Chapter 61 Ivy
The past two weeks have played out like life inside a snow globe—perfect, magical, and sealed off from reality.
Tonight is The Enchanted Quill's holiday story hour and Santa meet and greet.
The shop's transformed into a winter wonderland—twinkling lights draped across bookshelves, fake snow dusting the windowsills, and the scent of cinnamon and pine from the essential oil diffuser making everything seem magical.
Kids sprawl on cushions scattered around the reading nook, their eyes wide as they wait their turn.
And Santa? He's absolutely crushing it. Caleb's borrowed suit is a little tight across his shoulders, which is doing dangerous things to my imagination. Even with the fake beard obscuring half his face, those baby blues sparkle every time he catches me eyeing him.
Which is embarrassingly often, considering I'm supposed to be helping kids with their letters to the North Pole.
"He's a natural," Margie says beside me, making me jump. She's watching her daughter perched on Caleb's knee.
"Did you know," Ana says, with all the authority of a tiny CEO, "that Rudolph's promotion was actually nepotism?"
"Nepotism?" Caleb's eyebrows shoot up behind his fake beard. "That's a big word for such a tiny reindeer expert."
"It means he only got the job because his nose was shiny." She crosses her arms. "Blitzen had years of experience."
"You make an excellent point. Should we draft a formal complaint to the North Pole HR department? I know some elves in upper management."
"Who knew Caleb Miller had such a way with children?" Margie whispers to me.
My ovaries, apparently, because they're staging a full rebellion. Every time he laughs, my body betrays me with visions of future Christmases; tiny dark-blond heads and dimpled grins gathered around our own tree.
"You're blushing," Margie notes with satisfaction. "Though I can't blame you. The way he keeps looking at you in that elf costume . . ."
"He is not—" But even as I protest, Caleb's eyes find mine across the room, darkening slightly as they track down my candy-cane striped tights. Heat floods my cheeks.
"Oh, honey," Margie pats my arm, "he absolutely is."
"What's on your Christmas list this year, boss lady?" Caleb asks Ana.
Her face lights up. "A puppy! But not just any puppy. I want a Saint Bernard. Like in that movie where they rescue people? I've already picked out his name. Sir Droolsalot the Third."
"The Third?" Caleb chuckles. "What happened to the first two?"
"Oh, they're imaginary. But this one will be real." She bounces on his knee with enough vigor to make him grunt. "You can do that, right? Mom said when I'm older, but you're Santa."
"Consider it done." Caleb winks, and I catch Margie's eye roll.
"Thanks for that," she mutters, but she's fighting a smile. "Guess I'm spending my weekend researching Saint Bernard breeders. Though knowing Ana, by next week she'll have moved on to wanting a pet dragon."
"I heard they're much easier to care for," I whisper back. "Better house-trained."
Caleb's still nodding as Ana details her elaborate plans for Sir Droolsalot's future career in alpine rescue. The sight of him so invested in her ridiculous dream makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
"Girl," Margie nudges me, "you've got it bad."
I can't even argue. Because yeah, watching Caleb Miller play Santa like it's his calling in life? Definitely doing things to me.
After I lock up, having survived approximately eight million questions about whether elves really have pointy ears, I find Caleb still lounging in that massive Santa chair.
I step between his legs. "This needs to go," I tug off the fake beard, wrinkling my nose at the synthetic fibers. The hat follows, revealing his curls in complete disarray. I can't help running my fingers through them, trying to tame the chaos. His eyes drift shut at my touch.
"You're good at that," he murmurs, leaning into my hand.
"Someone has to keep you presentable." But I'm smiling as I smooth down one particularly rebellious curl. "Though I have to admit, you made a surprisingly hot Santa."
His hands find my hips, tugging me closer, and the heat of him bleeds through my ridiculous elf costume, making my skin tingle. "Only surprisingly?"
"Mmhmm." I let him pull me into his lap, the velvet of his suit soft against my tights.
I lean down to kiss him, but his hand catches my chin, stopping me just inches from his mouth. His eyes are dark and hungry, but there's something else there too—a nervousness I rarely see on him.
"Wait," he says softly, reaching into his pocket with his free hand. "I think we should let fate decide something first."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you'll be my girlfriend."
"I don't need signs from the universe, or fate—"
"Trust me." He presses a Magic 8 Ball keychain into my palm. "Just give it a shake."
I roll my eyes but do as he asks. The answer floats up: Obviously yes.
"Wait—" I shake it again.
Go for it.
And again.
Are you really still asking?
"Might have tweaked the universe's messaging a bit." His thumbs trace circles on my hips. "Keep going."
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
All signs point to Caleb.
Stop shaking and kiss him already.
And I do, because how can I not? Because this ridiculous, golden-hearted man rigged a Magic 8 Ball to ask me out. Because every time he looks at me—like I'm rare, like I matter—it sets a fire in my chest I can't put out.
The second our lips collide, the air between us turns to static, and a gasp slips from my throat as he groans into my mouth. I roll my hips without meaning to, chasing that pressure, and he shudders.
"You feel so fucking good."
I smile against his mouth, drunk on how quickly he's coming undone. "Yeah?" I nip at his jaw, dragging my teeth along the sharp edge.
I kiss down his throat, slow and open-mouthed, loving how his pulse jumps beneath my tongue. His head tilts back to give me more, and I take it greedily.
His hips jerk forward with a rough grind, like he can't help it. The friction has him hard and heavy against me, and before I even think, my hand is between us. I press my palm to the thick bulge straining in his pants.
A strangled sound tears from his throat and his head thumps lightly against the chair, exposing more of his neck to my mouth.
"Jesus—"
His whole body goes rigid as I trace the shape of him, slow and curious and far too pleased with myself. The size of him. The heat. How he pulses every time I stroke along the length of him. It's addicting.
I drag my hand up and over him again, firmer this time, and his hips flex toward me.
"Ivy," His voice cracks. "You need to stop."
"Why?" I squeeze gently, savoring the way his eyelids flutter. My other hand slides into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him moan again. "Feels like you don't want me to."
"I don't," he growls. "Babe, I don't want you to stop. I want to strip you out of this costume, bend you over that counter, and fuck you so hard you forget what day it is."
"So do it," I whisper.
He groans again, louder this time, his grip tightening on my wrist as my thumb slides along the waistband of his pants.
"Not like this," he says in a hoarse voice. "Not rushed in the back of your store like some mindless hookup."
"Maybe I want quick and dirty." I stroke him again. He grits his teeth, heat rolling through the rigid lines of his body.
His hand moves under my top, sliding over my ribs, his fingers tracing the underside of my bra like he's right there to take more. But he doesn't. His restraint is maddening, honorable, and stupidly hot.
"You deserve more than this."
"What if I don't want more?" I lean in, biting his earlobe. "What if I just want you?"
"Damnit." The word comes out strangled. "You don't play fair."
"Never claimed to." But I let him guide my hand away, even as every cell in my body screams for more.
"I want to do this right," he says roughly. "Take you on actual dates. Show you it's different this time." His hands slide up my body, making it hard to think. "Sex has always been easy. This—us—that's what matters."
Which is sweet and infuriating all at once, because who knew Caleb Miller, Hallow's End's former king of hookups, would turn out to be such a gentleman? Even if I'm seriously reconsidering my stance on public indecency.
"You're going to kill me," I mutter, but let him guide me off his lap.
"Death by sexual frustration." He adjusts himself with zero shame. "Very on-brand for us."