Chapter 6
I stood on the curb, clutching my coat tighter around me as Nicholas pulled up. The cherry-red pickup glinted under the city’s streetlights, snowflakes clinging to its polished hood. For a second, I just stared at it, head tilted. It looked almost comically festive, like someone had taken Santa’s sleigh and given it wheels.
"Hop in," Nicholas called through the open window, his warm smile crinkling the corners of his green eyes.
I hesitated, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "This is your car?" I asked, my voice slightly incredulous.
"Well, it gets me where I need to go," he said with a shrug, a teasing edge to his tone. "Unless you were expecting the reindeer?"
My lips twitched despite myself. Tugging the door handle, I climbed in, the seat warm against the chill that clung to me. The faint scent of pine and cinnamon filled the cab, oddly comforting. I glanced around—no tacky decorations inside, just clean leather seats and a thermos sitting in the cup holder. Still, the truck felt . . . special. Like it held secrets.
"Seatbelt," Nicholas reminded gently, tapping his own.
"Right," I murmured, clicking it into place. My fingers fumbled for a moment, nerves jangling in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
The engine rumbled to life, and we eased onto the road. At first, everything was familiar—city lights blinking past in a blur, the muffled sounds of traffic outside. I folded my hands in my lap, stealing quick glances at him. He drove with an easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console.
"Where do you live?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"You’ll see," he said, grinning like he knew something I didn’t. And maybe he did.
It wasn’t long before, to my surprise, the city began to fade away. The buildings thinned out, replaced by stretches of evergreen trees dusted with snow. The headlights lit up the road ahead, but beyond that, the world seemed softer somehow, quieter. Twinkling lights appeared along the roadside, strung up in the trees like breadcrumbs leading us forward. They cast a warm glow against the snow, and I couldn’t help leaning closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass.
"Almost there," Nicholas said after a while, his voice pulling me back.
The road curved, and suddenly, there it was. My breath caught in my throat.
The cottage stood at the end of a clearing, its windows glowing softly against the night. Snow blanketed the roof and dripped off the edges like icing on a gingerbread house. Garlands of evergreen framed the doorway, their red ribbons fluttering lightly in the breeze. Lanterns lined the cobblestone path leading to the front steps, their light flickering like tiny stars.
And then there were the carvings. Wooden figures of reindeer and elves stood in the yard, so intricate they looked alive. Their polished surfaces gleamed under the soft glow of the lanterns, as though they’d been placed there just moments ago. A gentle snowfall drifted down, coating everything in a thin layer of white.
"Wow," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Nicholas glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "What do you think?"
"I think . . ." I trailed off, shaking my head slowly. Words failed me. It didn’t seem real, any of it. And yet, here I was, standing in front of something that might as well have been pulled straight from my childhood dreams.
"Come on," he said, stepping out of the truck and offering his hand. His palm was warm when I took it, steadying me as I climbed down.
I followed him across the path, my boots crunching softly against the fresh snow. My eyes darted everywhere, soaking in the details—the way the garlands swayed slightly in the wind, the faint golden glow spilling from the windows, the smell of pine and something sweet lingering in the air.
"Is this . . . your home?" I asked finally, my voice tinged with disbelief.
"Yes," he said simply, but there was a weight to the word, like it meant more than just a place to live.
We reached the door, and Nicholas paused, turning to look at me. His green eyes searched mine, and for a brief second, I thought I saw something flicker there—something vulnerable.
"Ready?" he asked.
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. "I think so."
The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.
The door swung open, and warmth hit me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. My boots squeaked against polished wooden floors as I stepped inside, shaking off the cold. The air smelled amazing—sweet, buttery cookies with a hint of cinnamon and something spiced, maybe cider? My stomach gave an embarrassing little grumble.
"Make yourself comfortable," Nicholas said, his voice deep and smooth, but I barely registered it. My eyes were too busy drinking in everything at once.
