I’m lying on my back on the polished bar in Connelly’s Pub. Cans and bottles of Sprite line an entire shelf above various bottles of liquor. Music plays through invisible speakers; after a minute I realize the song is “Where the Streets Have No Name”, one of my all-time favorites. The music mixes with the sound of voices, although I don’t see anyone.
I’m about to push myself off the bar when Hugh appears. He’s wearing his red velvet Santa jacket and white beard. As he moves closer, the beard disappears and the jacket is replaced by a worn leather one with a gray henley underneath. Rawr.
He approaches the bar. Without a word, he slowly lifts my shirt up. His fingers brush against the sensitive skin of my belly, causing my entire body to break out in goose bumps. His lips curve slightly, but he still doesn’t say anything and neither do I.
Leaning over me, filling my nostrils with his winter-fresh scent, he reaches for an open bottle of Sprite. “Ever do belly shots?”
I shake my head. Time blurs and skips until the moment he’s about to lower his mouth to my skin. His eyes meet mine as his head descends. His breath is hot. He opens his mouth and—
Bzz bzz. Bzz bzz.
My eyes pop open. No. No, no, no. I slam my eyelids shut again, desperate to return to the dream, to see where it goes from there. It’s no use. The buzzing continues, so I sit up to search for the source, blearily realizing it’s coming from the folds of my fluffy blue duvet. My phone.
As I reach for it, I see I’m still wearing the shirt I wore yesterday. I lift the comforter; no pants, just underwear. A quick feel of my chest tells me I’m not wearing my bra. Did I do the old bra-off-under-the-shirt trick or take my shirt and bra off and then put this top back on instead of my pajamas? During my dazed pondering, my phone stops vibrating, then almost immediately starts up again.
“Whyyy is someone calling me so early?” I groan, finally fishing the phone out from where it’s buried. I normally turn it off before bed, but then again, I normally don’t throw it on the bed to get lost in the sea of my comforter. Or go to bed half dressed. Or get drunk and stay out past midnight. The image on the display shows Bridget’s face, along with the time: ten o’clock. Not so early after all.
“Hello?” I croak.
Bridget lets out a surprised laugh. “Ivy?”
I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Why do you sound like you suddenly took up smoking a pack a day?”
I flop back on my pillows, wincing when the movement makes my head throb. “I went out with some people from the Village last night and I guess I had too much to drink.”
“My little lightweight.” Bridget’s voice is full of affection. “I don’t suppose you feel much like going out if you’re nursing a hangover.”
I close my eyes and massage my forehead with my free hand. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I made good progress last night fixing the project, and I should be able to finish Monday. It’s too late for breakfast with Santa, but I was wondering if we could go to Santa’s Village. You could show me around and we could have lunch.”
I stifle a groan as images of last night—specifically my conversation with Hugh when he dropped me off—flood into my mind. The last thing I want to do is spend my day off where I work, especially if there’s a chance we might run into Hugh.
“Ivy?” Bridget says again.
This time I do groan because I’ve just remembered my car in the Santa’s Village parking lot. I could have Bridget drive me there and then suggest we go somewhere else, but I know she’s dying to check out the Village. She’s a fiend for Christmas, and places like this were made for people like her. “Why don’t you pick me up around eleven?”
*****
My phone buzzes again as I’m heading out the door. This time it’s a text from Meredith.
Hey girl! Had so much fun last night. Need help getting your car?
I had fun too! Today’s hangover = not so fun. Still don’t know how you do it. Bestie is picking me up in a minute and I’m going to show her around SV and grab lunch.
Nice! I’m working in Santa’s House today. Will you bring her by so I can meet her?
Of course she’s working in Santa’s House. So much for avoiding Hugh. At least he’ll be in character and we won’t be able to talk about last night. Not that there’s anything to talk about. Apparently we both think the other is hot. No big deal. I think lots of people are hot. Tom Hiddleston. Colin Firth. Gerard Butler. Who, incidentally, also happens to be a hot Scot and has that sturdy, slightly scruffy thing going like Hugh does. That doesn’t matter, though. Hugh is just another name on the list. I shoot off one last text to Meredith telling her we’ll see her in a bit, and head downstairs to meet Bridget.
