She had fled.
He lifted his head, his forehead still chilled from the window.
For the entire time he’d known her, he’d been exhausted, overwhelmed, and out of his depth. Even his brother had noted at Christmas that Ryan hadn’t seemed like himself.
Teaching didn’t bring him the joy it had years ago, and even standing here made him uncomfortable.
Ryan had been off and his reactions had been off and he had probably offended Nissa without even realizing it.
He owed her an apology.
He had her business card on his desk. He could call her.
And she could hang up on him.
Or he could go to Manhattan and drop in at her office, maybe buy her lunch, maybe try again.
She would probably say no to that, but at least they would have one last opportunity.
At least, he would get to see her one last time.
21
THE OFFICES OF Claus & Company were on Madison Avenue in a building the company had owned since the 1920s. Claus & Company was its own corporation, but it also owned a major advertising company—one that Oskar had started in the 1940s. That company still existed, and it was still very, very important in the US advertising business, but it had little to do with Nissa’s work.
Until today. She had scheduled an appointment to talk with their president, their top-earning adman, and the most up-and-coming person in the firm, whoever that might be.
The meeting had gone pretty well. She had brought in a list of questions from the most basic to some very complex ones. She knew better than to change a brand immediately—Coke had famously made that mistake in the 1980s, and it was still the poster-child for what not to do—but she also knew they had to slide Santa’s image into the 21st century.
She wanted a proposal from the ad firm, and they promised her one. She also knew that the moment she had left the president’s office, he had called Oskar to see if she was authorized to do this.
She tried to pretend it didn’t bother her.
She was trying to pretend that a lot of things didn’t bother her. She was trying to pretend that nothing bothered her, particularly that ill-advised drive two days ago to see Ryan.
Professor Palmer. She wasn’t going to call him Ryan any more. That implied a familiarity she didn’t want to think about, just like she didn’t want to think about those kisses. Just like she didn’t want to think about the look on his face when she got up from the table, or the way he had peered into the parking lot when she was hiding from him.
She had felt ridiculous in that moment: it had taken all of her strength not to go back and apologize.
And then what? Even more ridicule, this time from him, as she told him about magic and how the system worked to make sure there were enough toys, how Claus & Company was working to make sure children didn’t fall through the cracks.
She couldn’t explain her life any more than he—or anyone from the Greater World—could understand it.
She took the elevator to her office. This old building had been remodeled so many times in her short tenure that she was always surprised to see the wall of mirrors, the dark wood paneling, and the fancy buttons on the elevator itself. In her mind, it was still a 1970s box that shuddered as it moved.
Everything had changed in the years since she’d started working here, and she used to accept that as part of life in this building. Now, she saw it as a passage of time. She’d been here long enough to see three iterations of the elevator design, for heaven’s sake, and only now was she getting enough clout to actually do something about Santa’s image.
Even though the clout wasn’t that great; not if the president of the ad agency below was calling Oskar to see if Nissa actually had the authority to hire the agency to present a few ideas.
She decided she wasn’t going to focus on any of it any more. She had some ideas on her tablet, ideas she hadn’t told the ad guys about because she wanted to come up with her own campaign. She would develop the best thing for her company, all on her own. She still had to present it to Oskar and the Old Boys anyway; it would be best if the ideas that got so horribly shot down (and all her ideas would get shot down; she just knew it) would be hers, so she didn’t have to blame someone else.
Maybe then she would quit, permanently move to New York, and get some fluffy show on her favorite network, talking about advertising and media relations or about holidays or images or something she could convince them she was qualified to talk about for one hour once a week.
She was so engrossed in her work that she barely noticed her secretary clear his throat as she walked by. Fyodor rarely did that, even when he was ill, so she took two more steps before the sound actually registered.
She raised her head and saw—
Ryan, sitting on the red-and-white striped candy-cane couch that had been in the office since the dawn of time. He stood as his gaze met hers.
Fyodor, who had escaped the Pole as soon as he graduated from secondary school and who was using this job to fund his way through NYU to get a degree in theater, raised his eyebrows. His lips were twisted in a slight smile, as if the entire situation amused him.
Which it probably did. He had been one of the people who had urged her to go Upstate, just to see where she stood, and then had been disappointed when she returned, unwilling to talk.
To talk. About Ryan. Who was standing here, looking very uncertain. And very handsome in a pair of tight blue jeans and a black sweater that accented his broad shoulders and dark hair.
“Hi,” he said, sounding uncertain. “I thought maybe I owed you an apology.”
“You didn’t do anything,” she said. “I was the one who ran out on you.”
Fyodor’s eyebrows rose even higher, something Nissa hadn’t thought possible.
She gave him a withering glance, not that it would make a difference. He would react as long as she and Ryan stood in the reception area.
“Why don’t you come into my office?” she asked, even though she really didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to explain herself, she didn’t want to humiliate herself, she didn’t want to think about that evening any more.
