Chapter 4 #2
I busy myself wrapping the exposed wires, sealing off the dangerous bits.
Nick holds the flashlight steady for me, the beam bright and making me nervous.
I can feel his attention on more than just the wiring—like he’s cataloguing me.
The thought makes warmth creep up my neck.
It doesn’t help that I’m pretty sure I have grease on my cheek. Very glamorous.
“All set,” I say, tearing the tape and pressing it down. “We’ll see if that did it.”
“I’ll grab the power,” Jerry says behind us, already turning. “Breaker’s in the shed.”
“Thanks, Jerry,” I say. He trudges off, eager to be useful and probably more eager to get home.
Nick and I stand, straightening stiff knees and brushing snow from our coats. We both face the reindeer like it’s going to salute us.
“So,” Nick says, breaking the quiet. “Called back to work on Christmas Eve. Living the dream.” His tone is teasing, but not unkind.
I huff out a small laugh. “Someone has to babysit the herd.
At lease we won't be getting sued or for burning the city down. And the kids would be horrified tomorrow if this place is nothing but ashes.” I nudge him lightly with my elbow.
“You did pretty well with the chaos today. Even if you are suspiciously fit for the role.”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ll admit I retired the padding and beard the second my shift ended. Those things are torture devices.”
“I can imagine.” I study him, curious. “I don’t remember seeing you at the hiring event. Last-minute addition?”
“Sort of.” He shrugs, gaze flicking away for a beat. “Buddy of mine was slotted to do it. He got sick, agency called to see if I could fill in. Easy money, I figured. Couple of days of Santa duty. How hard could it be?”
It’s a neat story. Too neat, maybe, but I’m the one who thought a handmade snow globe from my nightmares was “probably a weird joke.” My gut’s been off all day.
“Do you actually like working with kids?” I ask. “Or did the agency leave that part out?”
His mouth curves. “They’re honest. And they don’t pretend Christmas is about anything other than getting what they want. I respect that.” He smiles, eyes softening. “One little girl told me she left extra carrots for the reindeer tonight. Wanted to make sure they got as much as Santa.”
An unwanted ache tugs at my chest. “That’s cute,” I say, voice a little softer.
“Yeah.” He studies me. “What about you? Get any wishes in?”
It’s a joke, but something about the way he watches me makes my pulse skip. For a second, the world narrows to snow, lights, and the weight of his attention.
I open my mouth, reaching for something light—then the plaza flickers back to life. Lights spark along Rudolph’s harness, his nose blazes red, and sleigh trim twinkles in a ripple of color. A cheerful jingle bursts out of hidden speakers, “Deck the Halls” chiming bright and oblivious.
“Hey, there we go,” I say, more relieved than I should be. One problem solved. Holiday spirit restored, at least in this tiny corner I control.
Jerry jogs back, rubbing his gloved hands. “Any more sparks?”
“We’re good,” I say. “Rudolph lives.”
“Perfect. I’m gonna finish locking up the front and get out of your hair, boss. You need me to stick around?” His gaze flicks to Nick, then back to me. He’s offering to stay if I want backup.
I hesitate. The plaza’s big, and once the lights are off and gates are shut, it’s just darkness and echo. But I’ve closed alone before. And Nick is here—though technically he’s off the clock and a stranger, no matter how many kids sat on his lap today.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Just need to kill the music and last lights. Nick will walk out with me.” I glance up, arching a brow at him. “You’re not abandoning ship yet, are you?”
He smiles easily. “My car’s out back. I’ll stick with you.”
Jerry nods. “Alright then. Merry Christmas, Meredith. You too, Nick.”
“Merry Christmas,” we say in unison.
He disappears, his footsteps fading, the jangle of keys and click of doors marking his progress. Quiet rolls in to fill the space he leaves. Only the looped music, the low hum of lights, and the whisper of wind through the pines at the plaza’s edge remain.
I exhale, breath clouding pale in front of me. “Well. That’s one crisis averted.”
We start walking slowly across the square.
Without people, Frost Plaza shifts. Vendor stalls stand shuttered and dark, the Ferris wheel at the far end motionless, its colored bulbs glowing against the night.
The fake snow, dusted now with real flakes, glows faintly in the light.
It’s beautiful the way abandoned places are, too much sparkle with no one to soak it in.
Nick turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “You did a hell of a job,” he says. “The whole place…it’s kind of enchanting.”
