Chapter 10 - Ben
Chapter ten
Ben
The afternoon sun slanted through the theater's high windows, casting long shadows across the stage. I glanced up from the department store window trim I was refinishing to watch Jack clutch his chest and stagger backward dramatically.
"Oh, my darling Susan!" His voice echoed through the empty seats. "Your organizational skills with rubber ducks have captured my heart!"
Charice snorted, breaking character. "How far off script is that?"
"I'm adding layers to Fred's personality. He's a man of passion. Of grand gestures. Of—"
"Of completely butchering your blocking," Mrs. Brubaker called from the front row. "Jack, downstage of Charice during the declaration. And please, stick to the actual lines."
I set my sandpaper down to watch Alex work with Charlie near stage left. The boy clutched his script, but Alex knelt beside him, speaking softly. Whatever he said made Charlie's shoulders relax.
"Try it again," Alex encouraged. "Pretend you're telling it to Toast."
Charlie's voice carried clearly this time. "But Santa, how do you know which presents are right for each person?"
"Perfect." Alex's face lit up. "See? You've got this."
The transformation in Alex since he arrived fascinated me. He still moved with a dancer's precision, but his Broadway polish had softened. When he thought no one was watching, genuine joy replaced calculated charm.
Jack's voice pulled my attention back. "My heart beats in synchronization with your toy department innovations!"
"Oh, good lord." Charice deliberately tangled her feet in a prop display. "Oops. Better take it from the top."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "You did that on purpose."
"Did what?" She blinked innocently. "I'm a humble toy department manager, overwhelmed by your legally-binding declarations of affection."
Even Mrs. Brubaker couldn't maintain her stern expression as laughter filled the theater.
I returned to the trim work, but kept stealing glances at Alex. My feelings for him grew deeper each day, moving beyond mere attraction.
"Let's rerun the window scene," Mrs. Brubaker announced. "And Jack, this time express your love without referencing corporate mergers."
"But they're so romantic—"
"No." Charice threw a stuffed reindeer at his head.
Jingling bells signaled Holly's arrival. Her color-blocked skirt swished as she crossed the stage, carrying a steaming mug.
"Special delivery for our Santa." She thrust it at Alex. "North family recipe. Guaranteed to put the proper resonance in your 'ho ho ho.'"
Alex accepted it warily. "The last tea you gave me made my tongue tingle for hours."
"That was wintergreen and mistletoe essence." Holly's eyes twinkled. "This is different. Though speaking of family recipes, Ben dear, didn't your great-great-grandfather have that special way with certain four-legged Christmas helpers?"
I nearly dropped my chisel. "Holly—"
"What? The Blitzen family's connection to holiday traditions runs particularly deep. It's something to be proud of, especially when it comes to transportation arrangements."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Transportation arrangements?"
"Old family stories." I focused on the window trim. "Nothing special."
"Nothing special?" Holly's bracelets jingled. "Why, I remember your grandfather telling me about the night Johan Blitzen got lost in that storm and—"
"Holly!" I cut her off. "Don't you have herbs to organize?"
"I can take a hint." She smiled serenely. "Though, Alex, you might want to ask Ben about those special marks his family uses in their woodworking. Particularly the ones shaped like tiny hoofprints."
Before I could protest, Jack saved me by collapsing dramatically across the prop counter. "Speaking of marks, I'm clearly missing mine. Charice, my retail goddess, shall we try the declaration scene again?"
"Only if you promise not to compare my smile to quarterly earnings reports."
Alex watched me with curiosity until Charlie called him over for another practice run. The boy's confidence grew with each repetition, and Alex's pride was evident.
Winter darkness pressed against the windows by the time rehearsal wrapped. I packed my tools, watching Alex help Charlie one last time.
"Remember," Alex gently adjusted the boy's shoulders. "You're not just reading the script. You're sharing something important with the audience."
Charlie nodded solemnly. "Like when I tell Toast my secrets?"
"Exactly like that." Alex offered a genuine smile. "You're going to be amazing."
I shouldered my toolbox. "Need a ride when we're finished here?"
Alex glanced up, that warm smile still on his face. "Actually, I'll catch a rideshare. I need about an hour to prep before you arrive."
"Should I be worried about that four-hour sauce?"
"It's legendary. My grandmother's love is the most important ingredient."
"Sounds serious."
"Serious-ly delicious." He moved closer, voice dropping. "Good thing I have steady hands for the preparation."