Lights sparkled everywhere—strings of them looped along the walls, wrapped around stair railings, even draped over a chair or two. The room glowed, not harsh or overdone, but soft and golden, like candlelight on Christmas Eve. A towering tree stood in the corner, its branches heavy with shiny ornaments, tiny figurines, and . . . was that a gingerbread man wearing a scarf?
I blinked, trying to take it all in. Every surface had something festive: garlands with berries, little nutcrackers standing guard on the mantle, stockings hung just-so by the fireplace. It wasn’t just decorated—it was alive, buzzing with some kind of joy that made my chest ache in the best way.
"Wow," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "This is . . . a lot."
"Good 'a lot' or bad 'a lot'?" He leaned his huge body casually against the door frame, watching me. His lips twitched, like he already knew the answer.
"Definitely good," I admitted, flashing him a small smile. "Did you do all this yourself?"
"Every last strand of tinsel," he said with a wink. "Though I might have had a few helpers over the years."
"Helpers, huh?" I teased, stepping further into the space. My fingers brushed the edge of the tree skirt, soft and velvety under my touch. It felt wrong to disturb anything, like I’d stepped into a snow globe someone had shaken just for me.
"Keep going," he encouraged, tilting his head toward the hallway. "There’s more."
"More?" I raised an eyebrow but followed his suggestion anyway. As I walked, the warmth of the house wrapped around me, sinking into my skin. The soft glow of the lights followed me down the hall, flickering off polished wood and colorful rugs.
The first doorway opened into what looked like a toy store exploded. Shelves lined the walls, packed with plush animals, dolls, board games, and puzzles. In the center of the room, a miniature train chugged around a snowy village, complete with tiny skaters twirling on a mirrored pond. I crouched down, watching the wheels spin perfectly along their tracks.
"Do these actually work?" I asked, glancing back at Nicholas, who had followed me silently.
"Of course," he said, crossing his arms. "Nothing here is just for show."
His tone was light, but there was something underneath—pride, maybe? Ownership? Everything here was meant to be touched, played with, loved. It was overwhelming and comforting all at once.
"Do you ever, I don’t know, get tired of all the Christmas stuff?" I asked, running my fingers along the spine of a storybook on one of the shelves. "It’s . . . a lot to live with year-round."
"Never." His answer came so quickly, it startled me. He stepped closer, his boots creaking on the floorboards. "Christmas isn’t just a season, Gemma. It’s a feeling. A promise."
"That sounds . . . nice," I said softly, though part of me wondered if it was really possible to feel that way all the time. Still, as I turned toward another doorway, I couldn’t deny the tug of curiosity pulling me deeper into his home.
The next room stopped me in my tracks. If the last one had been charming, this one was pure magic. Shelves stretched floor-to-ceiling, packed with books I recognized from childhood: fairy tales, adventure stories, picture books with thick, glossy pages. Soft cushions covered the floor, inviting me to sit, maybe even curl up with one of those old favorites. A carousel horse stood in the corner, its painted mane shimmering in the firelight from a small hearth tucked into the wall.
"Okay, now I’m jealous," I joked, letting out a laugh. "You’ve got everything."
"Not quite everything," Nicholas said behind me, his voice quieter now. There was something in his tone that made me pause, but when I turned to look at him, he only smiled.
"Keep exploring," he urged, gesturing toward another door. "The best part’s still ahead."
I wasn’t sure if he meant the house or something else entirely, but I didn’t argue. Something about the way he looked at me made my heart skip, like maybe this place wasn’t just built for Christmas cheer. Maybe it was built for me.
Nicholas pushed the door open, stepping aside so I could see inside. Warm light spilled out, flickering from a fireplace nestled against the far wall. The room was small but impossibly cozy—plush cushions in every color piled high on thick rugs that looked softer than clouds. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of paintbrushes, stacks of sketchbooks, tubs of crayons and markers. A low table sat in the center, scattered with puzzles half-finished and little wooden toys that looked handmade.
