suddenly hyper aware of every fold of fabric, the way it clung to my legs. "This place is crazy. I didn’t even know it existed."
He chuckled, the sound rich and easy, like he wasn't in any kind of hurry. "Not many people do. It's a bit of a hidden gem," he admitted, his hand brushing the back of my chair briefly before he took his own seat across from me. "I thought it might be the perfect spot for our dinner."
" Perfect " felt like an understatement. Everything about this place—the glow of the lanterns, the quiet crackle of the fire, the faint scent of cinnamon in the air—it was like stepping into another world. But it was him sitting in front of me, leaning just slightly forward, that made it feel so special. Like the rest of the room barely mattered.
The chair was plush beneath me, sinking just enough to feel indulgent, and the table in front of us looked like something out of a dream. Fine china bordered in gold, crystal glasses catching the light like tiny prisms. I reached for the edge of my napkin, smoothing it over my lap just to give my hands something to do.
The waiter appeared so quietly that I almost jumped when he spoke. "Welcome to Noel's Haven," he said, his voice smooth and warm, like it belonged to the place. He set two menus in front of us, red leather with gold lettering that caught the firelight. I ran my fingers over the embossed script without opening it right away, feeling the texture beneath my fingertips.
"Go on," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair but keeping his eyes on me. "You're going to love this."
"High expectations already." I flipped open the menu. My breath caught for a second as my eyes scanned the names. "Starlight Soup"… "Winter’s Embrace Salad" . . . "North Pole Roast" . . . Everything sounded like it had been plucked straight from the pages of some magical holiday story. The descriptions were just as whimsical—"a symphony of roasted chestnuts and spiced cream" or "herbs kissed by frost"—like they were daring you not to imagine every bite.
"It all sounds so good!" I glanced at him over the top of the menu.
He leaned forward then, arms resting casually on the table, and nodded toward my menu. "May I recommend something?"
"Sure," I said, closing the menu without hesitation. "What should I get?"
"Enchanted Forest Mushroom Risotto," he said, the words rolling off his tongue like a secret he was letting me in on. "It’s one of my favorites."
"Risotto," I repeated, pretending to weigh my options. "Fancy."
"Trust me," he added, his eyebrow quirking slightly, a challenge hidden in his tone.
"All right." I smiled, setting the menu down. "I’ll trust your judgment."
"Smart choice," he replied, grinning as he signaled to the waiter.
When the menus disappeared, I reached for the delicate glass in front of me. Mulled wine. The rim sparkled with sugar, and the cinnamon scent hit me before I even took a sip. The first taste was warm, sweet, with just enough spice to make my lips tingle. I let the heat spread through me, melting away the edge of nerves that had been buzzing since I walked in.
"Good?" he asked, watching me closely.
"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Really good."
His grin softened into something quieter, his eyes catching mine and holding them. He lifted his own glass, taking a slow sip before speaking again. "So, Gemma," he started, his voice lower now, more intentional. "Tell me, what’s your favorite thing about Christmas?"
I froze, glass halfway to my mouth. For a second, I didn’t know how to answer. My brain scrambled, searching for something easy to say, something light, but nothing came. I set the glass down slowly, tracing my finger along the sugared rim.
"Honestly?" My voice was softer than I meant it to be. I glanced up at him, then back down, focusing on the patterns in the tablecloth instead of his face. "I’ve never been a fan of Christmas."
His brows lifted, but he didn’t interrupt. Just waited, like he knew there was more.
"It’s always been . . ." I exhaled, swirling the wine in my glass. The motion gave me something to do while I found the words. "It’s always been a difficult time for me." I felt the weight of those words settle between us, heavier than I wanted them to be.
I chanced a glance at him. His expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something in his eyes now—a kind of quiet intensity, like he was seeing past what I’d said, waiting for the rest of it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to ask or not.
"That’s fair," he said finally, his voice calm, steady. "Not everyone has positive memories associated with it." He paused, tipping his head slightly. "But . . . maybe that can change."
