The guy had to be at least six-foot three, and he stood on the floorboards of the sleigh, his head and chest just popping out from the top. Which meant, if he kept our presence on the down low, we could stay there, hiding, and no one would be the wiser. I really hoped Santa was a decent guy.
The crowd was roaring around us, and I huddled in Callan’s arms. Part of me knew I should distance myself, move away from him and come up with whatever excuse I was going to give the huge man in the red suit when he asked. But my mind was blank, and there was comfort in those firm strong arms. I pressed my head into Callan’s shoulder and clung to him.
"It'll be okay," he murmured as I huddled, my life flashing through my mind on endless repeat, mistake after mistake. "And April?"
I pulled my head back to look at him, comforted by the assurance in his eyes, the way his mouth pulled into the tiniest of smiles.
"You can use my house."
Yes. I nearly jumped up and did a little victory dance, but then realized it might not matter. I’d just gotten what I wanted. Kind of. Callan's house would be in the show, so that was good. But in the meantime, I was on the brink of being discovered in the arms of the homeowner about to have his house featured on the show. Flashbacks to Run Away with Bridegroom were flying through my mind, the cameras filming from a hidden alcove around the side of the building as the bridegroom and I had kissed one another on what I’d thought was a secluded beach under the moonlight.
Now here I was again, in the arms of an important part of my new show, about to be exposed by Santa Claus himself. If my hatred of Christmas hadn't yet been firmly cemented, that would definitely do it.
"Rudolph and I are so happy to see so many folks out tonight to celebrate the lighting of the tree! This town was built around this amazing tree, and we are honored to decorate it annually to pay tribute to this holy season of generosity and cheer."
"How can you hate a holy season of generosity and cheer?" Callan whispered, evidently figuring Santa already knew we were here so there was no point in staying silent.
"Shut. Up." I hissed. If anyone else discovered us here, the gossip would spread like moonshine on fire in this small town. And I’d lose my job again. And this time there'd be no second chances. Uncle Rob would probably disown me. Not that he owned me exactly, but the point was clear either way.
"We gather here every year to think about how we can join together as a town to make each other better, hold one another up. Look around you, at your friends and neighbors. Is anyone struggling this year? Is anyone facing a challenge you could help them handle? This is the best time of year, because it encourages us to step away from the churn of our daily lives and help to bolster those around us."
Callan's arms were still around me, and while I hated the thought of being discovered, I knew I’d be lying if I didn't admit that hiding here, huddled together, with his strong hard hands on my back, wasn't the worst thing in the world. And kissing him? Feeling those firm soft lips pressing and moving on mine all insistent and demanding? Well, parts of me were still high-fiving one another. But the pleasant buzz created by the kiss and the friction of our bodies pressed together—and two enormous bowls full of boozy punch—was wearing off and giving way to anxiety and fear. And to the familiar heaviness in my chest that got heavier every year around this time.
"He says that reindeer is Rudolph," Callan whispered as Santa went on talking about taking care of each other. "I didn't see a red nose."
"Maybe Rudolph's had a hard year," I suggested. "Got in a fight or two with those other asshole reindeer who wouldn't let him play games and whatever."
"No," Callan said. "They're all good now. It's cool."
"Yeah, now that he did the job they couldn't handle. But don't you think there's probably some resentment there? He's like Santa's favorite now, that's gotta get old. Those dudes hate him."
"Never really thought about that," Callan said, pulling away slightly so he could look me in the eye. "I bet you're right."
"Often am."
"So those jealous fuckers broke his shiny nose." He looked pretty mad at the other reindeer right then, and I loved the way he looked ready to throw down on Rudy’s behalf.
"I mean, we don't know that," I reminded him.
"And this is also a time of year when some folks really need to work to stay off the naughty list,” Santa said loudly, glancing down at us before looking back up at the crowd. "And for those folks who just can’t repress that naughty streak, I’d suggest they just try to hang tight and keep quiet, and hope Santa can find it in his big jelly-full heart to chuckle and look the other way." He looked down again, widening his eyes to make his point before looking back out at the people around the tree.