"Go on," he said, smiling as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Take a look."
I hesitated in the doorway. My fingers curled tighter around the strap of my bag, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The space felt . . . intimate, like walking into someone’s childhood memories.
"Gemma," Nicholas said gently, his voice dropping into something warm and steady, like the crackle of the fire. "This is your space too. It’s here for you."
"Me?" I laughed nervously, glancing at him over my shoulder. "I think you’ve got the wrong girl for this. I’m not exactly . . . artsy." My voice sounded lighter than I felt. The truth? I wasn’t sure what I was doing here at all.
"Doesn’t matter," he replied easily. "It’s not about being good at anything. It’s about having fun. Letting yourself enjoy it." His smile widened, and something about it made my chest ache a little. "You deserve that, don’t you? Remember?"
Before I could answer, he stepped past me, crossing the room in a few long strides. He crouched by the shelves, pulling out a box of colored pencils and setting them on the table. Then he grabbed a sketchbook, flipping through its thick pages before laying it open beside the pencils. When he glanced back at me, there was no judgment in his eyes, no impatience. Just quiet encouragement that somehow made me feel seen and safe all at once.
"Come sit," he said, patting the cushion next to him. "Or, y’know, stand there pretending you’re not curious. Your call."
I bit my lip, fighting a smile. He’d called my bluff. Finally, I stepped into the room, letting the door swing closed behind me.
Nicholas waited until I perched awkwardly on the edge of the cushion, my knees tucked together like I might bolt at any second. Then he slid the sketchbook closer to me, tilting it slightly so I could see the blank page staring back at me.
"Pick a color," he said, nodding toward the pencils. "Any color. No wrong answers.
"That’s a lot of pressure," I joked, but my hand drifted toward the box anyway. I pulled out a deep blue pencil, holding it between my fingers like it might break. "What am I supposed to draw?"
"Whatever you want." He leaned back on his hands, watching me with an easy grin. "A snowman, a Christmas tree, a stick figure with a Santa hat. Doesn’t have to be perfect. I suppose, if you insist, it doesn’t even have to be Christmassy. Just has to make you happy."
I stared at the page, the pencil hovering just above it. Happy. That word felt so big, so far away. But then Nicholas reached out, his fingertips brushing mine lightly. Not enough to startle me, just enough to ground me.
"Start with a line," he said softly. "See where it goes."
So I did. The pencil moved shakily at first, the line curving into something messy and uneven. But Nicholas didn’t laugh or correct me. He just watched, his gaze steady and patient, like he had all the time in the world.
"See?" he murmured after a moment. "Nothing to it."
The hum of the fireplace faded into the background as I leaned closer to the coloring book, my fingers smudged with green and gold pencil shavings. The page in front of me was coming to life—a Christmas wreath with ribbons curling through it—but it wasn’t perfect. My lines wobbled at the edges, and I’d pressed too hard on one corner, leaving the paper slightly torn. Still, I kept going. The rhythm of coloring felt… good, like some part of me had been waiting for this without even knowing it.
"That’s looking real nice, Gem," Nicholas said, his voice warm enough to melt frost. He sat cross-legged across from me, his own picture halfway done—a cheerful snowman wearing a striped scarf. His strokes were precise, each color vibrant and smooth, like he'd done this a thousand times before.
"Nice? It looks like a five-year-old did it," I muttered, biting back a smile. My cheeks burned anyway, especially when he chuckled low and easy.
"Yeah, but a really talented five-year-old," he teased. "One who knows her way around a Crayola box."
I laughed, the sound surprising me with how light it felt. “You’re just trying to be nice.”
"Maybe," he admitted, leaning in slightly. His green eyes sparkled, catching the glow from the fire. "Or maybe I think you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for."
I didn’t have an answer for that, so I ducked my head and focused on shading a bow. My hand moved faster now, less careful, more free. It was strange. For once, the little voice in my head that picked apart everything I did—too messy, too childish, too much—had gone quiet.