"Maybe," I said, though my voice barely carried across the table. I sipped my wine again, hoping the warmth would fill the hollow ache sitting heavy in my chest.
His brows furrowed, and that flicker of concern in his green eyes caught me off guard. "You might not want to talk about it,” he said. “But If you’d like, I’m willing to listen. For as long as you like."
I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the kitten stuffed toy resting on my lap. My fingers brushed over its soft fur, grounding myself, debating how much to let him see.
“I—I don’t even know your name.”
“You do.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to keep calling you Santa.”
“Call me Nicholas.”
“Nicholas? As in Saint Nick?”
“As in Nicholas.” His eyes twinkled as he smiled.
It wasn’t easy—letting someone in never was—but there was something about Nicholas that made me feel . . . safe. Like maybe, if I opened up, he’d handle whatever came out with care.
"Okay . . . N-Nicholas," I started, my voice catching. A deep breath steadied me. "I didn’t have the best childhood." My gaze dropped to the table, tracing the delicate gold filigree on the menu’s edge. It was easier to focus on that than on his face. "I moved around a lot. Foster homes mostly. Never stayed anywhere long enough to feel like I belonged."
His silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just . . . was. Like he knew I needed the space to keep going.
"The holidays were the worst," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone else had their families, their traditions. I had nothing. Except for the constant reminder of everything I didn’t have." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, raw and unpolished. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to press on. "So, I guess I started hating it. Christmas, I mean. It just felt easier that way."
The weight of what I’d said hung in the air between us. For a second, I regretted saying anything at all. But then his hand found mine, warm and steady, covering it completely. His touch was gentle, not demanding, just there. Present.
"Thank you for sharing that with me," he said, his tone sincere. Not pitying, not hollow—just real. He gave my hand a light squeeze, his thumb brushing softly over my knuckles. "No one should have to feel that way about such a beautiful time of year."
I swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind my eyes. I hadn’t expected him to say that. To listen without judgment. To not flinch at the sharp edges of my truth. My gaze dropped to our hands, his strong and sure, dwarfing mine in a way that felt oddly comforting. "It’s just . . ." My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, trying again. "It’s hard to see the magic when you’ve never experienced it."
"Then perhaps," he said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch, "it’s time you did."
The plates were set down with a quiet clink, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped me. The risotto was a work of art. The bowl looked like it had been plucked from some enchanted woodland: tiny edible flowers framed the creamy rice, while thinly shaved herbs curled like miniature ferns. Even the mushrooms were arranged like little trees, dusted with something golden that sparkled under the light.
"Wow," I said softly, leaning in to take it all in. It was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.
"Looks good, doesn’t it?" he said, his voice warm with amusement. He had that look again—the one that made it seem like watching me was its own kind of entertainment. "Just wait till you taste it."
I picked up my fork, hesitating for just a second before taking a bite. The first taste hit me like a slow bloom—earthy, rich, and perfectly balanced by whatever magic they’d worked into the truffle and cream. I didn’t even realize I’d closed my eyes until I heard him chuckle.
"That good, huh?"
"Better," I said, swallowing and going in for another bite. "It’s so . . . warm. Comforting. Like—" I stopped myself, suddenly aware of how much I’d started to ramble. But he didn’t press. He just nodded, that same soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he dug into his own plate.
We ate in quiet for a moment, the clinking of silverware and the low hum of distant conversations filling the space around us. The risotto felt like a hug in food form, each bite settling something deep inside me that I hadn’t realized was restless.
"Do you always eat like this?" I asked after a while, breaking the silence. My tone was teasing, but the question was genuine. "Fancy restaurants, magical risotto . . . Is this just a normal Thursday for you?"
"Not exactly," he said, grinning. "But if I’m going to convince you Christmas isn’t so bad, I figured I should pull out all the stops." He leaned back slightly, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is it working?"
