Chapter 25 The Christmas Is the Most Magical Time of Year Trope
The St. Nicholas Farms gift shop was chock-full of ornaments, tree stands, and locally made chocolates. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You look a little wan.” A checkout woman reminiscent of Mrs. Claus touched my arm with concern. The smell of O negative emanated from her.
For her comfort I smiled (no fangs). “I’m just really thirsty. Do you have any coconut water?” Before I drain someone. We didn’t need a repeat of the Wayne Jarvis situation.
“Coconut water?” She repeated it like it was a foreign concept and shook her head in a young-people-these-days way as she checked the fridge. “Whaddya know? You’re in luck.” She emerged triumphant with a tall blue can of Goya coconut water.
After paying, I stood outside the shop and cracked the can open. With my first sip, I swallowed a few chunks of coconut flesh. I sputtered and coughed on the solid matter. Tyrone appeared as I was trying to choke down coconut water like I had tried to swallow steak without chewing.
“You okay there?”
I waved off my coughing fit. “Yes, take me to the fat man,” I said jovially, now that I had enough electrolytes in my system.
Tyrone offered his arm and I leaned into him as we walked. We were a fun couple on a quirky date with a fun night ahead of us—just like everyone else. Holiday tunes drifted through the air, intermingling with the laughter of children and the sound of a crackling bonfire.
“I feel like I’ve stepped into one of my favorite movies.” My stomach gurgled, unused to solids. This date was such a great idea, a fun activity and no pretending to eat. “Did you believe in Santa when you were a kid?” I asked Tyrone, a little too loudly. The mom in front of us turned and glared.
I covered my mouth in an oops gesture and mouthed, “Sorry!”
“Hell no. I was raised by a single mom. There was no way she was going to give some dude credit for presents she bought.”
A boy who loved his mom—be still my heart.
“How about you?” he asked.
“Oh, I still believe.” Santa, Satan—all you had to do was rearrange a few letters. He’s temptation personified, a capitalist god who works one day a year, passing judgment on children. “So, no Santa growing up, but now you’ve become Santa.” I gestured to the Christmas magic around us.
“This all just happened. I mean, what kind of twentysomething Black man from North Carolina decides to run a Christmas tree farm in Vermont? No offense, but that’s some white people shit.”
He wasn’t wrong. The line of people waiting to see Santa wound through a maze of candy canes and presents, nearly all white faces.
“But didn’t you say your family farmed Christmas trees?” I asked, genuinely trying to figure it out.
Tyrone raised a brow. “What are you, a journalist?”
I laughed lightly as some teenagers pushed past us toward Santa.
“Just getting to know you,” I said, leaning into him even more.
With a smile, he said, “It was my grandpa. He planted the first few generations of what would become Santa’s Choice, not because he had some big plan but because they were resistant to root rot.
After a while, he noticed that they also last longer than other types of trees after being cut—that’s when he knew he was on to something.
With the Christmas season starting earlier every year, a long-lasting tree is in demand.
” He pulled his hat down farther around his ears like it was cold.
It probably was. “Grandpa was just a regular farmer.” He gestured to the Christmas magic around him. “This here is a crime of opportunity.”
“I wouldn’t call it a crime,” I began, but then my brain shut down as Tyrone brushed an errant lock of hair from my face. I shut my eyes and savored the feeling of his finger on my probably freezing cheek.
“What else do you want to know?”
“How’d you get involved with Jeff?”
“What?” He gave me a confused look. “Didn’t Jeff tell you?”
“Jeff didn’t tell me as much as you’d think,” I said.
With a knowing look, he said, “That makes two of us.”
Huh. I filed that away for later.
“Jeff’s parents planted a bunch of my trees here on this land.” He gestured to the farm. “After Jeff died, I helped out quite a bit. When Tom got too sick to handle the farming himself, I was here all the time.”
He must have taken my look of confusion for something else—hurt feelings maybe—because he quickly added, “No shade. It wasn’t your job to take care of them.”