"Alright," Nicholas said suddenly, setting his snowman aside. "We’ve got enough masterpieces here to fill the fridge. Time for something else."
"Like what?"
"Games." He grinned and pulled out a small stack of wooden blocks. "Ever build a tower before?"
"Of course,” I said, eyeing the pile curiously. "But it’s been . . . a while."
"Perfect. Let’s see if you’ve still got it."
Before I could protest, he started stacking the blocks in neat rows, his hands steady and sure. I followed his lead, hesitantly at first, but soon we were both caught up in it—the tension building with every added layer. By the time the tower stood taller than my knees, I realized I was holding my breath. One wrong move, and it would all come crashing down.
"Your turn," he said, sliding the last block toward me. His grin turned mischievous. "No pressure."
"None at all," I shot back, narrowing my eyes. My fingers hovered over the pile, searching for the right piece to pull. Finally, I slid one free, careful not to jostle the others. The tower wobbled but held.
"Not bad," he said, nodding in approval. Then he reached for his own piece, moving with deliberate slowness. But as soon as he touched it, the whole thing collapsed in a loud clatter.
"Ha!" I threw my arms in the air triumphantly. "Guess you’re not as steady-handed as you thought."
"Beginner’s luck," he replied, but there was no bite to it. He smiled, wide and genuine, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
"Rematch?" I asked.
"Maybe later." He glanced toward the window, where snowflakes drifted lazily outside. "Right now, I’ve got a better idea."
"Better than beating you at blocks again?"
"Way better." He pushed himself up and offered me his hand. When I took it, his palm was warm and solid against mine. "C’mon. You’ll want your coat for this."
A few minutes later, we were outside, boots crunching against freshly fallen snow. The cold nipped at my nose, but the sight of the untouched white blanket surrounding us made it worth it. Everything looked soft, hushed, like we’d stepped into another world.
"Think fast!" Nicholas shouted, and before I could react, a snowball hit me square on the shoulder. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to make me gasp. He let out a deep, resonant chuckle, and his eyes creased. He was almost shockingly handsome. Still, that wasn’t going to stop me getting my revenge.
"Hey!" I scooped up a handful of snow and packed it quickly, flinging it back at him. My aim was terrible—it sailed past his ear—but he laughed anyway, the sound echoing through the trees.
"That all you got?" he taunted, already forming another snowball.
"Not even close." I bent down, gathering more snow, and launched into a full-on assault. He dodged most of them, though one smacked against his chest, sending a puff of powder into the air.
"Alright, you asked for it," he said, advancing toward me with a determined look. Before I could escape, he tackled me gently into a snowbank. We landed in a tangle of limbs, laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
"Truce?" I gasped, holding my hands up in surrender.
"Truce," he agreed, his face inches from mine. His breath clouded in the chilly air, and for a moment, neither of us moved. My heart thudded wildly, the cold forgotten under the weight of his gaze.
"Come on," he said finally, breaking the spell. He stood and offered me his hand again. "We’ve got a snowman to build."
By the time we finished, our creation stood proudly in the yard, complete with a crooked hat and a scarf Nicholas had borrowed from inside. I stepped back to admire it, my cheeks flushed from more than just the cold.
"Not bad," I said, brushing snow off my gloves.
"Not bad at all." Nicholas wrapped his arm loosely around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "You’ve got talent, Gemma. I mean it."
"At snowman-building?" I joked, but my voice came out softer than I intended.
"At a lot of things," he replied, his tone matching mine.
Back inside, I stood by the door, shaking snow from my hair and brushing it off my coat. My fingers tingled as they warmed up, and my cheeks were still flushed from the cold—and maybe something else. Nicholas disappeared into the kitchen without a word, leaving me to absorb the sudden quiet.
I glanced around the room, the glow of the fireplace catching my eye. The flames crackled softly, their warmth calling to me. I peeled off my gloves and scarf, tossing them onto a nearby chair, and moved closer. My legs folded beneath me as I sank into the thick rug in front of the hearth. The firelight danced across the room, painting everything in soft golds and oranges.