"Maybe," I admitted, trying not to smile but failing. His grin widened, and I couldn’t help but feel lighter, like maybe tonight wasn’t just about proving something to me.
Our plates were nearly empty when he launched into a story about a disastrous tree-decorating contest he’d judged last year. "The winning team decided more tinsel meant more points," he explained, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "By the time they were done, you couldn’t even tell there was a tree under there. It looked like a giant disco ball!"
I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand to keep from choking on the sip of wine I’d just taken. "Did they actually win?"
"Of course," he said, feigning seriousness. "How could I not reward that level of commitment? They even threw glitter at the end for ‘dramatic effect.’" He shook his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "I’m still finding glitter in places I didn’t know existed."
Dessert arrived before I could think too much about it. Two small mince pies, delicate and dusted with powdered sugar, sat nestled beside a dollop of brandy cream. The scent hit me first—warm spices and buttery pastry—and I didn’t waste any time taking a bite.
"Okay, these might actually be better than the risotto," I said around my first mouthful. He raised an eyebrow, mock-offended.
"Better than the risotto? That’s a bold claim."
"Try it," I challenged, pointing my fork at him. "Then tell me I’m wrong."
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding in reluctant agreement. "Alright, you win. These are dangerously good."
"See?" I said, licking a crumb from the corner of my lip. His gaze dropped to my mouth for the briefest moment, and my stomach flipped. It was subtle—so subtle I almost thought I imagined it—but his eyes lingered just long enough to send a flush of heat creeping up my neck.
"Careful," he said quietly, his voice dipping lower. "You’re going to make the chef’s ego unbearable."
"Good," I shot back, trying to ignore the way my pulse suddenly felt too loud in my ears. "He deserves it."
His laugh was soft, almost private, and it carried between us like a secret. I reached for another bite of pie, but my hand faltered when his knuckles brushed against mine on the table. It wasn’t intentional—just a casual movement as he reached for his drink—but the contact sent a spark skittering up my arm.
"Thank you," I said suddenly, surprising myself with the honesty in my voice. His brow furrowed slightly, his fork pausing mid-air. "For this. For everything tonight."
"Gemma," he said, setting his fork down entirely now. "You don’t have to thank me."
"Maybe not," I said softly, meeting his gaze. "But I want to."
It wasn’t the only thing I wanted.
T he cold hit me first as we stepped out of the restaurant, crisp and sharp against my flushed cheeks. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, coating the sidewalks in a thin, untouched layer that shimmered like crushed diamonds under the streetlights. My heels crunched softly against it, the sound oddly satisfying in the quiet night.
"Wow," I breathed, hugging my coat tighter around myself. "It's like . . . magic."
"Like a scene from a movie," he said, his voice low and warm beside me. "Sometimes reality can be just as enchanting as fiction." He held out his arm.
I hesitated for half a second before slipping my hand through the crook of his elbow. The wool of his sweater was rough under my fingers, but his warmth seeped through, steady and solid. A small sigh escaped me, unbidden, as the tension I'd been carrying all evening began to unravel.
"Where are we going?" I asked, more curious than concerned.
"Just walking," he said easily, leading me down the snow-dusted street. "Thought you might enjoy it."
He was right. The city had transformed into something quieter, softer. Storefronts glowed with golden light, their windows fogged from the warmth inside. Wreaths hung on doors, and garlands strung with tiny lights framed the edges of buildings. It all felt far away, like a dream I wasn't sure I wanted to wake from.
"Do you do this often?" I asked after a few minutes.
"Walks in the snow?"
"Take women to secret Christmas restaurants and then stroll them through winter wonderlands?"
"Only the special ones," he teased, glancing down at me. His eyes caught the light, bright and mischievous.
"Smooth," I muttered, but I couldn't help the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"In truth," he said with a sigh, “I don’t do this very often. Almost never.”
“Really?”
“Romance isn’t really the focus of my life.”
“No? What is?”
“Christmas, of course.”
Another eye roll.