“Thank you.” I guess it would have made sense for Jeff’s fiancée to stick around.
“It wasn’t long before I bought the place. If I’m growing Santa’s Choice, I can’t live south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Blessedly, a man dressed as an elf interrupted our conversation before I could put my foot in my mouth again. “Hey, boss, wanna jump the line to see Santa?”
“Nah, we’re good.” To me, he said, “Waiting in line with you is half the fun. Unless you’re too cold?”
“I’m fine, but you could warm me up.”
“I got you.” Tyrone side-hugged me and rubbed my shoulder.
My spirits set sail with the snowflakes.
Tyrone, the snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes, the silver-white winter that melts into spring, plus tingles of sexual anticipation and the rush of blood under his skin—just a few of my favorite things.
A mom in front of us was trying to rebutton her toddler’s jacket and jam a matching hat on his head.
“Stop scratching, John!” The kid was frantically rubbing his belly like the coat was attacking him.
To her husband, she said, “These pictures aren’t cheap.
We literally can’t afford to have him look bad. ”
The husband didn’t look up from his phone.
I could see the big vein in her forehead throbbing. I shut my eyes and counted to five. I couldn’t bite someone in the face while waiting in line for Santa.
To distract myself, I stood on my tiptoes and whispered to Tyrone, “I know what I’m asking Santa for.”
“Tell me what you want,” Tyrone said, his voice low and teasing.
“I think you know what I want,” I said.
“Why don’t you give me a hint?” Tyrone’s heated gaze sent a thrill down my spine, but my stomach gurgled again. This time it didn’t settle, and my mouth began to water. I tried to will the sensation away, but it was no good.
“Shit!” I wrenched away from Tyrone, staggering out of line just in time to vomit the entire can of coconut water into Santa’s bag filled with glossy, wrapped presents.
Just when I thought it was over, I dry heaved a few more times.
“I told you we should have come earlier, Frank,” the mom in front of us complained. “All the drunks come out at night.”
I shot her a look of pure evil between dry heaves. If only I was just a drunk. If she didn’t watch it, she was going to meet the sharp end of my fangs.
A hand offered me a handkerchief. “Are you okay?” Tyrone rubbed my back lightly.
“I think I accidentally inhaled one of those chunks of coconut.” I smiled at him weakly. “This is so embarrassing.”
My favorite elf said, “Don’t sweat it. You’re not even the first person to puke in line today.”
I smiled weakly and excused myself to go rinse out my mouth. In the bathroom, I stared into the empty mirror and touched up my makeup, as if I could see myself. My stomach growled from thirst.
As soon as I was back, an elf called out, “You’re up, VIP! Time to tell Santa what you want!”
“Hi, Dylan,” I said, as Santa and Tyrone gave each other a fist bump. “Thanks again for saving my house.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He patted his knee and winked at me. “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”
Something about the way he called me ma’am…I don’t know why, but it was working for me.
Lowering his voice, he said, “Take a seat, li’l lady, and tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”
“Hey, Santa,” Tyrone barked, “stop flirting with my girl!”
But I was into it. I climbed onto Santa’s lap and he wrapped his arm around me, ostensibly for the purpose of helping me balance.
“You don’t want to know what I want,” I said in a throaty whisper. His red velvet Santa coat was unbuttoned at the collar, and I could feel his blood pulsing, calling to me. “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”
Dylan snorted. “I can’t do this. It’s your turn, Ty.”
Tyrone came over and sat on his other leg. “This what you meant, Dylan?”
“Get off my lap, you two,” Dylan said, shoving us off. With a grin, he said, “I don’t recall you winning Biggest Flirt in school, but man…you’d give Stacy a run for her money.”
I shrugged. “Christmas is about sharing. I’ll take two Santas to go.”
