by Erika Marks
Back downstairs, Miranda set the stack of dusty boxes by the fireplace and brushed her hands clean on her jeans, forcing the runaway train of her worries to brake. One thing at a time. It was still just Saturday, still one more day until they had to face the reality of Monday’s business clock, and all the details that came with it.
Another day with Santa, as Oliver had reminded her the night before as he’d drifted off to sleep, clutching Mr. Moo against him. And for a fleeting but fierce second, Miranda had wished to be held that closely, to be cherished like that pilled, flat-nosed bear.
*
Jackson had grown so accustomed to seeing the constant shower of snow every time he neared a window that he genuinely blinked with surprise to find the blizzard had finally ended when he came out of the bathroom just after three.
His sponge bath had gone about as well as expected—clumsy and cold, but the lather had done the trick. He may have been staying in a barn but at least he didn’t have to smell like one anymore. And even better, his hair and beard were miraculously holding on to their fake tint—although he didn’t know how much longer that would hold up. Then again, he wasn’t sure how much longer any part of this wild plan would hold up. Now that the storm had passed, the road crews would surely be out, making the roads passable again, and quickly. They’d find the Range Rover. Then they’d probably call Ted, and his agent would go into full-on panic mode. After failing to call him last night, Jackson feared Ted already had.
Layered up again, and fortified with his last dose of pain meds, Jackson took the guitar down from the shelf and settled in to tune it. Usually he liked having a reference tone when he tuned, but today he’d wing it. It just felt good to have the instrument on his knee, his fingers stroking the strings.
As he plucked and turned the tuning pegs, Miranda’s question about a Christmas album surfed back to him. Why hadn’t he ever done one? Pride, mostly. He didn’t like the idea of just doing covers, no matter how well loved and sacred they were. But what if he wrote an original Christmas song?
If ever he was inclined to, this would be the time.
*
Miranda stared at the four discarded shirts on her bed and frowned angrily. Since when did she spend a half an hour getting ready to decorate her Christmas tree?
Fashion had never been her forte. After years of vet school then daily scrubs, she chose a similarly easy uniform for her off-hours—jeans and a basic long-sleeved T-shirt. She was known to buy a dozen of the same style—different colors (she wasn’t entirely opposed to variety)—at the outset of every fall and wear them till they were threadbare. A boyfriend might grow tired of the outfit, but her son never complained.
So why was she standing here in a bra, debating if there was something less suggestive in a blue shirt than a pale pink one?
“Just get dressed, you goof,” she scolded herself in a harsh whisper as she snatched up the blue Henley and tugged it on, grabbing a scrunchie off her bureau and tying back her red hair into a loose ponytail before she could find another part of her ensemble to obsess over.
Downstairs, she surveyed the living room, the sharp, peppery smell of the tree’s needles already filling the downstairs. She’d had a remarkably easy time getting it into the stand. The boxes of ornaments sat waiting beside it. Now all that remained was to heat up dinner.
Tearing open the box, she wondered if Jackson Wilder assumed she would be making their lasagna from scratch. Not that she cared if some celebrity judged her for not liking to cook. Not that she disliked cooking—she’d just never really had the time, or the inclination, to learn. Growing up in her house, her father, a single dad, had chosen the same culinary path of pre-made dinners for the same reason Miranda had—late nights at the law firm meant what little energy he came home with, he wanted to reserve for helping Miranda with her homework, not chopping and sautéeing.
When it came time to build a life with Oliver, Miranda simply followed the model she knew best. Even if sometimes when she saw the beautifully decorated cakes and complicated finger foods that the other mothers at his preschool had delivered for class parties, Miranda still felt the pang of inferiority.
The knock sounded, shaking her from her reverie.
Oliver bounded down the stairs. “Santa’s here!”
Together they walked—well, she walked, Oliver ran—to the front door and were greeted by Jackson. Her eyes fell to the guitar in his hand.