“So what do you do for the rest of the year. You know, when you’re not wearing the big red suit.”
“There’s a lot to do. I take Christmas day off, of course, but then I start preparing for next year. My business is all focused around the holidays.”
“You run a store, or something?”
“Something like that.”
We walked in easy silence for a while after that, our footsteps muffled by the snow. I let my gaze wander—the way the snowflakes clung to the branches of trees, how the frost glittered along the edges of parked cars. Everything looked perfect.
"May I walk you home?" he asked after a while, his tone softer now, almost shy. His thumbs brushed over my gloves again, the motion hypnotic.
"Yeah," I managed, my voice coming out hoarse. "Yeah, okay."
The rest of the walk was quiet. Not awkward, just . . . quiet. Every now and then, he’d glance over at me, like he was checking to make sure I was still there. I kept my eyes forward most of the time, watching the snow pile up on the edges of the sidewalk, listening to the faint hum of traffic in the distance. When we finally reached my building, I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face him.
"Thank you for tonight.”
He smiled, the kind of smile that made my chest ache in ways I wasn’t quite ready to admit. "The pleasure was all mine," he said, his voice low and warm. He lingered for a beat, his eyes searching mine like he wanted to say more. Then he turned, taking a step back toward the street.
"Wait," I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. He paused, looking back at me, one brow raised in quiet curiosity. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud enough I was sure he could hear it. "Do you want to come in? For, um, a nightcap or something?"
His expression shifted, just slightly. A flicker of surprise, followed by something else I couldn’t quite place. Warmth, maybe. Or hope. My palms started to sweat inside my gloves, and I clenched them into fists, trying to keep my nerves from showing.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his tone careful, measured.
"Yeah," I said quickly, before I could chicken out. "I mean, if you want to. No pressure or anything." God, why did I sound like such an idiot?
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the snow. "I’d like that," he said, his voice dipping low in a way that sent a shiver skittering down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Okay," I said, scrambling for my keys. My fingers fumbled with the lock, the metal slick and uncooperative in the icy air. He stayed close behind me, his presence steady and grounding, until the door finally clicked open. I pushed it wide, stepping aside to let him in. "Welcome to my humble abode," I joked weakly, trying to ignore the way my voice trembled.
"After you," he murmured, his eyes never straying from mine as he followed me inside.
I pushed the door shut with my hip, the soft click of the lock sliding into place louder than I’d expected in the quiet. He stood just a few feet away, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, but his eyes were anything but casual. They followed me as I moved, like he was trying to read every unspoken word on my face.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said, gesturing toward the couch. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Inside, my stomach twisted itself into knots—anxious ones, excited ones, all tangled together. I shrugged out of my coat and hung it on the hook by the door, brushing snow from my sleeve.
"Your place suits you," he said as he wandered further inside, pausing by the small shelf near the window. His fingers skimmed over a couple of books stacked there. He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "You like fairy tales."
"Who doesn’t?" I replied, moving toward the kitchen. It gave me something to do, somewhere to look that wasn’t him. "They’re an escape, I guess."
"An escape," he echoed softly. There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite place, but I didn’t stop to analyze it. Instead, I busied myself pulling down mugs and rummaging for the cocoa mix. The clinking of ceramic against the counter filled the space between us.
"Do you want marshmallows?" I called over my shoulder.
"Always," he answered, his voice closer now. When I glanced back, he was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. The way he stood there, so at home in himself, made my chest ache in a way I didn’t have words for. Like I wanted to borrow some of whatever it was he had.
"Coming right up," I muttered, focusing hard on the task at hand. I heated the milk, stirred in the chocolate, added cinnamon. My fingers trembled slightly as I sprinkled the marshmallows on top, but not enough to ruin the symmetry. I carried the two steaming mugs back into the living room, careful not to spill.
"Here," I said, handing him one. My fingers brushed his briefly, and I jerked mine back too fast, almost sloshing hot cocoa onto the floor. "Oops."
