“So that’s how reindeer grow a new set of antlers every single year,” I conclude, proud of myself for making it through our eighth and final field trip of the week. “Are there any questions?”

A little boy in a blue coat raises his hand at the front of the pack. “What are those two reindeers doing?”

There’s a titter of giggles from the pack of seven-year-olds standing along my fence line, and I turn to survey where he’s pointing. Beside the barn, a confused-looking steer is doing his best to mount one of the young females. She turns and butts him with her antlers, but Lester is undeterred.

“He’s—uh—yes,” I stammer. “Leapfrog. They’re playing leapfrog.”

“He’s not very good at it,” observes a little blonde girl in pigtails and purple sneakers.

“In his defense, he’s missing the parts he’d need to be an effective player,” I point out.

Their teacher gives me a nervous look, and I make a mental note to dab Vicks VapoRub on all females who go into heat between now and Christmas. It’s an old trick for keeping the boys away, though judging by the determination on Lester’s face, it might not be enough.

“Okay, I think we’re just about out of time,” I announce. “Thank you for coming to Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch. Don’t forget to ask your parents to bring you back next week when we have Santa here.”

Santa!

The word ripples through the crowd of schoolkids with a hushed excitement, and everyone starts talking at once about Christmas lists and presents and how often the big man in red needs to stop the sleigh and poop after eating all those cookies.

The students’ teacher, Stacey Fleming, sidles up to me. She’s a pretty blonde who was two years ahead of me in school, but through the magic of makeup and good genes, she looks about ten years younger. Her hair is that shoulder-length, flippy style meant to look effortless, but requiring two hours of intense labor with a curling iron. At least it would for me, which is why I stick with a ponytail most days.

Stacey’s wearing red leather knee-high boots that she’s somehow managed to keep mud-free, and her white peasant blouse is spotless. I wonder if she remembers the time in junior high when one of her friends stole a Twinkie out of my lunchbox and ran away giggling about how I didn’t need the extra calories.

“Thanks again for doing this,” Stacey says as the kids file toward the front of the school bus where my sister has set up a snack table. “The students had a great time.”

“No problem,” I say. “It’s nice to get to show them how the farm works. What the reindeer eat and how they look instead of the cartoon pictures of them on TV.”

Stacey smiles and leans in with a conspiratorial whisper. “So what are they really?”

“What are what?” I whisper back, totally clueless.

“What are the animals? Some sort of elk or something?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve encountered someone who lumps unicorns and reindeer together in the class of mythical beasts, but I might have hoped a teacher would know better.

“They’re reindeer,” I tell her. “Real, honest-to-goodness reindeer.”

She nods and gives me a knowing smile. “Ah, got it.” She winks. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

I start to protest, but think better of it and shut my mouth. If she wants to believe I’m passing off fake reindeer to the public, there’s not much I can do about it.

Stacey’s eyes go wide, and it takes me a second to notice she’s not looking at me or the reindeer. She’s staring at the parking lot over my shoulder. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “Is that Brandon Brown?”

The name sends goosebumps skittering up my arms, but I turn slowly, trying not to show the same awestruck eagerness as Stacey. I fix my expression in a nonchalant gaze I feel wavering when I see him striding up my driveway in a fitted black T-shirt and jeans that make me want to pen a thank you note to Levi Strauss.

“Yep,” I say, still striving for casual but unable to hide the wobble in my voice. “He’s probably here to pick up his uniform. His first day as Santa is next week.”

“That’s your Santa?”

Her voice is practically a shriek, and I glance toward the bus to make sure none of the kids heard. They’re all distracted by the paper mugs of cocoa Amber is handing out, along with generous squirts of hand sanitizer. I turn back to Stacey.

“Apparently so,” I tell her. “I just got his background check, and everything looked fine.”

“I’ll say things look fine.” She’s watching Brandon, not me, and I can’t tell if her expression is one of pleasure or irritation. Maybe a bit of both.

“You know him?” I ask.

“Biblically,” she murmurs, voice still teetering between annoyance and attraction.

He has that effect on me, too.

A tiny inchworm of jealousy wiggles around in my gut, but I ignore it like I’m trying to ignore the gentle way Brandon stops to pet Anthony, one of the smallest steers in my herd.

A flicker of memory lights up my brain, an image of Brandon jogging off the field and dropping his helmet on the sidelines as Stacey leapt into his arms, wrapping herself around him in her cheerleading skirt. “You guys dated in high school,” I say.

Stacey shrugs. “I wouldn’t say dated. He took me out a couple times.” She gives a brittle little laugh. “Me and everyone else with a perky pair of tits.”

I ignore what may or may not have been a jab at my teenage rack. It wasn’t until senior year that my baby fat rearranged itself into something resembling curves. Brandon had long since graduated by then, and it’s not like we’d have run in the same circles regardless of my boobage.

Brandon stops petting the reindeer and strides toward us, probably all too familiar with what it looks like when two women are trying to pretend they aren’t discussing him.