“Jesus, Tiffany.” Tyrone shook his head. “Santa, just give her some decent snow tires. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Next, we made our way over to the bonfire. A few teenagers were clustered around the flames toasting marshmallows. Tyrone ordered two hot chocolates from a quaint little stand staffed by some more teenagers.
“Careful, this is hot,” he said.
With cups clutched in mittened hands, we walked away from the Christmas chaos and into a stand of trees, lit only by ground lights that made it feel like the aisle in a darkened theater.
The steam from my hot cocoa curled upward into the cold night air, and the trees seemed to stretch on forever, a never-ending path into the darkness.
I focused on the little marshmallows on top of my cocoa.
“You look like you’re going to cry,” Tyrone said.
I shook my head, willing away the swell of emotion in my chest. “It’s just so beautiful here. So perfect. Everyone looks so happy.”
“Good. Christmas was magical for me growing up. I wanted that for the fair.”
St. Nicholas Farms was magical—for everyone else. I was the only one struggling, trying not to bite Santa, scaring the horses who pulled my sled, puking in Santa’s goodie bag.
“It’s perfect here,” I said.
While I pretended to sip my hot chocolate, he walked to the edge of the tree line and retrieved an ax and a hand saw from a stand. “I didn’t get you flowers. How about a tree?”
“Are you going to carry it back for me?” I teased, the ember of Hallmark hope in my heart sparking back to life with Tyrone’s kindness.
“I don’t think I have to.” He eyed my biceps, probably remembering that time I deadlifted a casket in front of him. “Which tree?” He gestured toward the entirety of the forest, like he was offering me the whole world.
I imagined where in my smoke-damaged, condemned house I would put the tree.
Tyrone stopped at the biggest tree. “How about this one?”
“I do like them big.”
“Is that right?” He side-eyed me. “Well, I can deliver on that request.”
Going Paul Bunyan on me, he gripped the ax firmly with both hands.
“Back up,” he said, before swinging twice with two quick thwacks to score the trunk.
He then picked up the saw and got to work.
I could have done it faster myself, but being taken care of—that was the real magic.
After I’d been alone for so long, it felt good to have a man taking me on sleigh rides and cutting down trees for me.
I took a closer look at the tree. “Are you sure? Is it too big?”
“I think it’s going to be extremely satisfying,” he said, mid-saw. Then he looked up. “Oh, are you talking about the tree?”
“Yes, I was referring to the tree. But in all seriousness, is it too tall for my house?”
“Well, it’s too late now. You’ve got yourself a big-ass tree.”
Five minutes later, the evening was over and we were back in the parking lot. As Tyrone loaded my tree into the truck bed, the woman who’d sold me the coconut water hurried up to us.
“Tiffany, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier! I just wanted to give you a hug. I know the holidays can be hard after losing someone.”
“Yes, I think of Aunt Mildred a lot this time of year,” I answered smoothly.
“Oh, I don’t mean Mildred. I know she was a pill.” She patted my hand. “You poor thing.” The woman wrapped me in a long, rib-crushing hug before scurrying away.
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to betray my confusion.
When Tyrone dropped me off at home with the Christmas tree a few minutes later, I lingered by the truck. I wanted to invite him in, but how could I? Not with a bloodthirsty baby vamp and my ex inside. They were the Marvel superheroes of cockblocking.
After Tyrone propped the tree next to the front door, I turned to face him.
“Thank you for the beautiful night,” I said. “I would invite you in, but…” I sighed. “Houseguests.”
“I get it.” He pressed a kiss to my lips that deepened into a promise of more to come, a kiss that shot tingles all the way to my fingers and toes. My thirst spiked. I wanted him in more ways than one. On tiptoes, I traced my tongue along his jugular with a soft moan.
“Down, girl,” Tyrone said with a chuckle. “Next time.”
I couldn’t wait. And that was the problem.
When the truck’s lights had disappeared down the road, I opened the door to find Vlad reading a book by the fireplace.
“What is this?” Vlad said at the sight of the tree. “Hasn’t he ever heard of flowers?”