by Logan Chance
I step inside of her cozy apartment and haul all of the things I’ve brought along with me. She takes note, nudging her chin toward the box in my hand.
“What is that?”
“It’s a gift,” I say. “For you.”
“I didn’t ask you here for a gift exchange.”
“I know. But it’s part of the message I sent you.”
“I didn’t read your message.” She shrugs and I nearly die.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“So why did you ask me here?” I ask, my heart beating out of control.
“Because you’re going to tell me what made you into such a jerk.”
This time I do laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She takes a step closer. “I want to know what makes a guy like you think he can just walk up to a place he’s never worked a day in his life at and steal everything I have worked for in the blink of an eye...just because you swindled my boss into loving your...candy cane.”
“Ginger—”
“No, you wait. I’m not done with you, mister.” She steps closer. “Everest Snow, you’re charming and handsome as sin, and you have no right to whittle your way into a girl’s life, make her fall in love with you, and then just dump her like yesterday’s...like yesterday’s... “
“Cold tea!” someone hollers from the back of the apartment.
“Thank you, Bianca,” she says. “Dump me like some cold ass tea.”
I take a breath and sigh. “Ginger, just let me show you what’s in the box.”
“If it’s your dick, you can just leave right now. Regift it to someone needing your dick in a box. Because I don’t.” She points at herself, dramatically. “This girl right here, is dick in the box free and loving it. Understand?”
I shake my head at her and settle the box (that does not have my dick in it) on the coffee table. I give a tug to the ribbon on top and motion for her to have a look.
Slowly, she glances at it, like she’s afraid a snake will pop out. Or a dick? And then, she catches the magic. The thing she needs to see the most. The thing that makes her face light up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“That’s my name.” She points at the box. “That is my name on that box. Holy shit. Is this what...” She covers her mouth.
“That’s your collection. You didn’t answer my emails or text in time, so I hope you don’t mind, but we’re calling it Magic Maker collection. Because that’s what you do, Ginger Darling, you make magic happen.” I step closer to her. “In an elevator.” Closer. “In a board meeting.” Closer. “In a studio in your bedroom the size of a pantry closet.” I reach for her hand and press it to my chest, allowing her to feel how my heart beats for her. “There isn’t anything you can’t do, and you deserve to have your dreams come true. You deserve to show the world the kind of magic you are truly capable of, Ginger.”
“Everest, I don’t know what to say.”
“Then maybe you should just let me kiss you.” I hold her face in my hands. “Because I’m fucking dying to kiss you, baby.”
Her eyes softly flutter close, and she tips on her toes for my mouth. I get lost in a heated, searing kiss that binds our heartstrings, lacing us together forever.
“I love you,” I whisper against her warm mouth.
“I love you,” she says. “But I don’t understand anything. I thought you were stealing my job. How did you do all of this?”
“I’m the owner of Beauty Babe, Inc. My father was Everest Winters. He left it all to me after he died. Meredith knew I was going to blast her for stealing ideas. She’s been doing it for many years and getting away with it. She didn’t take too kindly to me finally trying to put a stop to her thievery. So she found some very unflattering dirt on me after my father died. I went a little off the rails, so careless about drinking and who I let into my life, and she threatened to use it against me.”
“Holy shit,” she says. “So...dating her?”
“Just a cover to try and get into her computer and get back whatever she had saved. I hired a few people from the inside too, like Watson, to help me. In the end, we made a deal. I’d let her keep peddling her shitty products, as long as she’d let you go.”
Her eyes go wide. “You wanted her to fire me?”
“I told her to. Yes.”
“Everest.”
I soothe her face. “I didn’t want her taking advantage of you. The way she acted, her business practices—she would have ruined you. And Ginger, you’re so very special. You have no idea.”
“So you did all of this?” Her eyes mist over.
“I took the sketches you gave Meredith and based it off that, yes. And don’t worry, she won’t even think about copying it. Trust me.”
“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, Ginger.” I kiss her nose. “Because baby, I believe in you.”
THE END
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GRAHAM
Graham Steele is the owner of the Mountain Goat Resort and Zoe would love nothing more than to get her handmade soaps in every room. "It was only supposed to be one night of bliss before my big meeting. But, I never expected to run into my one-night stand the next morning as I pitched my proposal. And I never expected his counter proposal...a fake engagement."
Chapter 1
Zoe
Hell on earth is the twelve days before Christmas. It’s a hodgepodge of demonic last-minute shoppers on a quest to find the must have special something that sold out months ago, tired and cranky workers, and Satan’s own special lair smack dab in the center of Pineview Mall—Santa’s Winter Wonderland.
It’s sad I feel this way. Christmas is my thing. Rudolph is my spirit animal. I’m that person. The one whose tree goes up at midnight on Thanksgiving. The one who has a gingerbread man counting down the days until I can give perfectly wrapped gifts with exquisite bows. Christmas music all day, check. Holiday movies, hot chocolate with homemade whipped cream, and Christmas pjs, check, check, and check in green and gold glitter. I last minute shop just to be a part of the excitement. It’s a holidaygasm. Or was, rather, until I got fired from my marketing job a month ago. You’d think they’d have the decency to downsize after the holidays, but apparently, decency doesn’t fit into the new business model. And neither did I.
