Chapter 1 Sparrow
The red velvet corset was doing miraculous things for my cleavage, but after six straight hours of smiling at crowds of tourists, my ribs were filing an official grievance with the North Star Christmas Workshop management.
"Ho, ho, ho," I muttered under my breath, adjusting the white faux-fur trim across my neckline as I leaned against the mahogany counter of Mrs. Claus’s Cookie Kitchen. "If one more grown adult asks me if my gingerbread has real ginger in it, I'm spiking the eggnog vat with industrial bleach."
"You wouldn't do that, Mrs. C," a deep, molasses-rich rumble vibrated directly behind my ear, sending a jolt of pure liquid heat straight down the center of my spine. "Bleach ruins the glaze. What you need is a little cinnamon... and a whole lot of holiday spirit."
I didn't have to turn around to know exactly who was standing over me.
Summit Simmons was six-foot-five of broad-shouldered, thick-chested athletic perfection.
At twenty-four, he was supposed to look like a jolly old saint in that tailored crimson velvet coat and polished black leather boots, but instead, he looked like an ancient Nordic god who had hijacked Christmas just to make every woman within a fifty-mile radius spontaneously combust. His thick brown hair was ruffled from shedding Santa’s embroidered hat, and his hazel eyes—flecked with gold and amber—were locked onto my face with an intensity that made the air in my lungs feel thin.
"You're late for the evening turnover, Simmons," I said, leaning my hips back against the stainless-steel prep table and looking up at him with a smirk. "The adult-only VIP cocktail mixer starts in ten minutes, and you haven't even adjusted your belt. Slacking on the job?"
"I don't slack, Crawford," Summit murmured, stepping into my personal space until the heavy brass buckle of his Santa belt brushed against the soft velvet of my gown.
The man was massive. My five-foot-seven frame usually commanded any room I walked into—I was loud, curvy, plus-sized, and unapologetically took up space—but standing in front of Summit, I felt delightfully, terrifyingly encompassed.
"I was helping Kent in prop storage. And for your information, my belt is fine. What's wrong with the belt?"
"It’s crooked," I lied smoothly, reaching out with both hands and tugging on the thick black leather. "There. Now you look presentable. Can’t have the wealthy donors thinking Santa doesn't know how to handle his equipment."
Summit’s gaze darkened, dropping straight to my mouth. A slow, lethal smile curved the corners of his lips. "Believe me, sweetheart. I know exactly how to handle my equipment. Want a demonstration?"
My stomach did a violent, delicious flip.
We had been doing this flirtatious dance for almost a year—trading barbs, trading looks across crowded workshop floors, brushing against each other behind the stage curtains—and every single time, it took everything I had not to jump his bones right on top of the toy workbench.
"Is that a threat, Santa?" I whispered, my voice dropping an octave.
"Why did the gingerbread man go to the doctor?" Summit countered suddenly, his hazel eyes sparkling with that trademark, ridiculous humor.
I groaned loudly, rolling my eyes. "Summit, no. Not another dad joke."
"Because he was feeling crummy," he delivered with a completely straight face, then gave a triumphant chuckle that rumbled deep in his massive chest. "Admit it, Sparrow. You love it. You’re dough-nuts about me."
"I am going to shove a candy cane through your eye socket," I deadpanned, though the laugh bubbled up in my throat before I could stop it. "You are incorrigible."
"Summit! There you are!"
The high-pitched, syrupy voice shattered the moment like a brick through a stained-glass window.
Fleur Tucker came strutting into the kitchen, her miniature green elf skirt barely covering her ass, jingle bells sewn onto her pointed velvet collar rattling with every exaggerated sway of her hips.
At twenty-three, Fleur had made it her personal life mission to throw herself at Summit every chance she got.
She didn't care that he routinely ignored her or that her advances were about as subtle as an avalanche.
"Fleur," Summit said, his tone instantly flattening from playful warmth to ice-cold professional distance. He didn't take a step away from me, keeping his large shoulder angled protectively over mine. "We're prepping the final rotation."
"Oh, forget the rotation for two seconds!
" Fleur cooed, reaching out with her manicured nails to grab Summit’s bicep, purposely ignoring me.
"I was thinking after we lock up the main gates tonight, you and I could sneak into the VIP lounge.
Kent opened a bottle of vintage bourbon from the owners' private cellar, and Eugen brought his Bluetooth speakers.
We can have our own private after-party... just the two of us by the hearth."
Summit gently, but unmistakably, peeled Fleur’s fingers off his arm and let his hand fall to his side.
"Can’t, Fleur. Roman and I are running the final inventory checks on the high-voltage animatronics before the weekend maintenance lockdown.
Besides, the storm warning outside is getting worse.
We’re going to have to clear the guests out early. "
Fleur’s green eyes narrowed, darting toward me with venomous jealousy. "Sparrow doesn't even need to stay for inventory. Mrs. Claus doesn't handle machinery. Why don't you go home early, Sparrow? I’m sure you’ve got a lot of... cookies to eat."
I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest, letting the velvet squeeze my breasts upward.
"Fleur, sweetie, if I went home early, this entire workshop would grind to a halt because nobody else here knows how to balance the cash registers without crying.
And unlike your skirt, my presence here actually serves a purpose. "
Fleur gasped, her cheeks flushing crimson. "Summit, are you going to let her talk to me like that?"
"Sparrow’s right," Summit said calmly, his deep voice carrying an edge that brooked no argument. "Her shift doesn't end until mine does. And neither does yours. Go check the queue lines in Santa’s Hall, Fleur. Roman’s waiting."
Fleur huffed, stomping her green-booted foot so hard the little bells chimed in anger, before spinning around and marching out of the kitchen.
I let out a low whistle. "Ouch. Cold as an Arctic blizzard, Simmons."
Summit turned back to me, the cool detachment vanishing instantly as his hazel eyes locked onto mine, burning with a fire that made my knees weak. "I only care about warming up one person in this building, Crawford. And it isn't her."
Before I could process the sheer, unadulterated weight of that confession, the workshop’s PA chime echoed overhead, followed by the frantic voice of Roman Amador:
"Attention all cast and staff. The national weather service has just upgraded the blizzard to a Category 4 mountain warning. State police have closed the pass. All VIP guests are being escorted to the shuttle bay immediately. Staff report to Santa’s Hall for emergency lockdown procedures."
Sleighed