A flush crept up my neck. "I'm certain those hands have other talents too."
"If you two are quite finished," Holly said, standing with her hands on her hips, "some of us need to lock up before this turns into a different kind of show entirely."
Alex jumped like he'd forgotten we weren't alone. I bit back a laugh at his flustered expression.
I waited a full hour after rehearsal before driving the few blocks to his grandmother's house.
The front steps creaked beneath my boots—quarter-sawn oak that had weathered decades of winter storms. My fingers automatically traced the corbels supporting the porch roof, recognizing the delicate scrollwork as original craftsmanship.
Through the leaded glass panels flanking the door, warm light spilled onto the snow.
Alex opened the door, and the smells hit me immediately—seasoned wood, fresh herbs, and something richly savory that made my mouth water.
The foyer opened into a central hall where honey-colored wainscoting caught the light.
I ran my hand along it, feeling the subtle ripples in the grain that spoke of hand-planing rather than machine work.
"My grandmother would love that you appreciate the details," Alex said softly. "She used to say the house had personality in every corner."
Family photos lined the hall in frames ranging from ornate Victorian gilt to simple handcrafted wood.
Beyond lay the kitchen, where Alex's grandmother's influence shone.
She'd modernized thoughtfully—the commercial-grade stove somehow appeared perfectly at home amid original beadboard and gleaming copper pots.
A handmade knife block sat on the island, hewn by a local craftsman more than half a century ago.
"This is a four-generation recipe," Alex told me. "The secret is in the layering technique. Each component needs to be perfectly balanced."
I watched his hands as he worked. "How many times have you made this?"
"Countless times with my grandmother." He paused, checking the sauce with a wooden spoon that looked as old as the house. "But this is the first time on my own. That means it has to be perfect."
When he handed me a knife for the garlic bread, his fingers lingered on mine. "The slices need to be exactly three-quarters of an inch thick. Gram insisted the thickness affected how the butter and herbs absorbed."
The knife's well-worn handle fit naturally in my grip as Alex demonstrated, his body pressed against my back. "Like this," he murmured near my ear, guiding my hands. "See how the grain of the bread determines the angle?"
I angled the knife's point. "So the bread is telling me what it wants to be?"
His laugh vibrated through both our bodies. "Focus on the blade, Blitzen."
"About that..." I set the knife down. "Holly wasn't entirely making things up. My family does have some unusual Christmas traditions."
Alex squeezed my shoulders lightly. "Involving reindeer?"
"Among other things." I turned to face him. "Would it be too weird if I said some of those old stories might have truth in them?"
His expression softened. "Ben, I'm playing Santa Claus in a town that seems to run on Christmas magic the way other towns use electricity. Weird is relative."
Alex's perfectionism showed in how he assembled each layer of the lasagna, spreading sauce into the pan's corners, overlapping noodles just so, and distributing cheese in careful patterns.
"The proportions matter," he explained. "Too much ricotta overwhelms the sauce, too little and you lose the creamy texture that makes it comfort food."
When he slid the pan into the oven, his shoulders relaxed. "Now we wait. Thirty-two minutes exactly. Gram tested it extensively."
The baking lasagna filled the kitchen with aromas of garlic, tomatoes, and basil. Alex turned and wrapped his arms around me, his hands sliding under my flannel shirt.
"Speaking of magic..." His voice was husky. "We have half an hour before the lasagna and bread are done. I've already got salad waiting in the fridge."
"Half an hour—so precise?"
Instead of responding, Alex kissed me—deep and certain.
The kitchen counter pressed against my back as his kisses grew more intense. His usual calculated grace gave way to something raw and urgent. I slid my fingers under his sweater, exploring the lean muscle beneath and feeling his breath hitch as I touched his ribs.
"The lasagna," he gasped between kisses.
"Has half an hour." I nipped at his lower lip. "According to your expert timing."
His laugh caught in his throat as my hands roamed lower, thumbs hooking into his waistband. "Maybe closer to twenty-five minutes now."
"Plenty of time." I pulled him closer, reveling in how perfectly we fit together. The scents of herbs and Alex's citrusy cologne mingled with the heat rising between us. He raked his fingers into my hair, tugging gently, and I groaned against his mouth.
I reached for his hips, pulling him flush against me. The friction made us both gasp. Alex's head fell back, exposing the line of his throat, and I couldn't resist pressing my lips there.