He held the instrument up and smiled. “In case we feel like a little mood music. She’s all tuned.”
“Wonderful,” Miranda said, stepping back to let him inside. As Jackson crossed the threshold, she caught a smoky whiff of mint soap and felt a shudder of pleasure fire down her arm as she closed the door behind him. She reached back to check the knot of her ponytail, suddenly wishing she hadn’t been so quick to choose it. But as soon as she met his glittering blue eyes, she found herself blissfully uncaring.
“I’m early,” he said.
“I don’t think you’ll get any complaints,” she said, offering to take the guitar so he could shrug out of his coat.
But the second Jackson had hung the jacket up, Oliver grabbed his hand and tugged. “The tree’s all ready, Santa. Come see!”
“Duty calls.” Jackson shot her a cheerful grin over his shoulder as he let Oliver lead him into the living room.
Chapter Eleven
Jackson couldn’t remember the last time he’d decorated a Christmas tree—let alone had one in his life. On the road or in the studio most of the year, he was never home long enough to care.
But as he stood next to Miranda and Oliver, watching her son gleefully add ornaments to the spruce branches, he was reminded of what made the tradition so much fun.
He’d gladly helped string the lights, but when it came time to decorate, he’d opted to be an observer. While he couldn’t recall exactly how many years since his last tree, he would never forget how family ornaments were treated as heirlooms. He’d no more stick his hand in one of these boxes than he would draw down one of the photo albums that peeked out of the nearby bookshelf and start thumbing through it. Family was personal. Even Santa didn’t have that right.
“Look, Mommy! It’s your favorite!” Oliver held out a candy cane made of twisted pipe cleaners to Miranda, beaming as if he’d just uncovered the Mona Lisa.
Miranda’s glow nearly outshined her son’s. “You found it, bud. Thank you!”
Jackson smiled as he watched her tenderly hang the ornament then step back to admire it a moment. Somehow Jackson suspected she had more than just one favorite among them all.
“I made all these, Santa,” Oliver informed him, raising the filled box.
Jackson looked in, marveling at the assortment. “You’re kidding? It would take a dozen elves a week to make this many where I come from.” He snuck in a quick wink at Miranda.
She laughed. “Two Christmases ago, Ollie had chicken pox—and our cable went out—so his teacher gave me this craft book on easy-to-make ornaments. A week in bed and no cable TV? I think we single-handedly bought up the entire supply of pipe cleaners for the whole state of Colorado.”
Jackson chuckled. “Looks like it.”
“This one was my grandpa’s.” Oliver held up a red and green fishing pole made from Popsicle sticks, smiling as he watched it spin from its gold string. “He liked to fish.” The boy’s eyes rose. “You can hang it if you want.”
Jackson glanced at Miranda, curious to see her reaction. Just being here with them for this event seemed remarkable to him, knowing how private a person she was, how guarded. Not that he blamed her—they were strangers to each other, after all. And while Jackson had begrudgingly grown used to his life being an open book, thanks to the tabloids and social media, Miranda’s life was anything but. Living in the mountains, snowed in and cut off a good portion of the year, who wouldn’t learn to hide?
“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the tree. “It’s only right that Santa should leave his mark.”
>
A curious response, Jackson thought as he slid the ornament onto a free branch. Had he already left a mark here? There was no question that just a few days in this house with this beautiful and remarkable woman had left a mark on him, for sure.
The only question was, for how long?
As if sensing the subject of his thoughts, Miranda caught his gaze and smiled. “I don’t suppose we could request a few Christmas songs? I would put on a Pandora station but the storm’s made streaming more like trickling.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Jackson reached for the guitar where she’d left it propped against the dark fireplace and took a seat on the couch.
He played the two he knew—“Jingle Bell Rock” and “White Christmas”—then fumbled his way through Oliver’s request of “Frosty the Snowman” before Miranda rose to start dinner.
She reached out and brushed Oliver’s bangs from his forehead. “You think you and Santa can finish the tree without me, bud?”