The word slides under my skin, warming some place I keep cold on purpose. I’ve poured too many late nights into making this place look like magic, even If I personally want nothing to do with it. To hear it from someone outside my usual staff makes something in my chest loosen.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “That’s nice to hear.”
We head toward the rear of the plaza, our footsteps the only sound on the path. I hug my arms around myself for warmth. Nick notices. Without a word, he shrugs off his Santa coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I’m good,” he says when I start to protest. “Thermal’s working. You look like a popsicle.”
The coat is warm and heavy and smells like him—woodsmoke, pine, a hint of spice. Being wrapped in it feels oddly intimate, like stepping into his space without touching him. “Thanks,” I murmur, fingers clutching the front closed.
Snow flurries dance under the lampposts.
I sneak a glance at his profile: straight nose, solid jaw, lashes any woman would sell her soul for.
Under the lights, I finally catch the color of his eyes—deep brown, nearly black, with flecks that catch when he looks at me, he feels strangely familiar but he doesn't have one of those common faces.
He catches me staring and I look away, heat prickling my cheeks. He lets it go.
“So,” he says casually, “heading home to family after this? Or just you and the problematic reindeer tonight?”
“Family is far from here,” I say, shoving my hands into the Santa coat pockets. My fingers bump something soft and rolled—padding, probably. “I was going to go home, open a bottle of wine, argue with John McClane about what constitutes a Christmas movie.”
He smiles. “Die Hard? Nice. I pegged you for the kind of woman who’d pretend she doesn’t like Love Actually but has it memorized.”
I fake a gasp. “Excuse you. Die Hard is the ultimate Christmas movie and I will die on that hill.”
“Hey, no judgment,” he says, laughing. “Nothing says holiday cheer like crawling through vents in a tank top and bare feet.”
The sound draws a real laugh out of me, and for a moment the knot that’s been sitting in my gut since this morning loosens.
Snow globe. Cabin. That stupid little glass prison has been stalking the edges of my brain all day, and now here I am, in a movie-scene plaza, wrapped in a stranger’s coat.
If this were a rom-com, this would be the part where the universe was winking at me.
In real life, the universe doesn’t wink.
We pass under the last archway of lights separating the square from the staff lot. Only two cars remain: my sedan and, a few spaces down, a black SUV that looks too sleek for this part of town. It sits under a flickering lamppost, paint swallowing most of the light.
I stop just under the arch and turn to him, clutching his coat tighter. “Thanks for helping tonight,” I say. “Seriously. You didn't have to stay this late.”
He waves it off. “That's what this Holiday is all about, there's no place I'd rather be than somewhere I'm needed.” His gaze holds mine. “Best Christmas Eve I’ve had in a long time.”
There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes my heartbeat stutter. I open my mouth to say something appropriately breezy, but the words jam up.
He steps closer, just a half-step. The wind picks up, tossing hair across my face. He reaches out and gently tucks the strand behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek, warm against skin gone numb from the cold. A shiver ripples through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
My breath hitches. The empty, snow-dusted plaza, the arch of lights, the man looking at me like I’m something worth looking at—it all really starts to feels like it belongs in one of those movies I roll my eyes at.
My eyes flick to his mouth before I can stop them.
For an insane second, I think he might kiss me.
Worse, I think I might let him.
His thumb strokes my cheek once, a soft pass. “Merry Christmas, Meredith,” he says, voice low, intimate in the quiet.
I swallow. “Merry Christmas,” I manage, barely louder than the wind.
He lets his hand drop. I realize I’m holding my breath and force a smile to cover the chaos inside me. “I should, um, shut down the rest. There’s a panel by the back gate for the last lights.” I slip his coat from my shoulders and hold it out. “You should put this back on before you freeze.”
He takes it, our fingers brushing. “I’ll meet you by the gate,” he says.
I nod and head toward the service gate, boots crunching on thin ice. My face feels hot, my skin buzzing where he touched it. Maybe it’s just the emotional hangover from the snow globe and the long day. Maybe it’s him.
The control panel is mounted on the fence post by the gate.
I punch in the code with stiff fingers and flip the switches.
One by one, the plaza lights wink out behind me, strings of bulbs fading into darkness.
The music cuts mid-chorus, leaving only the wind and distant city hum.
The sudden quiet settles over my shoulders.