Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Stella
Idon’t know what weirds me out more: Rhys James in my living room—technically his living room—decorating my Christmas tree or Rhys James wearing normal clothes.
I think it’s the clothes. Not that I’m complaining about the way his dark jeans hang a little loose on his hips or the way his blue T-shirt makes his eyes even more magnetic.
But I’m used to the bell-bottom onesies—with matching hats—and other crazy outfits he wears on stage.
Sometimes he’ll wear pants and a vest. Usually no shirt.
Always some variation of onesies and vests that shows off his chest.
He looks good in that kind of get-up, especially when a shirt isn’t involved.
But I have to say, he looks just as good in jeans and a plain old T-shirt.
Smells good too. Whatever he’s wearing has a musky sandalwood scent that blends nicely with the pine tree candle I’ve lit to create the illusion my Christmas tree is real.
To take my mind off how good he smells, how close he is, and the way his shirt rides up, giving me a peek at his firm stomach when he stretches to reach the highest branches of the tree, I talk. A lot.
“At home, we always put up a real tree but not until December.” I drag my eyes from his abs to the inside of his biceps. His shirt sleeve partially hides a tattoo I haven’t noticed before. I try to make out the words inked there while letting my mouth run like a car without a driver.
“The fake tree, though, goes up October first.” I hand him another ornament and point to a higher branch…because I have no willpower when it comes to rock stars with incredible stomach muscles.
“Mom sent me a box of ornaments so I’d have decorations for my own October tree. But I hope I can make it home to help her put up the live tree in December.”
“That can probably be arranged.” Rhys steps away from the tree and pulls down his shirt. I peel my eyes away from his abs, but not before he catches me.
He smirks, then stretches his arms above his head with a fake yawn. I may be weak-willed when it comes to six-packs, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of teasing me about it. I turn my back and grab another ornament from the box.
I unwind the layers of bubble wrap to reveal one of my favorites, a blown-glass ball I’ll want to hang high so it will catch the light from the window during the day and the overhead lights at night. That way, there will always be a rainbow or two somewhere in this room.
Circling the tree, I find the perfect spot, which happens to be very close to where Rhys is standing.
But if I ask him to hang it, he’ll think I’m trying to get another look at his stomach.
Which, yeah, I would be, but only out of curiosity.
I don’t care how good he smells or how many abs he has—Rhys James is a client. I have to keep things professional.
I rise high on my tiptoes, but I can’t reach the spot I want. Rhys moves behind me. With his chest pressed to my back and his arm parallel to mine, he takes the ornament from me and hooks it onto one of the highest boughs.
“Is that a good spot?” His low voice rumbles down my neck like a warm breeze rustling leaves, awakening every sense.
Speechless, I nod. His fingertips brush my left hip.
I drop my arm, and his follows, not quite touching, but the heat between us is palpable.
His face is close to mine, and his eyes drop to my bare shoulder.
If I leaned into him, he would kiss it. Then he would kiss me.
My body knows this like the ocean knows when to rise depending on the position of the moon.
Our eyes lock. Everything goes still. I force myself to blink, and we both take a step away, putting distance and room to breathe normally between us.
You’d think I’d be used to being around my client Rhys James by now. But my body still reacts like he’s the on-stage-poster-on-my-wall Rhys James.
Rhys clears his throat, grabs an ornament, and moves to the other side of the tree, practically hiding from me. “So why do you love Christmas so much?”
I peek around the tree to see if he’s serious. “Lights, yummy food, presents from Santa Claus. What’s not to love?”
He lets out a scoff that clears away the charged air between us. “When you’re a kid, all those things are great. But Christmas loses its sparkle as you get older. Once you stop believing in Santa, it’s never quite the same.”
“Unless you don’t stop believing,” I say.
Rhys looks around the tree at me. “Unless you don’t stop believing in what?”
I roll my eyes. “Santa, obviously.”
“Are you telling me…” he says slowly, and I brace myself for what I know is coming next. “You still believe in Santa Claus?”
I scoop my hair back over my shoulders. “I’m telling you I choose to believe in a season of goodness and kindness and giving, even a touch of magic. Santa is all part of that.”
“That’s not a yes or no.”
“Let’s just say I still get a present hand-delivered by Santa every year, so I have a good reason to keep believing in him.”