He nodded, his face screwing up as he untangled a pair of felt reindeers. “We got this, Mom.”
Jackson took one of the ornaments from Oliver and looked for a good spot, but his eyes drifted to watch Miranda cross back to the kitchen, wondering what all that gorgeous hair would feel like in his hands…
“You must be kind of worried, huh?”
Jackson blinked down at Oliver, the boy’s big eyes staring at him expectantly, and felt a pang of regret. Nice job, Santa. Ogling someone other than Mrs. Claus.
“Worried?” Jackson said.
“About being stuck here so close to Christmas,” said Oliver. “I’m sure you’ve got lots of stuff to do.”
“The elves have it under control. I mostly just…supervise…at this point. You know, check in, hand out Christmas cookies and hot chocolate.”
Oliver nodded contentedly. “Makes sense.”
Jackson reached for another ornament and they continued to work their way through the last box. It was scary how easily this stuff was coming to him. But if it kept Oliver—and his pretty mom—smiling like this, Jackson would gladly keep it up.
Almost at the bottom, Oliver poked his head around the tree and said, “So how do you think you’ll do it?”
“How do I think I’ll do what?” Jackson asked, turning a spun porcelain star around.
“Make Twisty all better?”
Jackson’s fingers froze on the ornament. So much for thinking he had this Santa business down pat.
Oliver chewed on his lower lip. “My mom gave him some medicine but Twisty didn’t like it very much.”
“Nobody likes taking medicine,” said Jackson, grateful for the delay while he thought of a better answer. “Do you like it?”
Oliver shook his head roughly and made a face. “When I’m sick she gives me this purple stuff and it’s gross.”
“But it works though, right?”
“Yeah…” The boy wrinkled his nose. “Then how come it’s not working for Twisty?”
Jackson frowned at the tree, scouring for a good answer. Now what, smart guy?
Again, Oliver gave him a reprieve. “My mom says Twisty stopped eating when he lost his best friend. I kinda know how he feels. My best friend Christopher moved to Texas last year and I didn’t feel very good. That’s why I keep telling Twisty we could be best friends now.”
Jackson felt as if his ribs were being compressed. Man, this kid was killing him.
“So how do you think you’ll save him, Santa?”
Jackson swallowed. Then he smiled. “You know I can’t tell you that, Oliver.”
It was a desperate move—playing the whole no-peeking-until-Christmas card—but it worked. Oliver gave him a dutiful nod then reached up to hang a silver ball, the beep of the microwave’s completed cooking cycle rescuing Jackson just in time.
Chapter Twelve
Despite the excitement of another day with Santa Claus, Miranda was able to get Oliver ready for bed with remarkably little fuss.
So little fuss, in fact, that by the time her son was under the covers and settling Mr. Moo under his chin, she almost wondered if she should feel his forehead for a fever.
“Tired, huh, bud?”
Oliver burrowed deeper under his comforter and shrugged.
“It’s been pretty fun having our guest here, hasn’t it?” she asked, thinking that if she didn’t refer to Jackson Wilder as Santa every time that she wouldn’t feel like a completely terrible parent for lying to her son—only a moderately terrible one.
It didn’t work.
“I guess so,” was Oliver’s less-than-enthusiastic reply.
Miranda searched her son’s downturned face harder now. Had Oliver figured out their charade?
“What’s wrong, bud? Didn’t you have a good time decorating the tree?”
“Yeah. But…”
“But what?” she asked carefully.
Finally Oliver lifted his gaze to meet hers, her son’s soft blue eyes flashing with worry. “I asked Santa how he was going to make Twisty better.”
“You did?” Miranda stiffened reflexively, but she made sure to keep her panic and dread from reaching her smile, which she was able to keep lifted, even as she asked, “And what did he say?”
Oliver’s lips drooped ruefully. “He said he couldn’t tell me. That it was a secret.”
“Because it is, silly,” Miranda said, ruffling his hair. “Now get some sleep.”