"Here we go." His voice startled me, and I looked up just as Nicholas appeared, balancing a tray in his hands. Two steaming mugs sat beside a plate piled high with cookies, the chocolate chips glistening like tiny promises of comfort.
"Hot chocolate," he said, kneeling down to set the tray on the low table in front of us. "With whipped cream and sprinkles. Thought you'd earned it after that snowball fight."
"Thanks," I murmured, reaching for one of the mugs. It was warm against my palms, the sugary scent wrapping around me like a blanket. I took a careful sip, and the sweetness melted on my tongue, the heat spreading through me in waves. I hadn't even realized how cold I'd been until now.
Nicholas leaned back on his hands, watching me with a small smile. "Good?"
"Perfect." I let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising me. It had been a long time since anything felt this cozy. Safe.
"Try a cookie," he urged, pushing the plate closer.
"Are these homemade?" I asked, picking one up. It was still warm, the edges crisp but the center soft when I bit into it. Cinnamon and vanilla burst across my taste buds, and I couldn't hold back the hum of approval.
"Of course they are. What kind of host do you think I am?" He winked, settling himself cross-legged beside me. His knee brushed mine, and I froze for half a second before forcing myself to relax. It was just an accident. Probably.
"You're full of surprises," I said, trying to sound casual. But the way his eyes lingered on me made my pulse quicken.
"Am I?" His tone was light, teasing, but there was something steady—solid—in the way he looked at me, like he was seeing more than I wanted him to. Like he always did.
"Yeah," I replied, focusing hard on my mug. The whipped cream had started to melt, swirling into the hot chocolate like clouds dissolving into night. "Not many people would go all out like this for someone they barely know."
"Maybe I feel like I know you better than 'barely,'" he said, his voice softer now. I glanced up, and his expression matched his tone—thoughtful, unhurried. "Or maybe I just see things others don’t."
Heat that had nothing to do with the fire climbed up my neck. "That’s . . . a little intense," I admitted, though my lips curved slightly.
"Sorry," he chuckled, leaning back and breaking the moment. "Guess I have a habit of saying what I mean. Doesn’t always come out right."
"Well, I guess I’d rather that than the opposite." I took another sip, the weight in my chest easing just a little.
We sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional crackle of the fire and the clinking of the mugs when we set them down. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, though. If anything, it felt like the room was holding its breath, waiting.
"Gemma." His voice broke the stillness, low and deliberate. I turned toward him, my stomach flipping at the seriousness in his gaze.
"Yeah?" My own voice came out quieter than I expected.
"You know," he began, shifting so he was facing me fully. His elbows rested on his knees, his fingers loosely clasped together. "You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and impossible to ignore. I searched his face for the catch, the reason behind the offer, but all I found was sincerity. No strings. Just him.
"Why?" I asked finally, my throat tight.
"Why not?" He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "This place . . . it’s meant to feel like home. For you. If you want it to be."
Home. The word hit me harder than I thought it would. I swallowed, looking away as my vision blurred ever so slightly. The firelight swam in the corner of my eye, and I blinked rapidly, willing myself to hold it together.
"That’s a big thing to offer someone," I managed after a moment, keeping my voice steady. "This place . . . it's so wonderful here." The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I winced at how vulnerable they sounded. Too honest. Too much. "Like a dream I don’t want to wake up from."
"Good," he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees now. There was an intensity in his posture, in the way he looked at me, like I was the centerpiece of some unspoken plan he hadn’t quite voiced yet. "I’m glad you feel that way." His voice softened, dropped just enough to make my stomach flip. "This place has been waiting for someone like you."
"Someone like me," I repeated, almost under my breath.
"Gemma." My name came out like a sigh, heavy and deliberate. He reached for his mug, taking a sip before setting it down beside mine. When he finally spoke again, his tone had shifted. Lower. Serious. "There’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve been meaning to share since the moment you walked through that door."