Even though she couldn’t really stop thinking about it.
Without waiting for Ryan’s answer, she pushed open the office door and stepped inside. Like everything at Claus & Company, her office smelled faintly of peppermint and evergreen. She only noticed the scent when someone else sniffed the air and looked both surprised and pleased.
Her office was large for Manhattan—a corner suite that had once belonged to Oskar, it was larger than most apartments. She had a couch, a large desk in one corner, and her computer desk in another. Her view wasn’t as impressive—she got to see the street and nearby buildings—but it was better than no view at all.
Ryan closed the door behind him, and her heart started to race. The last time she had been alone with him in an office, she had kissed him silly.
This time, she put Oskar’s old desk between herself and Ryan.
“Have a seat,” she said, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.
Ryan looked at the chair in front of the desk as if it would trap him. “I don’t plan to stay long enough,” he said. “I just wanted to say I was sorry. I enjoyed our time together, and I know that something went wrong, and it was probably me—”
“It wasn’t you,” she said. That honesty, leaping out of her. She should have agreed with him. She should have blown him off. They weren’t suited, and he didn’t even know why. She didn’t want to tell him why, either, because then he’d either think her a lunatic, or she would violate the rules of the North Pole and Claus & Company. She didn’t like either choice.
“I don’t pretend to understand what happened,” he said, looking at that chair again. “But I do know I wasn’t at my best in either of our encounters. I find you fascinating, Nissa, and I’d love to get to know you better—”
“That’s the point,” she said. “You can’t.”
&nbs
p; He let out a slow breath. “Because you’re already involved with someone?”
He sounded hopeful, as if that were the problem instead of her weird behavior in the restaurant.
“Because of this job,” she said, and hoped it would be enough.
“I understand when someone has to work long hours,” he said.
She shook her head. “Please, Ryan,” she said. “I’m not sure I can explain this in a way that will satisfy both of us.”
That, at least, was true.
He frowned. For a moment, she thought he was going to turn around and leave. Then he sighed, pulled the chair back, and sat down heavily.
“Give it a try,” he said.
She closed her eyes. If only he would leave. But part of her was happy he was staying, happy that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, happy—that he’d end up thinking ill of her?
She opened her eyes. “Would you like some hot cocoa?” It was the only gambit she had.
“No,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“Coffee, then,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Please, just—”
“I think you should have coffee,” she said, and waved her right hand. Little sparkles—almost like glitter—covered the air around her. Then a red-and-green Santa mug filled with coffee appeared on the desk in front of Ryan.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
She wasn’t going to tell him, not yet, despite the fact that the word magic just about tripped off her tongue. She kept the word back and instead said, “Do you take cream or sugar?”
He peered into the mug. The coffee was black and rich; the best she could think of. “Soy milk,” he said almost absently.
She waved her hand again, and the glitter reappeared. He was still looking at the mug. She could see the liquid from her perch on the edge of her chair. The coffee was a milk-chocolate color now.
“Too much?” she asked. “Too little?”
“Just right,” he said in a small Baby-Bear voice. But he didn’t pick up the mug. “You didn’t answer me. How did you do that?”
This time the word fell out of her mouth. “Magic.”
He looked up at her. That jolt when his gaze met hers, it never disappointed. It always made her feel special, even now, even when it was clear he was perturbed.
“Is that your usual answer when you don’t want to explain something?” he asked. “You said the same thing about the projector.”
The projector and his comments that day reminded her of something. “You told me that you always have trouble with technology,” she said.
“Don’t change the subject,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said. “Just bear with me. Technology. It fritzes around you, doesn’t it? I noticed you don’t keep your computer on your main desk. Neither do I.”
She indicated the computer desk across the room.
“Still,” she said, “I go through a computer every 18 months. So does everyone else in this office.”
“Get your electrical system checked,” he said, sounding annoyed.
“It’s not the electrical system,” she said. “The advertising agency downstairs doesn’t have this problem. Neither does the modeling agency upstairs. Just us.”
He sighed. “Why is this relevant?”
“Because,” she said, “you told me that the studios you went to always had equipment failure, but you knew it couldn’t be about you. Yet, if you were to call the studio where we met and ask them how many times equipment failed around me, you know what they’d say?”
“Stop wasting our time?” he asked.
“Every fourth visit,” she said, ignoring his tone. “It’s a standing joke with us. They think it’s the luck of the draw. It’s not.”
His shoulders slumped. “You’re not one of those people who claims to have some kind of weird energy that destroys electronics, are you? Someone who says watches don’t run around them.”
“They don’t run on you, do they?” Nissa asked, taking a gamble. He wasn’t wearing a watch. “You always blame it on lack of care or the fact that you buy cheap watches, but you stopped wearing them, what, when you were twelve? Thirteen?”
His gaze narrowed. She was right; she could tell from his expression. “Why is this important?” he asked.
She snapped her fingers and the mug of coffee disappeared.