Despite feeling slightly more human after a long shower, two glasses of water, and a cup of strong coffee, I could kiss Bridget when I see she’s brought coffee from our favorite café. “Bless you, my friend,” I say once I’m settled in the car with my seatbelt on and have my hands wrapped around the steaming cup. I take a cautious sip, but it’s had time to cool to the perfect temperature. “This smells like heaven and tastes even better.”
Bridget turns her attention from me to the street as she pulls away from my building. “You look pretty good for someone with a hangover.”
“The wonders of under-eye concealer and a blow dryer.”
The parking lot of Santa’s Village is packed, as I expected it would be. We find a parking spot approximately a mile away and hoof it through the lot. There’s a dull ache in my head, and my stomach is rolling slightly. I’m hoping some food—preferably good old-fashioned hangover food, aka grease galore—will cure what ails me.
Bridget’s excitement soon pushes any hangover thoughts to the back of my mind. She exclaims over the elves, points out food she wants to get after lunch, and drags me into several shops. Her endless chorus of “I have to buy this for my Christmas tree!” and “Ooh, wouldn’t Mom love this?” and “This is so wonderfully cheesy, I have to have it!” makes my face ache from smiling and laughing so much. I was right about places like this being made for people like her.
I’m hoping in all the excitement she’ll forget about visiting Santa. Despite our frequent stops, we’re slowly making our way toward the far side of the Village. Since I’ve explored every inch of the Village in the last week, all my mental energy is going into a plan to distract Bridget with the reindeer petting zoo.
“Can we go see Santa now?” she asks when we pass a sign with an arrow that says Santa’s House is ahead. Crap.
“You don’t actually want to see Santa, do you? I can introduce you to Hugh some other time if that’s what you want. He’ll be busy seeing kids right now and won’t have time to talk.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Good thing I know an elf with some sway around here.” Before I can respond, she links her arm through mine and all but drags me to Santa’s House. Meredith, who’s working the front of the line, spots us when we enter and waves us over.
I guide Bridget through a gate marked Staff Only that takes us around the outside of the line. We get a few looks from adults and children, ranging from curious to suspicious. When we reach Meredith, the kid at the front of the line sticks his hands on his narrow hips and cries, “Hey, no cutting!”
Meredith bends slightly so she’s closer to the little boy. Her smile is warm and her tone patient when she says, “They’re not cutting. Ivy is an elf like me, but she’s undercover today.”
The boy side-eyes me. “Is that true?”
I nod solemnly. “I’m on a mission. A top secret mission.” I place a finger to my lips, followed by a zipping motion. I chance a glance at Hugh a few feet away; he seems to be listening intently to the twin girls on his lap, but he catches me looking and sends me a subtle wink.
“So you’ll probably want to talk to Santa,” the little boy says.
“Oh, eventually,” I say with a casual shrug. This kid is eating up every word like it’s gospel. I don’t have much previous experience with children, but in the week I’ve been working here I’ve come to love the excitement and wonder, not to mention the boundless imagination of so many of the kids I’ve encountered. “He’s busy right now. You guys are more important than my secret elf business.”
The boy’s expression turns thoughtful, his face scrunched in concentration. Finally, he takes a step back from the gate separating the line from the interior of Santa’s House. “I think you should go ahead of me and talk to Santa first.”
Is it possible to actually feel your heart melt? “That is so sweet of you, but I wouldn’t want to cut in line. You’ve probably been waiting a while and there are other kids behind you who are eager to see Santa.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” a girl behind us pipes up. She peers at me with huge, round eyes. I’m not the best judge of kids’ ages, but I’d put her around eight or so, which is probably a couple years older than the little guy ahead of her. “I was talking to an elf when we first came in and he said how important his job is and that you guys have to deal with all kinds of official elf business for Santa.”
At this point, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. These kids are so adorable and earnest. Meredith clears her throat and I turn to see the twins and their parents heading off to the gift shop. The little boy takes another step back and waves me ahead. A quick glance at Bridget tells me she’s barely containing a fit of giggles. Swallowing a sigh, I remind myself I’m doing this for her. I also remind myself Santa is a mere few feet from the line and we won’t be able to talk about anything non-elf related.