“Hey, Jade, Stacey. Good to see you again.”

His stride is slow and cocky like he knows he’s God’s gift to denim. His t-shirt is short-sleeved, despite the fact the it’s freakin’ November in Central Oregon. I don’t know whether I hate him more for not being cold or for having biceps that make my mouth water.

“Hey, Brandon,” Stacey purrs. “I didn’t know you were back in town. Last I heard you were in Syria someplace.”

“Just finished my last tour in Raqqa,” he says. “I had a ton of accumulated leave to burn, so I’m here through the holidays.”

“So it’s just temporary?”

He shrugs and looks away. “I’m considering leaving the service.” He drags his boot through the dirt. “I’m a little war weary, plus I’ve got some family stuff going on.”

She smiles and sidles up closer, surveying him the way my reindeer eye a bucket of apples. “I’d love to hear about what you’ve been up to. Maybe we could grab a drink sometime?”

Brandon clears his throat. “Actually, I’m going to be pretty busy with Jade here.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Stacey looks from Brandon to me and back to Brandon, probably humming the Sesame Street song, “One of These Things is not Like the Other” in the back of her mind.

“Playing Santa,” I clarify, wanting to make it clear we’re not an item. Not that anyone in their right mind would think that.

Stacey nods once, then turns back to Brandon. “You’re looking good, Bran,” she says. “I’ll see you around.”

Leave it to Stacey to turn fiber cereal into a nickname and make it sound sexy. She turns and saunters away, her butt blinking with those sparkly crystals that adorn the pockets of some women’s jeans. Not mine, obviously. My butt has never twinkled, and I wonder if that should be a point of pride or regret.

Stacey rejoins her class, rumpling hair and talking to kids whose faces are smudged with cocoa and mud. At least I hope it’s mud. She chats with the kids for a while before stepping over to talk to Amber. My sister points toward the hay barn, probably telling her where the restroom is, and I watch as Stacey ambles in that direction.

I turn back to Brandon, assuming he’s been looking at her like I have. But nope, his gaze is fixed on me.

“I like your hair like that,” he says.

“Unwashed and unbrushed?” I flip my low ponytail over one shoulder. “Thanks.”

He grins. “Anyone ever tell you that you suck at taking a compliment?”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s a bad idea to tell your new boss she sucks?”

Brandon shakes his head. “According to that PI guy you had doing my background check, you’re not technically my boss. He was real adamant about telling me it’s your sister.”

“Ugh.” I give him an Amber-esque eyeroll. “That’s Connor, and he’s been madly in love with Amber for years. I’m sure he’s just trying to pee on her fire hydrant.”

“You can promise him I’m not the least bit interested in lifting my leg on your sister.”

“That’s reassuring. Her ex-boyfriend, Zak, is our photographer this year, so you’d have to get through him, too.” I pluck a stray piece of alfalfa off the end of my ponytail and wonder how long it’s been there. “I guess you’re here to try on the Santa suit?”

Anthony the reindeer steer nudges Brandon’s hand with his nose, and Brandon strokes his neck again. Not the most subtle request for affection, but effective.

“I’m sure the Santa suit is fine,” Brandon says. “Aren’t these things kinda one size fits all?”

“You seem a little bigger than average.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back and shove them under the water trough. I expect a smug response from Wonder Boy, but he doesn’t smirk at all. Not even a smile. Just clears his throat and taps the toe of his boot on my fencepost.

“I pulled out my yearbooks last night,” he says. “You were cute. How come we didn’t know each other in high school?”

“Because all cute girls should be required to throw themselves at you?”

He laughs. “Are you always this touchy?”

“Are you always this cocky?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone oddly sheepish. “But I’m working on that.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, since I can’t tell if he’s kidding. I realize I didn’t acknowledge his “cute” remark, but it feels weird now to thank him for a compliment I’m not sure he meant.

Besides, there’s nothing cute about that yearbook photo. My cheeks were plump and my eyes too bright, prompting someone to scribble “Miss Piggy” when I left my yearbook unattended in the lunch room.

He probably has no idea about any of that, I remind myself.

“We ran in different circles in high school,” I say, wondering if I really need to point out that there’s little overlap between the awkward farm girl circle and the untouchable sports god circle. “And you disappeared pretty fast after graduation.”

“You noticed?” His brows lift in genuine curiosity, and I wonder why it would be any surprise to him that the whole town has been hanging on his every achievement.

I shrug and try to pretend I didn’t just admit to watching for him anytime I knew he’d be home on leave. I never spoke his name or asked around about how he was doing, but I did keep an eye out at the grocery store, snatching bits of gossip like a squirrel gathering acorns.

“Sure,” I say. “The paper ran articles every now and then about where you were getting deployed and how many medals you won. Hometown Hero and all that.”

He smiles. “It’s good to be home.”