Passing the mirror on her way down the hall, she forced herself not to slow down and look, despite the urge being so very strong, knowing Jackson was waiting for her downstairs. Their frozen boxed lasagna dinner had felt remarkably festive. If not for Oliver’s frequent yawns, they might have lingered at the table for another hour. Instead, Miranda had started a pot of coffee then excused herself to put Oliver to bed. Jackson had offered to make them a fire and she’d cheerfully agreed—despite a sinking feeling that he wasn’t the kind of guy who knew how.
But as she descended the steps, she couldn’t help giving her ponytail a freshening tug. After so many years without a man in her life, Miranda had grown accustomed to finding the couch empty after she’d put Oliver to bed at night. Seeing Jackson sitting there was startling. But not entirely unwelcome.
And that in itself was most startling of all.
“Wow.” Her gaze slid to the fireplace, where a fire roared hot, snapping in its fury. She stared at the climbing flames, then back at him.
Jackson smiled. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” she admitted, moving to the kitchen to fix their coffee. “Fire-making isn’t an easy skill. Everyone thinks it is.”
“Until they actually try to make one,” Jackson finished for her.
“Exactly.” She carried their mugs back to the couch and handed him one.
He leaned back into the couch, his gaze heavy and wistful on the crackling flames. “I grew up on the beach making bonfires almost every night.”
“I thought most places prohibited those.”
“They did.” A playful smile spread across his face, that irresistible dimple appearing with it. “But that never stopped us.”
“Then this fire must seem a little small, compared to what you’re used to.”
“The principles are the same. A good fire needs to start slow, and then get some air under it. Then you resist the temptation to poke at it.”
She raised her coffee and blew over the top, thinking that advice could apply to more than just fires, as she took a long sip.
Jackson hitched his chin to the stairs. “Everything okay up there?”
Miranda nodded, lowering her mug. “Oliver said he asked you—excuse me, he asked Santa—how he planned to make Twisty all better.”
Jackson’s smile dimmed, his dimple disappearing with it. “I’m afraid I punted. Used the ole not-until-Christmas excuse.” He glanced up at her. “Is there any improvement?”
“Let’s just say I wish Twisty would take a page from your recovery book.” She gestured to his foot.
“You’re barely limping anymore. We might have to rethink this plan for rehabilitation.”
He glanced over at her, his eyes flashing curiously. “We don’t exactly have an exit strategy for this yet, do we?”
She shrugged. “I figured you would just leave in the middle of the night while Ollie’s asleep. In the morning, I can tell him Santa had to get back to the North Pole. He won’t think twice about it.”
She was surprised to see Jackson’s eyes darken briefly. “Don’t be so sure.”
Had she said something wrong? Unsure, Miranda opted for a change in subject.
“Did you get enough to eat?”
“Plenty,” he said, his smile returning. “I can’t remember the last time I sat down at a table and just ate a real meal. I’m usually choking down some awful take-out burger in the back of some tour bus.”
“I thought all you celebrities had personal chefs to cook for you.”
Jackson groaned. “I tried that once. Nice guy, but I came home from a tour to find he’d chucked all my steaks and replaced them with tofu burgers.”
Miranda laughed.
“You think I’m kidding? The final straw was when he refused to cook meat loaf.”
She sighed, tucking her bare feet up under her rear. “I’d give anything for a personal chef. I’m sure Ollie would too.”
“Your son didn’t seem to have any complaints.” Jackson chuckled. “And from what I’ve seen, he’s not someone to keep his opinions to himself.”
Miranda sighed. “I’m really sorry. I never dreamed Ollie would take it this far.”
“Don’t be sorry. I love his honesty.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s one word for it.”
“No, I’m serious,” said Jackson. “Every day, everywhere I go, I never know if people are being straight with me. You have no idea how refreshing it is to know where you stand with someone.” He grinned. “Even if they think you’re someone you’re not.”