Meredith motions us forward and I thank the first few people in line for letting us go ahead. I even promise to put in a word with Santa for good measure. Bridget forges ahead of me and plops down on Hugh’s velvet-clad knee. I approach and move to sit on the couch beside him, but Bridget grabs my hand and pulls me so I’m sitting on Hugh’s other knee. My momentum makes me land hard, and I accidentally elbow Hugh in the stomach. Luckily I’m met with a ton of padding, so I doubt he even felt it.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “She’s not sorry, though.” I raise my chin at Bridget, whose knees are bumping mine. Her smile is bright enough to light the entire Village.
“Not sorry at all,” she says. “Hi Santa.”
Hugh chuckles, his breath ruffling the mustache of his fluffy beard. “Are you going to introduce us, Ivy?”
“Santa, this is my best friend, Bridget. Bridget, this is…Santa.” I remember what Hugh said last night about kids paying close attention, so I refrain from saying his name.
He leans toward her. One of his arms is around her waist, and his other hand rests lightly on my hip. “You can call me Hugh when tiny ears aren’t around,” he whispers.
The sound of her answering giggle has me thinking my best friend has one of those hidden Santa fetishes. Maybe I should bring her back on Monday night when the elves gather to sit on Santa’s knee and talk to him. I laugh quietly to myself, shaking my head.
Hugh glances at me, his eyes twinkling. God, he’s good. No wonder he’s so believable as Santa. “I know what Ivy wants for Christmas…” He trails off, his eyes lingering on mine before shifting to Bridget. “Now, do you want to tell me your Christmas wish?”
Bridget looks surprised. “She told you what she wants for Christmas?” Hugh simply nods in response. “She never tells me!” She gives me a little shove. Because we’re so close and I’m balanced precariously, not wanting to put my full weight on Hugh’s leg, I nearly topple off his lap. The sound of children’s laughter rings from behind us. I can only imagine what the kids and parents think of two grown women sitting on Santa’s lap. On second thought, I don’t want to imagine.
Hugh’s arm encircles me, gripping me a bit tighter. Bridget laughs and apologizes, reaching to hold my hand. “Okay, well, since I already have everything I want or need and Ivy never tells me what she wants for Christmas…” She pauses to mock-glare at me pointedly. “My Christmas wish is for Ivy to have whatever it is she wants.”
I’m pretty sure Hugh’s arched eyebrows match mine. He looks at me and holds my gaze for several seemingly endless beats. Finally, he turns back to Bridget and says, “You’re a good friend.”
“The best,” I murmur. Bridget beams. My eyes begin to sting and I silently curse myself for being so emotional the last couple of days. I can’t even blame it on PMS.
“Can you make that happen, Santa?” Bridget asks, giving his beard a playful tug.
This time he doesn’t look at me. My breath catches on my next inhale, and I hold it unconsciously, anxious to hear what his answer will be. “I’ll try my best.”
I don’t have time to contemplate what he might mean by that. Bridget is grinning at me again. She calls to the photographer and asks her to take our picture with Santa. She keeps hold of my hand and puts her other arm around Hugh’s neck, so I do the same before looking at the camera. I think I’m smiling, but I must not be because Bridget squeezes my hand and Hugh gives me a little nudge in the side, hitting me right where I’m ticklish and making me laugh.
“That’s a great one,” the photographer says. “You can pick it up in the gift shop in a few minutes.”
Bridget’s fingers tighten on mine again and she pulls me to my feet. “Thanks, Santa. I hope we can hang out sometime when you’re off duty.”
Hugh’s eyes are on me as he says, “I’d like that very much.”
*****
Now that Bridget has seen Santa, I’m hoping she’ll be content to eat somewhere else. When I suggest it, she says there’s still more to see and she’s not ready to leave. I suppose I can’t blame her; there really is something enchanting about this place. My initial resistance to spend my day off here was only half-hearted, and I’ve been enjoying myself thoroughly despite…well, whatever that was with Hugh.