"Okay . . ." I said slowly, my pulse quickening despite myself. I straightened in my chair, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between us—or lack of it. "That sounds . . . ominous."
"It’s not," he assured me, though his expression didn’t exactly scream casual. "At least, I hope it’s not. But it is important. And frankly, I worry that it’s going to put you off." He paused, his fingers curling around the armrests as if grounding himself. "You see, I’ve been searching for someone for a long time. Someone special."
"Special how?" My throat felt tight, the words barely making it out. I crossed my arms over my chest, more out of instinct than anything else. A shield. A barrier. Whatever this was, it felt big. Bigger than I was ready for.
"Not just anyone," he continued, ignoring my question entirely. Or maybe answering it in his own roundabout way. "Someone who sees the world the way I do. Who understands what it means to give, to create, to bring joy in ways most people can’t imagine." His eyes locked onto mine then, piercing and unrelenting. "Someone to share not just my home, but my life’s work with."
"Your life's work," I echoed, the words tasting strange on my tongue. "You mean . . . like your job?" It sounded stupid the second it left my mouth, but I couldn’t help it. What else was I supposed to say?
"Something like that," he said cryptically, his smile returning but not quite reaching his eyes. He sat forward again, closer this time, close enough that I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils seemed to catch the glow of the firelight. "I’m looking for a partner, Gemma. Someone who can stand beside me, who can help me carry the weight of what I do. Someone to be . . ." Another pause, this one longer, heavier. "My Mrs. Claus."
It took me a second to process the words, and even then, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. My heart thudded painfully against my rib cage as I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for him to laugh, to tell me he was joking, that this was all part of whatever Christmas-themed fantasy he was living in. But he didn’t. He just watched me, calm and steady, like he’d been preparing for this moment for a long time.
"Your Mrs. Claus?" I repeated, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. My voice cracked halfway through, a mix of disbelief and something closer to . . . amusement? Maybe hysteria. Either way, it was ridiculous.
"Are you saying you're Santa Claus?" I asked, an incredulous laugh bubbling up from my chest. I leaned back against the cushions, crossing my arms as I tilted my head at him. "For real? Seriously?"
His eyes softened, but they didn’t waver. He wasn’t laughing. Not even close.
"Yes," he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he'd just told me the sky was blue or that snow was cold. His tone was calm, deliberate, and somehow... sincere. "That's exactly what I’m saying."
I blinked at him, frozen for a beat too long. The fire crackled, filling the silence between us, but it didn’t fill the sudden weight in my chest. My laugh fizzled out as quickly as it had come.
"Okay," I started, dragging the word out as I shifted forward slightly. My fingers twisted together in my lap, the nervous energy building. "That’s . . . um, bold."
"Bold?" he echoed, one brow lifting, but his smile stayed—gentle, warm, steady.
"Yeah, bold," I said quickly, licking my lips. They felt dry, like my mouth couldn’t quite keep up with how fast my mind was spinning. "You’re really committed to the whole Christmas thing, huh?"
"Gemma," he said quietly, leaning toward me just enough that I caught the faint scent of pine and cinnamon. "I'm not joking."
"Right," I muttered, my gaze darting past him to the glowing tree in the corner, as if it might offer some kind of explanation—or maybe an escape route. "Sure. Of course, you’re not."
"Look at me."
His voice was still soft, but there was something about it that pulled me back to him, like a thread winding tight around my chest. So, I looked.
"Do I seem like the kind of man who’d make this up?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. His green eyes locked on mine, filled with something I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t pity, either. It was . . . honest.
"Honestly?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know what kind of man you are right now."
"Then let me show you," he said, his expression shifting, his features softening just enough to make my heart stutter. He leaned back slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "Let me explain."
"Explain what? That you’ve been alive for, what, hundreds of years? Running around delivering presents to kids all over the world?" I shot back before I could stop myself, my mouth moving faster than my brain again.
