Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
NICK
T he aroma of freshly baked apple fritters and strong coffee wafts through the air as I make my way into the Kringle family kitchen.
I adjust the collar of my sweater—this one features the abominable snowman, and it says, “I saw you first.” It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help grinning as I walk in and Hazel rolls her eyes at me.
The kitchen island is already a hive of activity. Rye, looking like he just stepped out of a business casual catalog in his crisp polo shirt and neatly pressed khakis, is furiously tapping away at his laptop. His copper-colored eyes are focused intently on the screen, barely acknowledging my entrance.
“Morning, everyone,” I say, reaching for a steaming mug of cocoa.
Rye glances up briefly. “Morning, Nick,” he says before diving back into his work. “I’ve almost got my department reorganized. It’s really coming together.”
I nod, impressed by his dedication but also a little concerned by his intense focus. Sometimes, I worry that Rye is so caught up in proving himself that he forgets to actually live.
Settling into one of the cheerful red barstools, I turn my attention to Hazel. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her ice-blue eyes are fixed on a thick medical textbook. Of all of us, Hazel seems the most conflicted about her magical abilities, sometimes looking for explanations for what we can do.
“Heavy reading for breakfast,” I comment, taking a bite of a still-warm apple fritter. The sweetness explodes on my tongue, a perfect blend of apple, cinnamon, and sugar.
Hazel looks up, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s fascinating stuff,” she says, her voice soft but enthusiastic. “The neuroscience of dreams. Maybe I’ll be an anesthesiologist.”
I can’t help but lift an eyebrow at that. “Don’t you think doctors would start to get suspicious that you aren’t using drugs?” I ask, keeping my tone light and teasing.
She shrugs, her delicate shoulders rising and falling beneath her oversized sweater. “You know how people are,” she says. “They only see what they want to see, and most of the time, they don’t see the magic. I don’t think they’d notice.”
I have to give her that.
The sound of heavy footsteps announces Oliver’s arrival before he appears in the doorway. He’s carrying an old, leather-bound journal and wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that make him look like a professor. His short hair is slightly mussed, as if he forgot to brush it when he got up this morning.
“What’s all this?” Hazel asks, gesturing to the journal as Oliver sets it down on the counter with utmost care.
Oliver sighs, reaching for an apple fritter. “It’s Lux’s research on Christmas Magic back from when things went crazy,” he explains, his blue eyes serious behind his glasses.
I feel myself instinctively leaning away from the journal. The chart is still on the television, broadcasting to everyone in the house how lucky or unlucky I am in love that day. It updates every minute of every day, and I would just as soon throw the machine out the window as to have how smooth or awkward I am at wooing Penelope to be quantified before my very eyes. There was this massive spike while skating yesterday, and I’m pretty sure it was at that moment that I wanted to kiss her.
What does it all mean? I have no idea. I mean, I know Christmas Magic grows from true love, and I know that Penelope is my true love—but that doesn’t tell me how I’m supposed to think about this. I know what I want to do—marry Penelope and whisk her off to the North Pole. But I can’t do that. She’d never leave her Grandpa behind.
So now I have to consider staying here.
And I don’t know what that means for Christmas, the Magic, or my own magical abilities—which I’m supposed to figure out how to get back, but the whole quest has taken a back seat to romance .
Oliver settles into a chair with another heavy sigh. “From everything I’m reading here,” he says, his voice grave, “Nick is just the tip of the iceberg, and we all could be next.”
“Next for what?” Rye asks, still typing away at his laptop. He can listen to us and type. Impressive multitasking ability.
“Next to have to get married.”
The kitchen falls silent, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The three of them turn their eyes on me as if I know the answers to the most important questions in the universe. I settle for restating the question. “You’re saying that Christmas Magic won’t be satisfied with me settling my heart situation?” Was there a more awkward way of saying that? I think not. “But that once I figure things out, it’s going to turn on you three?”
Rye and Hazel swivel their gaze back to Oliver. “It did it before. Look.” He turns the book around, showing us a series of complex graphs and charts. “Lux tracked all their romances—Ginger’s, Frost’s, Robyn’s, her own, and a bunch of failed ones in Stella’s case that I’m not sure Stella knows she tracked.” He glances around nervously as if expecting Stella to pop through the chimney and snatch the book away.
“It went from one sister to the other?” Rye clarifies.
Oliver tips his head from side to side. “It didn’t pick a sister. The sisters chose the year they got married—sort of. Lux isn’t really clear on how this all worked out. Ginger went first because she got the tinsel tattoo—which threw everyone into a tizzy because it was supposed to be your mom.” He throws Rye and Hazel a look. “It was always the firstborn who became Santa.”
“It was the only child. Santa never had more than one kid before,” Hazel argues.
“True.” Oliver runs his hand through his short hair. “So now Santa has six kids and a gaggle of grandkids. So it could do anything—except that it appears to be repeating itself with Nick.”
I startled for a moment because he used the number six instead of five. Santa had five daughters biologically. I know I’m legally and magically adopted into the family, but I didn’t share a childhood with my sisters, and a lot of times, I still feel like the brother-in-law who is one step removed from the inner circle. It’s a feeling that I create, not one they place upon me, and I really need to figure out how to get past it.