We head in the direction of Mama Elf’s Diner. Inside the door, we join the short lineup of people waiting to be seated. All the water and coffee I had this morning is beginning to catch up to me, and I realize I’m about thirty seconds away from doing a pee-pee dance.
“Go,” Bridget says when I hiss in her ear that I have to pee really badly. “I’ll wait and get us a table.”
The bathroom only has two stalls, and they’re both occupied, plus two more people are waiting ahead of me. I contemplate ducking into the men’s room since it never seems to be as busy as the ladies’. Luckily for my bladder, the line moves quickly. By the time I make it out to the dining room, Bridget has been seated. She’s at a table for four, even though there are a couple of two-seaters free nearby. As I approach, I spot three menus on the table.
“Is David joining us?” I ask, taking the chair across from her.
“No, Hugh.”
“Hugh?” I ask, surprise making my voice high-pitched. “How did that happen?”
“I saw him walk by outside while I was waiting for our table, and I ducked out to talk to him. He said he was heading for lunch, so I asked if he wanted to join us. He said he just needed to change out of the Santa suit so people wouldn’t accost us all through lunch.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Okay. This is okay. It was inevitable I’d have to spend time with him. We work together and he’s friendly with the staff.
“What’s going on with you?” Bridget asks. “You’re acting so weird about Hugh.”
Her question makes me realize I haven’t had a chance to tell her about what happened yesterday. God, was that really only yesterday? It’s been the strangest week, with time alternately dragging and flying. I barely know if I’m coming or going anymore, and I’ve only had these odd new work hours for five days. I’ll be a basket case by Christmas.
My gaze sweeps around the diner to make sure Hugh hasn’t arrived and no one’s paying attention to us. I lean forward and Bridget copies the motion. As briefly as possible, I fill her in on my run-in with ‘Santa’ yesterday and how I blurted out my Christmas wish. I omit the fact said wish was prompted in part by my envy of Bridget’s life. I tell her how I officially met Hugh and found out Santa is a hot young guy instead of the old man I’d initially assumed. “Now I feel weird around him. We cleared the air last night at the bar, but when he dropped me off, we had a…I wouldn’t call it a moment, but close enough.”
I expect her to ask me to elaborate, but she probably thinks we’re running out of time before Hugh arrives. Instead, she nods and says, “So now you’re all awkward penguin.”
I scoff. I don’t remember the origin of the term ‘awkward penguin’, but it’s been one of our many inside jokes for years. When I start to like a guy—whether it’s a new attraction or a sudden crush on someone I’ve known for awhile—I have a tendency to become awkward. I try not to let it happen, but I can’t seem to control it. “Doesn’t apply in this case, Bridge. I only go awkward penguin on guys I have a crush on. I don’t even know Hugh.”
“Well, let’s change that, shall we?” Hugh says from behind me.
Oh god. Kill me now. How much of our conversation did he hear? And why didn’t Bridget shush me? A quick look at my best friend shows her eyes wide with shock. Ahh, of course. Despite me telling her Santa is in fact an attractive young-ish guy, she probably wasn’t expecting the hot Scot behind me. I bet he has that effect on a lot of people, especially the first time they see him out of costume.
Hugh pulls out the chair beside mine and takes a seat. My body’s instant reaction to his nearness makes me second guess what I said a minute ago about not having a crush on him. I swallow hard. At least this is better than having him sit across from me, since I can’t stare at him when he’s next to me.
Hugh picks up his menu and sets it down again a second later, looking between Bridget and me. “Should I let you finish your conversation and then come back?”
Shit, neither of us has spoken since he arrived.
Bridget shakes her head. “Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting…you.” She waves a hand in his direction, then quickly adds, “I mean, I was expecting you obviously, but I…I didn’t realize you’re Scottish.”
I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. Someone’s going to get a gloaty earful later about how I’m not the only awkward penguin when a cute boy is around.
Hugh explains to Bridget what he told me last night about staying in character whenever he’s wearing the Santa suit. “So many people on staff have worked here for years, so I forget new people don’t make the connection immediately.”