Callan and I stopped debating the scraggly reindeer and sealed our lips shut, watching Santa finish up.
"Without further ho, ho, ho," he shouted. "Light up that tree!" As he sang out this last part, a warm glow filled the bottom of the sleigh. We couldn't see the tree from where we hid, but I could hear the appreciative murmur of the crowd and I could see the shifting colors of the lights reflected against the sleigh's interior. The crowd broke into applause and Santa dropped onto the bench seat and then ducked down to talk to us.
"So, hey," he said, grinning through the big white beard. "I'm Wiley Blanchard."
"Callan Whitewood," Callan said, offering the man a hand.
"April Hall," I whispered, wishing he'd just go away.
"Blanchard," Callan said in a hoarse whisper. "Your family owns the distillery, right?"
"Yep," Wiley said, the hat flopping forward as he nodded. "Have for about a hundred years. You two should come see us. There’s a great bar there. It's a good place to … well, to do whatever you guys are doing here, I think."
"We're not doing anything," I said quickly.
"Right. Well." Santa/Wiley winked. "Nice to meet you guys." He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it down to Callan. I glanced at it, reading the words "HalfCat Distillery" printed over an image of a cat in some kind of wheeled contraption. Before I could ask about the cat, Santa was gone, climbing down from the sleigh and heading back out into the town square.
"I guess we sit tight for a bit," Callan said. At this point, we were both leaned against the side of the sleigh's interior, our legs stretched out before us. Callan's arm was still around my shoulder and I leaned into his side. Though this new intimacy was strange and my uncle surely wouldn't have liked it, I felt like Callan and I had been through something together now, survived, and I made no move to distance myself. Plus, Callan was warm and the air was taking on a more definite chill.
"I knew about the tree lighting," I said. "I just forgot it was tonight."
"Well, a person who abhors the holidays probably wouldn't make a special note about a tree lighting."
"You're the one who wasn't planning to decorate your house for Christmas at all," I pointed out, poking him in the side and hoping to shift the focus from myself.
Callan laughed, but the sound wasn't altogether cheerful. "Yeah, well."
"I've got my reasons, but why do you hate the holidays?"
He looked down at me then, the humor gone from his face. "I don't. Not exactly. But I asked you first."
I sighed and then twisted to rise up on my knees and peer out at the square. I felt like maybe I wanted to tell someone. Him, specifically. “I’ll tell you," I said, sinking back down. "But not here. It's too cold and it's not a quick story. And then you'll tell me."
"Fine, but I might need another drink for that."
"No worries," I said. There was moonshine back at the hotel. I sank back down and together we waited until the noise in the square had died down and most of the townsfolk had wandered away, back to warmer spots. "Come on. The coast is clear."
We slipped out of the sleigh, Callan stumbling a bit coming as he came down the ladder. I noticed his face darken as he recovered, but I took his arm and smiled up at him. "Let's go to the inn," I suggested.
"More time in Santa's cottage?" Callan asked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you actually have kind of an obsession for Santa-related things."
"Definitely not true," I said as we turned down the side street toward the inn. "It's more of a lack of other options in this nutty town. And I was thinking we could go upstairs." I paused and glanced up at him, realizing that suggesting he come to my room could be a little forward. "Privacy," I explained, hoping Annabelle and everyone else might be too distracted with the tree lighting to notice me dragging Callan Whitewood up to my room.
"Okay," Callan said, and we mounted the stairs and went into the inn, me leading the way to the elevator. I usually took the stairs up to my room, but Callan's limp had gotten worse over the course of the night and I was worried about him a little bit.
My heart was in my throat as I pushed open the door to my room and stepped inside, turning on the lights and then holding the door for Callan to follow. I hadn't intended to have company when I left the room earlier, so I did a quick visual scan to make sure there were no unmentionables lying out in plain sight.
There were none.