Instead of moping, I took that big lump of coal I’d been given, and applied for a position with the most powerful man on the planet—Santa.
Not until I started working as head elf and picture taker for the bearded man himself, did I realize that Satan and Santa are synonymous, just change the letters around.
Ornery people have sucked away my Christmas spirit, but I’ve got one last chance to hold onto it. In a few minutes, I’ll escape this sea of snarled faces and drive to the mountains where my future awaits. Marketing is all about hashtags, so I’ll hashtag this moment #seeya.
“Zoe, you tell them,” Jenna, one of my fellow elves, urges.
Impatient parental eyes in the mile-long line filtering past the twinkling ten-foot Christmas tree throw daggers at me. There will be no crying and screaming in Santa’s lap today, because, thanks to an unexpected bout of stomach flu, Santa has left the building.
A jingle wafts from the bells on my green felt shoes as I walk to the red velvet rope holding the rambunctious crowd at bay and latch the lock into place.
“Santa had a sleigh malfunction,” I tell the mob of people. “Unfortunately, he won’t be here today.”
A groan rumbles like a wave down the crowd, before they disperse in a murmur of disapproval.
“Can you let Santa know I want an Xbox?” the towheaded boy, who was first in line, asks.
“I sure will,” I tell him with a smile. “The elves are in short supply this year, though,” I add as a disclaimer, just in case he doesn’t get one. I’m not sure how I feel about this almost satanic ritual of lying to littl
e kids. He gives me a thumb up before darting away with his mom.
“Where is Santa?” a deep voice demands. I turn and am accosted by frosty chocolate eyes set in a face so ruggedly beautiful the tips of my shoes would curl, if they weren’t already. He runs a hand through his jet-black hair, leaving it in perfect disarray. Broad shoulders square off with me and my lies.
“He’s not here,” I answer, glancing down at the dark-haired girl, whose hand he holds.
“Yes, you mentioned his sleigh troubles.” His eyes glide over the red hat covering my brown hair. “But I’m sure he could Uber to fulfill his obligations. So, where is he?”
Does he really think I’m going to tell the truth in front of little ears? Tall, dark, and handsome arches a brow, waiting for my answer.
“How old are you?” I ask, losing my last bit of Christmas spirit.
“He’s thirty-two,” the little girl answers.
“So you’re old enough to know how this works.” I place my hands on my hips. “There is no Uber at the North Pole. There’s a giant sleigh with reindeer, that’s how it works. If your daughter—“
“Niece,” he corrects.
“If your niece would like to leave a letter, you can pop it in the mailbox by the candy cane.”
I point to the massive postal setup a few feet away.
“Can I?” the little girl implores, full of glee. He gives permission with a nod, and she rushes over to the table to write a letter that will never be sent. This is all just wrong.
“Where is Santa, really?” the stranger asks, sliding his hands into his jean pockets. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand in that line and keep a six-year-old occupied? I don’t like wasting time.”
“Let’s be real here, half these kids don’t even want to do it. They’re terrified. Do you have any idea what it’s like to get your hopes up, and ask the one man you’re told will answer all your dreams for something, and then be disappointed on Christmas day?”
His eyes drift down my red felt mini dress and green tights to my curled shoes, and back up again. “You’re very jaded for an elf.”
“Listen, I don’t know how to break this to you. So, I’m going to rip the band aid off.” I step closer to whisper, “Santa isn’t real; we’re all big liars.”
He looks taken aback for a moment, before he chuckles. “Thanks for enlightening me,” he says, amused. The carefree transformation to his chiseled face is so startling I step back, because he smells like everything I ever wanted and didn’t get.
“You’re welcome,” I tell him before I’m called away to deal with a disgruntled mother wrestling a toddler. Five minutes later, when she’s finally appeased with a free cookie coupon, the handsome stranger is gone.
“Hope they have a backup for tomorrow,” Jenna says, as we collect our handbags from the secret door behind the faux fireplace. “Don’t want to have to deal with that again.”
Luckily, I won’t have to, since today is my last day. And where does my future take me? Into the mountains. It’s a career opportunity, one I set up long before the pink slip was handed to me. If I can convince the owner of Mountain Goat Cabins to put my soaps in his resort and spa, my life just might be salvaged. Along with my Christmas spirit.
“Have a merry Christmas,” I tell her.
I make a quick pit stop in the bathroom to switch my elf attire for a pink sweater, black leggings, and boots before leaving the cacophony of the mall for a quiet drive to the resort. I need to hurry if I’m going to beat the snow. It’s expected to be a heavy snowfall tonight, and I want to make sure I have a stiff drink in my hand while I prepare my notes.
After nearly an hour, I arrive. Your destination is on the right, my GPS tells me, as if I could miss it.
“Holy balls,” I murmur to myself, as I pull into the large parking lot. Pictures on the internet really don’t do this place justice. It’s like a Christmas village for millionaires snuggled in the picturesque Colorado mountains. I grab my bag and hustle into the lobby of the monstrous snow topped log building that’s strung with enough lights to make Clark Griswold look like an amateur.