The waitress comes over and we all place our lunch orders.
“Where in Scotland are you from?” Bridget asks.
“I’m originally from a wee town in the Highlands called Cromarty.” Between his deep voice and the way he rolls his Rs, I have to sit on my hands to keep from fanning myself. “My sister and I both own homes in Inverness now, though.”
“Bridget is obsessed with the UK and Ireland,” I tell him, wanting to prove her wrong about my awkwardness. “Her dad was from Ireland, and her grandparents were too. She and her mom spent a few weeks traveling through Ireland, Scotland, England, and Wales this past spring.”
As expected, that draws the conversation completely away from me. Hugh and Bridget go back and forth, talking mainly about Scotland and Ireland—his maternal grandparents are Irish, but the rest of his family is Scottish. I listen with a mixture of interest and amusement. Bridget always loved talking about Ireland, but since she and her mom were finally able to go earlier this year, she can talk about it for hours.
When our lunch arrives, Bridget says, “So what do you do in the off season?”
“I go back to the North Pole, of course,” Hugh says as he unrolls cutlery from a napkin. “There’s much to do to prepare for the year ahead. Toys to make, naughty and nice list to keep track of, and so on.”
Bridget and I look at each other. Hugh’s earnestness gives me pause. He’s not serious. He doesn’t actually think he’s…Santa Claus?
He makes a small noise in his throat and then cracks up. Bridget’s gaze is still locked on mine, and I’m sure the relief in her eyes matches my own. “Had you going, didn’t I?” Hugh says when we both dissolve into laughter. He motions for us to dig into our food and he does the same. After a mouthful, he says, “This place is mine. I own the Village.”
I nearly choke on a bite of quesadilla. “You own Santa’s Village?”
He nods. “Bought it four years ago. The city rents it ten months of the year for various things. Sometimes they store equipment and whatnot since it’s a huge lot and it’s on the edge of town. I’d like to use it year-round as an amusement park of sorts. Games, rides, a petting zoo, local businesses and eateries setting up shop. Similar to what it is now, minus the Christmas theme, at least for most of the year. I’ve been trying to get it going the last two years, but the city’s dragging their feet on allowing it.”
“Even though you own the land?” Bridget asks.
“Even though. There are permits and such I’d need. I think they just like the cheap deal I give them in the off-season. They haven’t renewed their contract for next year, so the land might sit empty until next November.” He shakes his head, annoyance painted on his features.
“So what do you do from January to November then?” I ask.
He chews slowly for a minute before answering. “I have a few business investments other than this one. And I do some charity work, largely with children’s literacy groups.”
Investments and charities. He owns Santa’s Village, which sits on several acres of land. He must be absolutely loaded. Knowing Bridget as well as I do, a quick glance at her tells me she’s come to the same conclusion.
The mention of children’s literacy groups jars the memory of the books given out to each child who visits Santa. My first day here, Meredith had seemed surprised I didn’t know where the books came from, and now I understand her reaction.
As if reading my mind—something Bridget does often—she says, “Ivy told me each child gets a book when they visit Santa. You’re responsible for that?”
“I’m good friends with the owner of Pied Piper’s Books, and I get the books from her shop. Each week is a different book, a new release. I work with Piper to choose authors who are just starting out or who are marginalized in some way. We also donate a box of books each week to the Bookworm program, which makes sure kids from underprivileged families get books.”
I think I might swoon.
Bridget’s wide eyes dart from Hugh to me and back again. “I think it’s some sort of serendipity the two of you met.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Hugh says, tilting his head to look at me with a small smile I can’t quite read. “But I’m curious as to your reasons for thinking so.”
“Ivy is a big book lover,” Bridget says. “Pied Piper’s is basically her second home. At least twice a year, she buys a bunch of books from there and donates them to Bookworm.” She pauses for breath, and before I can jump in, she adds, “For as long as I’ve known her, she’s talked about someday owning a bookstore and being able to have children’s programs.”
Hugh angles his body toward me so he can meet my eyes full on. “Very interesting,” he says slowly. “Why haven’t you followed this dream of yours?”