What was out in plain sight, however—and what had definitely not been there earlier—was an elf costume laid over the edge of the bed, complete with pointy shoes, striped tights and pointy ears like the ones Annabelle had been wearing the night before.
There was a card folded atop the costume, and I picked it up and read quickly: Thanks for walking me home. Thought you liked my outfit, so I got you one to match. A-
"Nice," Callan noted, and I turned to find him looking down at the ridiculous outfit over my shoulder.
"They keep giving me things," I said, my tone more exasperated than intended. I gestured to the once-useful table that now held the enormous gingerbread house.
Callan glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the sad stripped tree and the ribbon dangling from the mantlepiece, left over from my undecorating the first night. "Kind of seems like they forgot to finish decorating," he said.
I gestured him to a chair to sit down by the gas fire and switched it on. "No, I moved everything I could. There was so much red and green and glittery gaudiness in here I couldn't even think."
"The woman whose job it is to make other people decorate their homes takes the time to UN-decorate her hotel room."
I moved to the desk, where the enormous gift basket sat. I’d pulled cookies and chocolate out over the last day or two, and remembered seeing a little bottle with the HalfCat label in there somewhere. "I enjoy irony," I said flatly, finding the bottle. "Aha!" I held it up.
Callan had sat in one of the chairs by the little round table, and as I looked at him there, I had a rush of doubt. I’d brought a man to my room. Not just a man, but the most important part of the show I was supposed to be producing for my uncle. My job—my life, really—depended on me not screwing things up, and I was in the midst of repeating my most recent horrible mistake. Still, when my eyes met Callan’s, it was hard to feel like it was wrong.
Callan smiled and pointed at the bottle in my hand. "The HalfCat again. I guess that's a thing."
I peered at the picture on the label. It was the same drawing from the business card Wiley had given us, but now I had time to really look at it. It was a drawing of a fluffy cat sitting a chair of sorts—a wheelchair, really. The cat had only its front legs, and the back of its body sat in the little chair. The absence of back legs didn't seem to bother the cat—at least not the cartoon one—if the silly grin on its face was any indication. "Poor cat," I said quietly. "What a weird mascot to choose."
"Maybe it's a real cat."
I looked up and met Callan's eyes. "No, it can't be."
"We should probably visit the distillery and find out."
My impulse was to agree immediately. To make plans for tomorrow and the next day, and next month with this man whose dark eyes made me feel warm and tingly inside, whose gaze made me feel understood and really seen all at once. But I’d jumped into things too quickly before, and technically, this was a work arrangement, no matter how much I might have liked for it to be something more. "Yeah, maybe."
If my sudden reluctance bothered Callan, he didn't show it. Instead he rose and pulled two glasses from the top of the dresser under the television and returned to the table. As I poured out a couple fingers each of the HalfCat, he watched me with a careful smile on his face. God, those lips were sexy. My body was tingling again at his proximity.
"So who goes first?" he asked. "You, I think."
I sat across from him, picking up my glass and staring into the brown liquid. "Fine." I swallowed the contents of the glass, intending to roll smoothly into the fastest version of the story I could. Instead, my throat ignited and I erupted in a sputtering coughing fit caused by the fire I’d just thrown down my gullet.
Callan looked alarmed, but when he stood up to try to help, I waved him off, doubled over and gasping in my chair. When I could manage, I coughed out, "Water. Please."
He complied and when I’d finally managed to get a few sips and ease the coughing fit a bit, I smiled at him, my watery eyes meeting his. "I'm okay." This was not the same stuff Annabelle had given me the other night. This had a touch of cinnamon or something. Probably some carcinogenic Christmas-related spices. Like nutmeg and arsenic.
"The cat's not messing around," he said. He sipped his own drink, his eyebrows rising in appreciation.
I had regained my breath, and with the additional bracing warmth of the alcohol sliding through me, I told Callan the story I had only told a couple times before. To my mother. To Lynn. And now to Callan.
