Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NOELLE
“Kids, please. Santa is not a Christmas tree,” I say as a little girl strings lights around his horns.
“What an odd choice for Santa,” one mother adds as five kids climb all over the huge zyanthan warrior in the too-small Santa suit. “Though he’s a fabulous jungle gym.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he understood what he was volunteering for.” I’m still holding the Santa hat I never had a chance to give him after I cut out two holes for his horns.
“Thank you for the toys,” a father says as he collects three items with his children’s names on them.
Part of me wants to rescue Nikkov, and yet watching him with those kids, talking to them, lifting them high and letting them touch and decorate his horns and skin with tinsel, gives me a warmth inside, different from when we kissed on the Incline.
God, I don’t know what came over me. Getting involved with him, now, of all times, is risky as fuck.
“Anything for me?” a rough voice says behind me.
I glance at the bald guy, he’s huge, scowling, and makes the little hairs at the back of my neck to rise. I pick up the clipboard. “What’s your kid’s name?”
“Tiny Tim.”
Adrenaline shoots through me as my spine straightens and my hand itches to reach for something to defend myself. Calmly, I look up and smile as I reach into my coat pocket. “This is for little Timmy. Merry Christmas.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” he says in a flat voice as he snatches the box, turns, and hurries out of the food distribution center.
“Some parents don’t like accepting charity, especially for Christmas,” Mrs. Anderson says before hugging me once more. “But we appreciate what you’re doing here. Thank you. Kids, time to head home. Don’t forget to thank Santa for your presents.”
Two little girls no more than four and six, and an older boy throw themselves against Nikkov’s enormous legs and hug him. A huge open palm cups the back of the kids’ heads in turn. “Merry Christmas, younglings. Listen to your eema and zayda.”
“You’re a natural with kids,” I say as the rest of the parents collect their children.
“Younglings are innocents, no matter the species. It’s the adults that often can’t be trusted.”
I wonder if he’s talking about me or if that’s just guilt setting in.
As I unwrap the Christmas lights from his horns, he pulls me between his legs. “I scare you.”
“Hardly. It’s just…” I sigh and don’t finish the thought. He smells like a mug of hot chocolate and a fireplace—sweet, warm, and tempting enough to make me lean closer, to soak in his heat. I can’t indulge, not until after Christmas. By then the gifts will be gone… and so will he.