“I’d be more impressed if this were my office,” he said. “Then I’d know the desk wasn’t rigged, and I would know you hadn’t performed some kind of parlor trick.”
“Hold your hand out flat,” she said.
He gave her a weird look, then did it. She snapped her fingers a second time, and the coffee mug reappeared balanced on his palm, a candy cane stirring stick in the center of it.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said.
“Magic,” she said again.
He stared at the coffee. The mug had to be burning his palm. He took his left hand and grabbed the mug’s handle, then took a sip. The candy cane stir-stick hit him in the nose. He frowned.
“I have two questions,” he said after he finished swallowing. “Do you really believe you work for the ‘real’ Santa Claus, and what does my lack of a watch have to do with anything?”
She wanted to answer the second question first. It was the easier question. Kinda. Sorta. But she knew better than to do that. The first question was the one that would guarantee whether or not he would stay in the room. The second question might just remain permanently unanswered.
She sighed. “I work for the real Santa Claus.”
He let out a small snort and shook his head. But he didn’t move. “A guy who flies around the world one night a year, gives toys only to ‘deserving’ kids, and then crawls back in his ice cave.”
“No,” she said. “That guy doesn’t exist.”
Ryan frowned, then took another sip of his coffee. He ran a finger along the edge of her desk where the mug had first appeared, apparently felt nothing, and then set the mug in that spot.
She was tempted to make it disappear again, but she didn’t.
“So you work for…a company that ‘owns’ Santa’s brand? And they call all the people who work for that company ‘elves’?” His emphasis on the two words was so strong, she almost expected him to make air quotes with his fingers.
“No,” she said. “I work for Claus & Company. We’ve been around for centuries, and we are run by someone that the world calls Santa Claus. We mostly focus on charitable works, but the toy-giveaway has been part of our focus for centuries. We can’t do that with everyone, so we give children of other traditions what we can. That’s really not my area. I handle public relations in the United States—”
“Public relations,” he said. “For a man who flies around the world in one night. Which is physically impossible.”
“Yeah, it would be,” she said. “If it weren’t for magic.”
He nodded. This was the telling moment, the moment when he should walk away. “And you’re magical.”
“You are too,” she blurted.
“Now you’re going to tell me that every kid has magic,” he said, “and then we’re going to sing a happy tune.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “No,” she said. “Not everyone has magic. But you have a lot, which shows up as charisma and charm. Your family is also extremely long-lived, and I would wager that they immigrated from a middle-European country that either no longer exists or from an area no genealogist can track down exactly.”
He leaned back a little. She was spot-on, she knew it. “You researched my family?”
“No,” she said. “I just know a Charming when I meet one.”
“A Charming,” he said.
She didn’t want to explain how all the magic systems were related, from elves to fairies to fairy tales to mythological figures. It would take forever, and he wouldn’t believe her.
But she would wager, if she or someone at Claus & Company tracked down his genealogy, they
would find that he was a relation several times removed from one of the royal families, the ones that spawned all the Charmings of fairy tale myths.
Not that he would know that or even believe it.
She waved her hand dismissively, and didn’t do any magic at that moment. She shook her head at the same time.
“None of this matters,” she said. “I like you. You like me, and we’re just not suited. You’ll never believe me, not that it really matters, because ultimately, you’re grounded in this world, and my feet are firmly planted in a different one.”
His eyes narrowed. “Grounded in this world?”
“You have family here, and friends, and students who probably adore you, and classes to teach, things to do that you loved so much you couldn’t wait to return to them. Or your university. Whereas I am in Manhattan much of the time, and the rest of the time, I’m in the North Pole—not the one the British kept trying to conquer in the 19th century, but the one you see on television specials and in kids’ books, the one that’s replicated in every mall in American starting just after Thanksgiving—”
“If we’re lucky,” he muttered. “These days it’s usually Halloween.”
She stopped and stared at him. He shouldn’t have said that. He should continue protesting. Part of him was listening to her, and that surprised her. No one from the Greater World had ever listened to her before.
He dropped his gaze first. He reached for the coffee, then cupped the mug. The candy cane stir stick had melted down to half its size. When he swirled the coffee inside the mug, the cane fell all the way into the liquid.
“What if I asked you again what I asked you in the restaurant?” he said.
“You asked me what happened,” she said.
“After that,” he said. “I asked you to make me believe.”
“You didn’t know what you were asking,” she said.
“Theoretically, I do now,” he said.
Her heart pounded. “Why would you ask that? You think I’m crazy.”
He shrugged one shoulder. He was still looking inside that coffee mug as if it held the secret to his existence.
“You know,” he said, “life has never been normal for my family. It’s always been—a little better than normal, at least by other people’s standards. It’s like the book. I wrote a public health manifesto, and I ended up all over national television. It isn’t what I wanted, but it’s not normal.”
Santa Series: Three Stories of Magical Holiday Romance Page 17
