Jack
A Santa hat. A Santa hat. Am I that fucking old already?
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Gina’s a sweet girl; she probably meant to poke fun at my beard. And my habit of bringing the workers gifts of hot drinks and cookies during long, cold winter shifts.
And yes, okay, the fact that I’m graying at the temples. And in the beard. And in the chest hair.
I slump back in my desk chair with a groan.
Fuck. I’m a dirty old man.
Because there’s a chance Gina meant it as a friendly warning… about Clara. There’s no way Gina hasn’t noticed the way I look at the young bartender sometimes, when it’s been a long day and a headache squeezes my skull and my restraint wears as thin as the frost lacing the windows.
She’s so damn beautiful, her caramel hair always braided over one shoulder, stray tendrils framing her heart shaped face. When she’s thinking, her pearly teeth dig into her plump bottom lip. There’s a tiny gap between her front teeth, and it’s so fucking cute, I could slam my head against the bar.
I know Clara’s too young for me. Too sweet, too innocent.
I know that.
Or my brain does, anyway. And I’m not an animal. My brain’s the part that makes decisions, no matter what my body and my heart cry out for.
And make no mistake: they cry out for Clara. They have for almost a year now, ever since she started working behind the bar and I noticed the way the regulars looked at her. Like those men would rather drink her down than a pint of beer. Like they were two steps away from crawling onto their bar stools and lunging for her, calling out her name.
Those first few times I noticed, it took every ounce of my self control not to throw those horn dogs out on their ears, marching them bodily across the bar floor. But they never did more than make eyes at her, and unless they cross a line, unless she tells me she’s uncomfortable, it’s none of my business.
None of my business.
Fuck.
I’d give anything for Clara to be my business. Not as an employee or a tenant, but as a woman. As my woman, mine to care for and spoil. Mine to protect. Mine.
I’ve never been the jealous type before. But with Clara…
I don’t recognize myself.
“You leave her alone,” I mutter to myself—the same thing I tell myself every night when the bar’s closed up and we’re the only two left in the building. Clara doesn’t know I used to crash in the room above the bar before she moved in, and now after late shifts, I can either get a stiff neck on the sofa in my office, or take my bike across town on dark, slippery roads.
She’ll never know. She’d worry herself sick with guilt, and there’s no need. I’d give her that room a thousand times over. Even if it means putting myself out. Even if it means she’s there all the time, making me sick with longing.
My chair creaks loudly as I push to my feet, staring around my office with tired, dry eyes. It’s dim, lit only by a table lamp, with a woven rug spread over the floorboards and a squashy red sofa pushed against one wall. The painting on the wall is a local artist’s, one of the nearby creek, and the bookshelves are crammed with fishing guides and mystery novels instead of the business books I should read.
What would Clara change in this room, if I let her decorate it? Would she make it warmer? More homey? Would she change that painting?
Why did she blush so badly when Gina made that joke about sitting on my lap?
I dig the heel of my palm into my eye. Damn stupid thing to wonder. Clara probably felt sorry for me—probably felt awkward because she knows how much I like her, and she agrees that I’m too old.
Midnight is a distant memory as I move around my office, picking up the day’s mess, moonlight slanting through the window and lighting up the snowy street outside. I pile up papers and file them away. I log the workers’ hours and pay earned—including a nice fat holiday bonus each. And I pass the Santa hat piled on my desk a couple times before swiping it up, jamming it onto my head in a flash of wry humor.
I keep clearing up, the pom pom swinging around my neck.
It’s Christmas Eve, after all. And only the worst kind of man can’t laugh at himself.
* * *
The bar is dim when I lock up my office, lit only by shafts of moonlight and the sparkling string lights draped on Clara’s tree. She thinks I didn’t notice her dragging that sorry little shrub inside a few days ago, but the truth is, I got a lump in my throat when I saw it.
I didn’t want to make a big deal. Didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
But these little touches she leaves around the place… they make my heart twist. Make my skin prickle with heat.
Clara got half the picture right: she brought in a fir tree, with fresh, wintry needles, and she wound glowing gold lights through its branches. It cheers up the corner of the bar, warms a spot that would be nothing but shadows otherwise.
But there’s one thing missing. At the base of the tree, the floorboards are empty. There are no piles of gifts, no brightly wrapped presents. It’s naked. Sad.
Hey, I don’t mean Clara should’ve bought things for me. Fuck that. She works hard, and she should keep her money. But it’s part of the image, right? Part of the reason for having a tree. And a girl like Clara deserves huge mounds of gifts, endless piles of perfectly wrapped boxes tied with ribbons.
I don’t have endless piles of gifts, and my wrapping skills are shitty. But I figured a few bags’ worth wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t cross too many lines.
Yeah, right. Who am I kidding here?
But I want her to have them. So maybe I just won’t tell her it was me.
The shopping bags rustle by my legs as I cross the bar floor, not bothering to flick on a light. There’s enough moonlight to see by, and anyhow, this feels like a deed that should stay in the darkness.
Anonymous. Deniable. Shameful .
An older man, keeping his messed up feelings in the shadows.
I sigh and kneel before the tree, bags pooling at my sides, and a chill seeps through my jeans. I wrapped these gifts days ago, weeks ago some of them, but as I lift them out one by one, I can picture them perfectly beneath my shoddy wrapping.
A box of those fancy teas that Clara likes—the ones she hoards like a squirrel, only allowing herself one cup a week.
A vanilla-scented candle for her attic room.
A cross-stitch kit.
A novelty shot glass with her favorite cartoon character.
A soft, pale green scarf to replace the one she snagged on a bramble last month in the woods. It’s not an exact match to the one she lost, but the shade will go just right with her eyes.
On and on they go, small gifts and trinkets that all together tell a damning truth—that I’ve been watching her. Obsessing, even. Remembering every tiny detail, storing tidbits away like a dragon sprawled on a pile of gold.
If Gina didn’t think badly of me before tonight, she will now, and yet I can’t bring myself to stuff the gifts back in the shopping bags. Not when I know they’ll make Clara smile.
“Ho fucking ho,” I mutter under my breath, the Santa hat pom pom sliding against my shoulder as I work. The last gift crinkles in my grip as I place it beneath the tree: the latest book by Clara’s favorite author. Something sexy with werewolves in it. Best not to wonder too much about that one.
A floorboard creaks behind me, and I freeze, kneeling beside the branches. String lights twinkle an inch from my nose, and my heart sinks all the way to the base of my belly.
Busted .
I know those quiet footsteps; that faint coconut scent. That hitch in her breath haunts my dreams.
I’m caught, and there’s no getting out of this. There’s only one person that could be.