"Relax," he murmured, his smile softening the edges of his words. He took the mug, cradling it in both hands. "Thank you."
"Yeah, sure." I sank onto the couch, tucking one leg underneath me and holding my own mug close to my chest. He sat beside me—not too close, but close enough that I could feel the faint warmth radiating off of him. The silence stretched between us again, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable this time. Just . . . charged.
"I have a tradition," he said. "On special evenings, I like to read a favorite book before bed. Would you allow me to share it with you?"
“You want to read me a story?”
“I’d like to.”
“That sounds nice.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, like I was afraid of shattering the moment.
"How does The Polar Express sound ?"
My heart did something strange and fluttery in my chest. “That sounds really good.”
“You have a copy?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well, young lady, why don’t you finish up your cocoa, brush your teeth, then I’ll read it to you in bed?”
"Seriously?" I asked, unable to hide my grin. "You want to read to me in bed?" This was making me tingle with excitement. It was like he knew that I was a Little. He couldn’t, could he? Maybe it was just obvious.
“I never joke about bedtime stories.”
So I did what he asked. Finished up the cocoa, went to brush my teeth. When I returned, he was waiting.
“I got theses pajamas out for you,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He’d chose my Christmas pajamas, of course.
“They’re perfect.”
He stepped outside while I got changed. A big part of me wished he’d stay.
On the surface, I guess, this might seem quite strange. A man who seemed obsessed with Christmas, who called himself Santa (or Nick) and who, as far as I knew, always wore red, wanted to read me a story in bed.
But. . . .
It didn’t feel strange. It felt ridiculously natural. And even though he was here, in my place, he wasn’t pressuring me into kissing him, or doing anything else (even though I would have been very into the idea). I felt so safe and so looked after. It was wonderful.
“They look good on you,” he said when I’d called him back in.
“Thank you.”
“Now lie down. I’m going to read until you fall asleep, then I’m going to let myself out and lock the door.”
“You—you don’t want to stay?”
His eyes widened. “I do, Little one. Believe me, I do. But right now, when we’re just getting to know one another, I think we should take things slow. I know you’ve been hurt by people you cared for in the past. I want to earn your trust. We have all the time in the world.”
My heart pounded. “Okay.”
“But you should know, I like you. Very much. And this is . . . unusual for me. You’re special.”
Was he blushing?
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “get into bed, and let’s begin.”
He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice low and steady, wrapping around me like a blanket. Warmth seeped through me as his words filled the room. The story was familiar, but somehow it felt different coming from him. Like each sentence meant more, held more weight. I rested my head against the back of the couch, the tension in my shoulders easing bit by bit.
"Gemma?" His voice broke through my haze, quieter now. I blinked, realizing that the waking world was slipping away.
"Mm?" I managed, barely lifting my head.
"Are you falling asleep on me?"
"Maybe," I admitted, my lips curving into a faint smile. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but I fought to keep them open. "This is nice. You’re . . . nice."
"Nice," he repeated, his voice dipping lower. I felt him shift beside me, leaning just slightly closer. "I’ll take it."
"Good," I murmured. "You should."
And then, before I could think twice, the words slipped out. "I’m a Little." I froze, heat rushing to my cheeks as the weight of what I’d just said hit me. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. Why had I said that? Why now ?
The air between us went still, suspended like the moment before a snowfall. I chanced a glance at him, expecting confusion or maybe even judgment. But what I saw instead unraveled me completely.
"I know," he said softly, his expression impossibly gentle. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Just understanding. Like he’d been waiting for me to say it.
Relief flooded through me, so overwhelming it left me breathless. I relaxed against the mattress, my body sinking deeper into the warmth surrounding me—his voice, the bed, the snow. Everything felt safe. For the first time in forever, I let myself believe that was okay.
"Thank you," I whispered, barely audible. But he heard it. I knew he did. Because when I finally let sleep pull me under, his voice was the last thing I heard, steady and sure, reading to me like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like he’d do it a hundred times again.