I’m tempted to start shoveling food into my mouth so I don’t have to answer. Bridget means well, but I hate talking about this. Every time I do, it reminds me I’ve had the same job for six years and I’m no closer to following my dreams now than I was the day I started at Quest. “It’s a fantasy,” I say with a casual shrug. “I’ve got a good career and I’m good at my job. Good pay, good benefits. I like how things are for me right now. Life is…”
“Good?” Hugh guesses, and Bridget hides a snicker with a delicate cough. “That’s a lot of good.”
“It is,” I say, suddenly defensive. I’m beginning to think I should have stayed home and slept off my hangover. “Besides, I spend a lot of time at the bookstore and I know how hard Piper works. She’s my age and she’s managed to build this incredible business all on her own. Indies are struggling and shutting down all across the country, and I wouldn’t want to be competition for her.”
He bobs his head and returns his attention to his lunch. “That’s noble of you.” If anyone else said that, I’d assume there was at least a hint of sarcasm behind the words, yet Hugh seems sincere. “You never know. Things might fall into place for you someday. And in the meantime, if you’d like to work with books in some capacity, we could team up. You can help me with the book ordering or deliveries to Bookworm. I usually have all the season’s books chosen ahead of time, but I’m behind this year.”
“Yeah, I could do that.” I have no idea when. I’m working almost twelve hours a day and he must have a busy schedule too. We’ll figure it out, I guess. Or not. Maybe he’s just being nice.
“I have tomorrow off,” he says. He checks his watch and scrunches up his face before wolfing down a few more bites of food. “We could meet up, go over some brochures. If you give me your number, I’ll text you later and we can hash out the details.” He fishes his phone from his back pocket as he speaks, unlocking it and handing it to me. Too stunned to say anything, I enter my name and number in his contacts.
When I hand back the phone, Hugh offers us an apologetic smile. “Hate to eat and run, ladies, but Santa duty calls. Lunch is on me. Make sure to order dessert.”
“Oh, we couldn’t—” I start to say, but he stands and lays a hand on my shoulder.
His moss-colored eyes are warm when they meet mine, the corners crinkling when his lips inch up in a heart-stopping smile. “I insist. Please.” To Bridget, he says, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon. Ivy, I’ll talk to you later and hopefully see you tomorrow.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads off to where our server is standing at a computer printing out a bill. He says something to her and slips a few bills into her hand, eliciting a grin and a nod from her.
“Ohh boy.”
My eyes snap to Bridget. “What?”
Her gaze trails after Hugh as he leaves. “Those eyes. That smile. The accent.” She blows out a long breath, and I half expect her to fan herself.
“Not sure David would appreciate you lusting after Santa,” I say.
Bridget rolls her eyes, following it with a short laugh. “David has absolutely nothing to worry about, and we all know it. You on the other hand…” She shakes her head and skewers me with a steady gaze. “You claim you don’t have a type, but you do and he’s it. You’ll deny it, say you can’t be with him because he’s your boss, or he’s a bit older than us, or you’re not interested in dating. But just like I know he’s your type, I also know what I saw when he looked at you: he likes you.” She plants her elbows on the table and rubs her hands together. “This should be fun.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that, but I do know she’s enjoying this way too much. Because she’s right: Hugh is my type, and I’d be lying if I said he doesn’t make me feel fluttery in various parts of my body.
I don’t want to get my hopes up, though. Bridget said she could tell Hugh likes me, but he’s an open, friendly guy. I didn’t sense that he treated me any differently than he did her, or any of the girls who work with me. For all I know, he could be a player whose aim is to bag as many elves as possible.
“I know this is rich coming from me, but stop overthinking,” Bridget says, reaching across the table to tap the back of my hand. “Be open and see what happens.” She clears her throat. “Now. Very important question.”
“Shoot.”
“Apple crisp with French vanilla ice cream or blueberry cheesecake?”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath. After all these years of friendship, I know this isn’t the end of the Hugh discussion. Not by a long shot. I’m used to abrupt changes in conversation, though, and I’m guilty of it often enough myself. I guess right now dessert takes precedent. “Both. Duh.”