Something about the word home gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my belly, and I turn away from him before he can read the nostalgia on my face. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s get you undressed. Dressed. Whatever.”

I stalk away from him before he can notice my flaming cheeks. What is it about this guy that turns me into a tongue-tied sexual harasser?

I lead him into the south barn, the one we’ve been renovating to host holiday events and our meet and greets with Santa. Pushing open the door, I breathe in the scent of sweet hay and rehydrated beet pellets and my whole childhood. Brandon steps through the threshold, and I pull the door closed behind us before continuing toward the opposite end of the barn.

“There’s your throne.” I point to the massive oak chair festooned with red garland and bits of holly. It gleams like a showpiece under the window, the tufted velvet cushion waiting to cup Santa’s perfect ass.

Stop thinking about Santa’s ass.

Brandon takes a step toward the chair, bringing his ass back into view and thwarting my plan to stop ogling him.

“This is the Santa chair?” He runs his hand over the arm, making me shiver with the memory of his hands on my arms. “Where’d you get this?”

“Amber found it at an antique store in Terrebonne. We had to strip off all the old paint to get to bare wood. It took us a month to get it sanded down and refinished.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” There’s a niggle of pride in my throat, and I swallow hard to get it down. “The hardware is all original.”

Brandon strokes one of the sleek honey-gold spindles. “It’s amazing. Way cooler than that ratty-looking easy chair they had at Cascade Mall.”

“You remember that?” I laugh, surprised that I do, too. “It always smelled like rotting meat.”

“I thought that was Santa,” he said. “For years, I associated St. Nick with decomposing bodies.”

“Now there’s a childhood memory guaranteed to mess up all your future Christmases.”

Is it my imagination, or did something just shift in his expression? It’s faint, and I probably wouldn’t notice at all if I weren’t staring at his face like I’m worried it’ll melt away. It’s like a cloud passing by the sun, and his gaze snags on mine and holds for a few seconds. I feel like a yellowjacket trapped in a jar of congealed cola.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s find that suit.”

He turns and heads toward the back corner before seeming to recall he doesn’t know where he’s going. He stops and looks back at me with something oddly vulnerable in his expression.

“No, you’re right,” I say, hustling to catch up. “It’s this way.”

I head toward the office, moving around the small pen we’ve built to hold the reindeer that are part of Santa’s display. There’s an empty Christmas tree stand beside that, and I remind myself to go spruce hunting sometime in the next week.

“Right through here,” I say as I tug open the door to the cramped space that serves as my office. The box containing the Santa suit is right on the edge, so I lift out the bundle of red velvet and faux fur and hand it to him.

“We weren’t sure about size, so we got a couple different things so you can mix and match.”

“Thank you.” The bell on the tip of the hat gives a soft jingle, and my heart does an awkward shimmy as Brandon’s fingers graze mine. “Where should I change?”

“In here’s fine,” I say. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.”

That earns me a curious eyebrow quirk, and I wonder if he’s pondering the likelihood of me barging in while he’s naked.

I keep my expression flat, like illicit thoughts aren’t scurrying through my brain like rabbits in heat.

Brandon nods and sets the bundle back down on the desk. Before I can move out of the way, he’s grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and started to lift it over his head.

“I’ll—uh—be right out here,” I stammer, backing out of the room so fast I trip over my feet. I slam the door behind me, cheeks hot enough to fry bacon on my face.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I move away from the office and busy myself rearranging hay bales, lugging them from one side of the display to the other. It’s heavy work, and I end up yanking off my plaid flannel so I’m down to just my favorite Wonder Woman tee.

Once the hay is moved, I fuss with the garland that Amber and I strung around some exposed beams. Then I fluff the Santa cushion, doing my damnedest not to think about Santa’s fine posterior.

“Uh, Jade?”

I jerk up at the sound of Brandon’s voice. “Yeah?”

“I’m having trouble with the suit.”

His voice is muffled on the other side of the office door, and I step closer so I can hear him.

“What sort of trouble?” I call.

“There’s this thing I can’t figure out—”

“The belt?”

He makes an exasperated noise. “I think I know how a belt works.”

The office door opens, and out steps Brandon. He’s wearing black boots and red velvet pants and—actually, I’m just guessing what’s below the waist.

Because I’m gawking like an idiot at what’s above the waist.

The red velvet coat gapes open in the middle, exposing a wide swath of bare chest dusted with fine, golden hair. Below that, the world’s most perfect abs form a delicious row of speedbumps leading to the happiest happy trail I’ve ever laid eyes on. I swallow hard, unable to take my eyes off it. Off him.

“Jade.”

His voice hurls a spear of desire straight through my chest, and I’m having trouble breathing. I rip my gaze off his abdomen and force myself to look him in the eye.

Big mistake. Those dark, pine-green puddles turn my tongue to chalk, and I can’t seem to make my voice work.

“Uh-huh?” I manage.

“I need to borrow your hands for a sec.”

Oh, dear God.