He blinks again like he’s not sure if I’m teasing or not.
“Sit. I’ll explain.” I point to the couch, then grab a framed photo off an end table and plant myself next to Rhys, careful to leave space between us.
I show him the picture. “That’s my dad,” I say, pointing to the tall man with blond hair wearing a goofy Santa sweater.
“And this is me, only a few days old.” I point to the black-haired baby sleeping in his arms, dressed in an elf costume.
“This is the only Christmas we ever had together. He was deployed a week later and never came home.”
Rhys’s brow wrinkles with concern. “I’m sorry, Stella. Must’ve been tough growing up without him.”
I nod automatically, then shake my head.
“I mean, it was, and it wasn’t. I didn’t know what it was like to have a dad, so I didn’t really miss having one.
My mom’s parents and sister were in Italy, but I grew up surrounded by family.
Granny and Grandpa Sparks. Britta and her brothers.
Her parents. Her Thomsen grandparents treated my brother, Seb, and me like we were theirs too. ”
I pause, glancing at the photo, before tucking my leg underneath me and shifting toward Rhys.
“My parents had dreams to live somewhere besides Paradise once Dad retired from the military, but after he died, Mom couldn’t leave his family.
She gave up her own dreams to live in this tiny town so Seb and I would never feel like we were missing out on having a dad. ”
Rhys nods, rocking slightly before lifting his eyes to mine. “So, what does your dad have to do with you believing in Santa?”
I smile like I do every time I think of the Christmas I kept believing in Santa.
“Every year, Paradise has a month-long Christmas celebration called Yulefest.” In my excitement, I lean closer.
That, or I can’t escape the magnetic pull Rhys James has on me.
“There’s a parade with the same Santa every year, a local guy named Nick, who’s a dead-ringer for Santa.
He even has a sleigh and real reindeer.”
“Do they fly?” The corner of Rhys’s mouth quirks into a sarcastic smile.
“Everyone knows reindeer only fly on Christmas Eve.” I return sarcasm with sarcasm, and the other corner of Rhys’s mouth curves up.
“Go on…”
“Until I was nine, I really believed Nick was Santa. I’d see him around town and figured he was keeping tabs on all of us kids, but when I said as much to Seb, he laughed and told me Santa wasn’t real.”
“Not cool, Seb,” Rhys mutters.
“Right?”
I don’t care that he’s teasing. I love telling this story. “So that year, I asked Santa for an impossible challenge. Something only the real Santa could give me.”
“Which was…?” Rhys asks, completely invested in the story in a very un-grumpy way.
I lick my lips, pausing long enough to build suspense. “I asked for a letter from my dad in Heaven. I told Santa I wanted to get to know him.”
“That’s a big ask.”
“Yep.”
“Let me guess…you got that letter?” Rhys says with a half-grin.
I nod. “I got that letter.”
Rhys shifts uncomfortably, tipping his head back like he’s searching for a gentle way to break bad news to me. “You don’t think someone else could have written it? Maybe your mom or grandparents?”
I set the picture of my dad back on the end table. “Sure. It’s possible, but it wasn’t Mom. She writes like she speaks and cooks, with a sprinkle of Italian spice in everything. I don’t know who wrote it, but I’ve chosen to believe in Santa ever since.”
Rhys considers my flimsy evidence with a slow nod. “So, you believe in Santa because of this one letter?”
“I choose to believe,” I say firmly. “Not just because of that letter, but because of the letters I’ve received every Christmas since.
My whole family looks forward to when it arrives.
Nick always delivers it on Christmas Eve in his full Santa suit.
I read it first, then read it again to my whole family, usually while ugly crying. ”
Rhys shakes his head. “Not possible…” I tense, waiting for him to tell me I live in Fantasyland or something like that, but he finishes with, “for you to be ugly—crying or not.”
I blink back my surprise, debating how to take his compliment before landing on deflection. “Thanks…so, you don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Course I do. But at least you’re not ugly.” His face cracks into a smile, and I try not to laugh. It’s hard to think of Rhys as boring when he teases.
“You don’t get it.” I shake my head, ready to move on from funny Rhys to the safety of my boring client Rhys.
“Whether Santa is real isn’t the question.
It’s whether I believe in Santa—and I do.
And I will, as long as someone is invested enough in my still believing to give me a letter from Dad every year. ”