"Exactly," he said, completely unfazed by my sarcasm.
"Okay, sure," I said, throwing my hands up. "Why not? Go ahead. Explain."
"All right," he said with a small nod, his voice steady. "It starts with the magic."
"Magic," I repeated flatly.
"Yes," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "The kind that’s been keeping the spirit of Christmas alive for centuries. It’s not just about gifts, Gemma. It’s about hope. Wonder. Connection. That’s what I protect. What I create."
"Create," I echoed, my throat tightening around the word.
"Every toy. Every wish list. Every moment of joy." His voice dipped lower, quieter, as if he were sharing a secret meant only for me. "It’s all part of what I do. And it’s more than any one person can handle alone."
"Which is where I come in?" I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "You."
"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could catch it, and I hated how small it sounded. How small I sounded.
"Because you feel it," he said, his gaze never leaving mine. "Even if you don’t realize it yet. You’ve always believed in something bigger, haven’t you? In magic. In miracles. In the idea that no matter how dark things get, there’s always a light waiting to guide you home."
"That’s . . ." I started, my throat suddenly dry again.
"True," he finished for me, his voice firm but gentle. "You don’t have to say it. I see it in you, Gemma. I’ve seen it since the moment we met."
Nicholas leaned forward, his green eyes locked on mine. The fireplace crackled behind him, a soft, warm punctuation to the silence stretching between us. I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, trying to keep steady. My heart wasn’t cooperating—it thudded like a drum line in my ears.
"You're serious," I said. It wasn’t a question, not really. But my voice wavered.
"As snow," he said, calm as ever. His lips curved, just slightly, like he knew something I didn’t.
"Okay, but what you're saying is... insane." I laughed, sharp and nervous. "You're Santa? Santa Claus? That’s—that’s ridiculous."
"Is it?" He tilted his head, studying me like there was an answer hidden somewhere in my face. "You loved 'The Polar Express,' didn’t you?"
"That doesn’t mean—" I started, then stopped. My mouth snapped shut. How did he know that? I hadn’t mentioned it. Ever. Not even when we’d been coloring earlier, not when I’d told him about my favorite Christmas memories—or lack thereof.
"How do you know about that?" My voice dropped, quieter now, unsure.
"Because I know you, Gemma." His words were soft, steady. "Not everything. Not yet. But enough."
The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air had thickened. I shifted, my knees brushing against the edge of the armchair. I wanted to argue, roll my eyes, tell him this whole thing sounded like some weird Hallmark fever dream. But his gaze held me there, pinned. There was no teasing in it, no smirk waiting to break the spell. Just quiet certainty.
"Look, I get it," I said, breaking eye contact and focusing on the mug of cocoa still sitting on the table. "This is some elaborate joke, right? You decorate your house like this, play into the whole Santa fantasy thing. It's cute, really. But—"
"Gemma." His voice cut through my rambling, low and firm. Not harsh, but enough to make me stop. "I don’t joke about this."
"Why not?" I shot back, daring to meet his eyes again. "It is a joke. It has to be."
"Does it?" He leaned back now, his broad shoulders sinking into the couch like he had all the time in the world. "What if it isn’t?"
"Then prove it," I challenged before I could think better of it. My pulse jumped, but I kept my chin up, refusing to back down. "If you’re Santa, show me something. Something real."
His grin returned, slow and deliberate this time, like I’d just handed him exactly what he wanted. "You sure about that?"
"Yes," I said, though my voice came out thinner than I intended. "Prove it."
"Alright," he said simply. He stood, unfolding himself from the couch with that same quiet confidence that made my stomach flip. He reached out a hand. "Come with me."
I stared at his hand, hesitation pooling in my gut. But my curiosity burned hotter. Against my better judgment, I slipped my fingers into his. His palm was warm, grounding somehow, despite the absurdity of everything else.
"Where are we going?" I asked as he pulled me toward the foyer.
"To show you the truth."