"I was seven," I began, wishing suddenly for more bourbon but knowing I’d be on the floor if I drank anything else. "And it was Christmas Eve.” I closed my eyes briefly, the painful image of my childhood home flickering to life in my mind like some well-worn photograph behind glass. “I lived with my parents, and we always went really big decorating for the holidays, so my house was completely decked out. I would have loved this town back then," I said, shaking my head lightly, thinking about it as what felt like an ancient sadness washed through me. "We'd had dinner, and I'd gotten to open one gift—that was our tradition. I remember exactly what it was because I thought it was such a big deal at the time."
"What was it?" Callan asked, his voice low and quiet.
I smiled and shrugged. I remembered everything about opening that gift, because it was the last Christmas present I’d ever opened before the holiday had soured for me. I remembered the green paper, the little white bow, the proud smile on my mother’s pretty face and the way Mom had glanced at Dad, whose expression stayed neutral, even as I had squealed in delight. Grief shot through me and I took a steadying breath. "Just a stupid necklace. But it was the first jewelry I'd ever gotten. It was a heart with my birthstone in it. Not a big deal really, but it was to me. It was gold and I thought it was so fancy, and I wanted to wear it immediately, but my mom thought I should wait until I had an occasion, so she tucked it back under the tree. I still remember how it caught the lights and sparkled. Since my birthday is in April, the birthstone was a diamond. I'm sure it wasn't a real diamond—my parents struggled for money. But it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, either way."
"Sounds beautiful," Callan said, his voice low and reverent, and his dark eyes on my face as I spoke.
My heart stuttered as I remembered the rest, steadying myself to get it out without tears. "I couldn't sleep after my parents tucked me in, and I wanted to get up and get my necklace. Just to look at it a bit more. So I got up.” I closed my eyes hard and then opened them, avoiding Callan’s gaze. “And my dad was in there, pulling on his coat. The tree was right by the front door. He had a duffle bag with him, and I was really confused, so I asked him where he was going."
Callan nodded.
"He told me that he'd been helping Santa for years. That he went out on Christmas Eve to help distribute gifts, and not to worry."
“I’m guessing he wa
sn’t helping Santa?” Callan asked, a hand gripping the armrest on the chair as if bracing himself for the end of the story.
All the shame and guilt I’d felt my whole life crashed down on me and my voice broke. "Of course not, but I was seven. I didn't understand until the next day, when he wasn't home, that he'd been in the middle of leaving us when I caught him. And even then, I was sure he'd come back. It seemed so impossible, in the midst of all that sparkle and glitter and happiness to have lost my dad. For him to have chosen to leave us. My mom cried for the next six months. I had to put away all the decorations myself, and drag the tree outside when it turned brown and the pine needles all fell off. Mom didn't get out of bed for weeks. And when Christmas rolled around the next year, I only asked once if we were going to get a tree. Mom shook her head, and that was it. We just never acknowledged the holiday again."
"You grew up without Christmas?" His voice was pained, tight, like he was angry and hurt on my behalf.
"I mean," I said, staring at my hands. "It was all around us, right? Like it is here. So it was hard to ignore. But all the stuff I saw didn't make me happy—it just made me angry. Sad, and lonesome and a little bit jealous." Admitting this out loud didn’t lessen the feelings, but somehow I felt a little bit lighter having shared them.
"Because everyone else still thought Christmas was a happy thing."
"For them, it was."
"Was your mom okay?" Callan asked.
"Eventually she got out of bed and went on with her life, kind of. She didn't ever remarry. She took up smoking."
Callan dropped my gaze. “Did you ever see your dad again?”
I sighed. “He came back once on my birthday, but my mother sent him away, and then she stayed in bed for a couple more months. My grandmother had to come take care of things.” I raised my eyes to meet Callan’s, surprised to see that his eyes were shining with compassion and sympathy. “He sent a card on my birthday after that. I have thought about calling him, but I’m still so mad. And my mom would kill me.”
Shaking the Sleigh Page 11