“He’s an uncle, though—he’s one of them.” Hazel glares at me.
One of them, she says. Them being the generation above her. I grin down at the countertop. There she goes, lumping me in with the family as if I belong. And here I am, fighting this feeling of being an outsider. I think it’s a curse that foster kids carry with them.
“So that means we’re safe,” she continues. “Right?” Hazel’s voice is small, almost lost in the sudden tension of the room. I know how shy she is around people; the idea of talking to a stranger, let alone dating one, must be terrifying for her.
Oliver shrugs. “I don’t know.” He stands up and motions toward the front room, where my love life is computed by an algorithm. “From this graph, we can see that the times Nick is near Penelope, the bumps at the North Pole are smaller in size,” he explains, using a laser pointer to highlight different areas of the chart. “The farther he gets away from her, the bigger the bounces. Which explains why it was so bad when he was in Moose Hollow.”
I nod along, trying to process this information. It seems to confirm what I’ve been feeling in my heart, but hearing it laid out so scientifically is a bit overwhelming. “So she is my true love,” I say, more to myself than to the others.
“I believe that would be a reasonable conclusion based on the data we’ve collected so far,” he says, his tone purely academic. “However, I’d like to run an experiment.”
I eye him warily. “O-kay?”
“I’d like you to be in physical contact with her and see if we flatline,” Oliver continues, his enthusiasm growing. “Kissing would be the best, but at this point, I’ll take any hand-holding.”
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. The idea of walking up to Penelope and saying, I’d like to kiss you for science , is so far removed from the delicate dance we’ve been doing around each other that it strikes me as hilarious.
“What’s so funny?” Oliver asks, looking genuinely confused.
Hazel shakes her head, her locks swaying with the movement. “He can’t just kiss her,” she exclaims, voicing what we’re all thinking. “There’s some finesse in this Oliver.”
“But it’s for science,” Oliver protests, his brow furrowed in confusion.
I manage to catch my breath, wiping a tear from my eye. “I’ll be sure to remember that when I’m nursing my black eye,” I quip, imagining Penelope’s reaction to such a bold move.
Rye chooses this moment to hop to his feet, closing his laptop with a definitive click. “I gotta go,” he announces. “Good luck with your science stuff.”
Oliver looks aghast. “Rye, you might have to get married before Christmas next year,” he says, his voice rising slightly. “Doesn’t that matter to you?”
Rye shrugs on a sweater that coordinates perfectly with his outfit, looking every inch the successful businessman he aspires to be. “If I do, it’ll be purely business,” he says matter-of-factly. “Christmas is the biggest business, guys, and I’m all about the business.” He gives us a casual salute and heads out, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
Hazel watches him go, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I’m not sure who is more clueless about women, him or–”
“Me,” I interrupt, standing up.
Hazel turns her attention to me, her ice-blue eyes piercing. “Why do you think that is?” she asks, her voice gentle but probing.
I can’t help the sarcasm that creeps into my voice. “ Because I was orphaned at a young age and have no idea how to form solid relationships?”
“Yes,” Hazel agrees, surprising me with her directness. “But why do you think you’re clueless about Penelope? Why her specifically?”
I pause, realizing I don’t have a good answer. “Uhh...”
“Have you talked about what happened before?”
I drop my head, chastened. “No. I thought we could just pick up and move on from where we are now. We don’t have to open that up, do we?”
Hazel lifts one eyebrow.
I scowl, the idea of confronting this issue head-on making me uncomfortable. “You want me to just bring it up.”
Hazel lifts a hand, her expression determined. “Yep. I want you to address the elephant in the room.”
Oliver interjects, his frustration evident in his voice. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, and no one wants to consider the fact that they might be next. Do you have any idea what that means for us?”
For Oliver, I’d guess he sees it as loosing his freedom to do whatever experiments and tinkering he wants to do at any time of the day. He looks like he might throw up at the thought of being tied down.
He has no idea how good it feels to be connected to a woman, to have her depend on you and draw strength from just being near you. He has no clue. I could tell him till I’m blue in the face and he won’t get it until he falls for someone and becomes her superman .
Until then, he can ride that elephant around the room all he wants.
Hazel turns to him, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “If I have to get married next year, I’m going to need vast amounts of anxiety medication. Would it make you feel better if I started taking it now?”
“Actually? It might,” Oliver admits, missing the sarcasm entirely.
Hazel rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t send you a nightmare,” she mutters as she leaves the room, her textbook tucked under her arm.
Oliver looks at me, confusion written across his features. “What did I say?”
I shrug, feeling equally lost. “I don’t understand women, remember?”
Oliver scowls, running a hand through his short hair. “If only there was an algorithm that would predict their behavior.”
“If you figure that out, let me know,” I say as I stand up, brushing crumbs from my sweater. The weight of what I need to do settles on my shoulders. “I’m going to find Penelope. I guess I have to have a conversation.”
As I head for the door, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. The happy, abominable snowman sweater is a stark contrast to the nervousness I feel inside. But maybe that’s fitting. He’s a monster who doesn’t fit in either, but he has found a way to be happy. I could learn a thing or two from him.