A cheery worker with a blonde bob, wearing a black button down, greets me at the front desk.
After a few types on her keyboard, she hands me a key card, along with details about free breakfast and directions to my cabin. ‘Cabin’ is a bit of an understatement; it’s bigger than my apartment. I waltz through the living area filled with wood accented leather furniture, back to the master suite, complete with a fireplace.
Before I trek back to the lounge for a drink, I peek in the oversized bathroom to check out the competition. Average at best toiletries sit in a wicker basket on the countertop. This place needs something more luxurious.
Feeling a little more confident, visions of dollar signs dance in my head when I step into the lounge of the Mountain Goat. A large, roaring fire blazes in the stone fireplace in the front of the lounge. An oak bar sits behind a Christmas tree that almost touches the top of the cathedral ceilings. It’s decked out in gold and red, and it warms me up on this dreary evening.
My hopes don’t falter though, if I can land this account, my entrepreneurial dreams will come true. I’ve done my research, and there are one hundred cabins rented out year-round, and I figure, at least half of the vacationers will steal the bars of soap and tubes of lotions I make, so Serendipity Soaps will potentially be nationwide.
I beeline for the bar stretching along the back wall. The television behind the liquor plays the LGC shopping channel, and I spot cute red knee-high boots I’d love to buy if I had the money to splurge this holiday. Soon boots soon.
“What can I get you?” the tall, blonde bartender asks as I turn away from the TV and settle onto a wooden stool.
“Vodka and cranberry,” I order my forever drink of choice, with no need to even think about it.
“Just what I pegged you for,” he says with a wink.
He’s cute, and he’s totally flirting with me, but I’m not sure what that means. If I were to be a drink, I’d much rather be something exciting like sex on the beach. His blue eyes flit back to me as he pours my alcohol. Well now I want to change my drink to something less mainstream, but before I can, he brings it over.
“What’s your cabin number?”
I’m used to forward men, but I didn’t even get to taste the drink before he’s trying to get in my panties.
“Oh, well, um,” I stammer, glancing at his name tag, “Brian, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for anything besides the drink.”
“I think he wants to charge your cabin for the drink,” a deep voice interjects.
“You can pay cash if you don’t want me charging the room,” Brian clarifies.
“No, it’s fine.” My cheeks redden. “Cabin twelve.” I turn away to hide my embarrassment, and my eyes collide with the mall stranger from a few hours earlier.
Recognition crosses his features, and he half-smiles. “The jaded elf?” he asks with a raised brow.
“Just an off day,” I tell him. “Normally, I love Christmas.”
“I don’t.” He takes a seat beside me.
“Didn’t get that official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle?”
“Impressive, but no.”
“Then why do you hate it?”
He signals Brian for a drink, then looks over at me with a grin. “Because I just recently found out Santa isn’t real.”
I smile. “Sorry to spoil it for you.”
“Take this song for instance.” I listen as “Jingle Bells” lightly plays from the speakers. “Have you ever ridden in a one-horse open sleigh?”
“No,” I answer, distracted by the way his jean clad knee brushes my leg when he turns to face me.
“I have. It wasn’t fun.”
“Maybe you were with the wrong person,” I say, sounding a lot like I’m flirting.
His tongue peeks out to caress the corner of his mouth before he says, �
��I’m sure I was.”
“What about giving gifts? And getting gifts? And spending time with family?”
“No, no, and hell no. I try to avoid my family as much as possible.”
I frown a little. “Not even Christmas movies? It’s a Wonderful Life? Christmas Story?
“No.” A cute dimple appears when he smiles. “Especially, not Christmas movies.”
“Elf?”
He cringes. “Sounds horrible. Die Hard is a good one.”
Don’t get me wrong, I'm all for Bruce Willis, but… “Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”
“Is too.”
“Is not,” I challenge with a hard stare. His warm chocolate eyes hold mine. The way they study me over the rim of his drink causes a zing in places that hasn’t felt a zing in a very long time. “I guess you hate eggnog as well?”
He holds up his drink. “I’d rather have this instead. Bourbon is better than whatever they put in eggnog.”
“Well, you can put bourbon in it,” I mumble under my breath.
Another Christmas song, “Blue Christmas” by Elvis, serenades the bar, and I chuckle a little.
“What?” he asks.
“This song is kind of perfect for you.”
“I never said I was sad, just not a fan of Christmas.”
I take another sip of my drink. “Is there anything you like about it?”
“Mistletoe.” His eyes drop once more to my mouth. “Let me ask you this, why do you like it so much?”
“Hm.” My mind overloads with all things holiday bliss. “It’s maybe just the spirit of it all.”
As if I’m an anomaly, he silently stares at me. Clearly my flirtdar is off tonight, because I’d swear his brown eyes are more than admiring my sweater—they’re removing it.
“Let me buy you another drink.” He motions Brian over to us. “Put her tab on me.”
I wave off his gesture. “No, really, you don’t have to do that.”
“I can’t let you drink alone. Just doesn’t seem right.”
“Well, I sure hate drinking alone.” My voice just dropped like fifty octaves.
