Mom clears her throat. “Should I leave you two to sort this out, or...”
Reality crashes back. I scramble to my feet and offer Mads a hand up.
“Thanks,” she says, accepting my help and brushing dust off her jeans. The jingle bell falls to the floor with a tiny, cheerful sound.
“Right,” I say, adjusting the Santa hat. “So... successful fitting?”
“Very successful,” she agrees, but she won’t quite meet my eyes. “I think Santa’s going to be a hit this year.”
“Good,” Mom says with barely concealed satisfaction. “Because I have a feeling this partnership is going to be very... productive.”
The way she says it makes me think she’s not just talking about Christmas planning.
Later, walking to my truck with the Santa suit carefully packed in its garment bag, I find myself thinking about the way Mads handled everything—professional but warm, thorough but not overwhelming, laughing off my clumsiness instead of making me feel like an idiot.
My phone buzzes.
Mads: Thanks for being such a good sport about the fitting. And for not breaking anything important when you fell.
I find myself smiling as I type back.
Me: Thanks for catching me. Literally. Sorry about the jingle bell situation.
Mads: Don’t apologize. It was the most excitement my hair’s had all week.
Me: I’ll try to contain my clumsiness at tomorrow’s vendor meeting.
Mads: Please don’t. Watching you navigate Christmas logistics while trying not to trip over decorations is quickly becoming my favorite entertainment.
I’m still smiling when I get home. Which is probably a problem.
But thinking about tomorrow’s planning session, and the way Mads’ eyes lit up when she talked about making Christmas special for the kids, and the fact that she finds my disasters entertaining instead of embarrassing...
Maybe some problems are worth having.
Hazel’s Victorian beach house smells like red wine and Christmas cookies. The most dangerous combination known to mankind. The living room’s been taken over by women with paperwork, laptops, and opinions about everything from lighting to logistics.
“Asher!” Hazel waves me over to the couch, where she’s got her planning operation spread across her coffee table. “Perfect timing. We’re discussing crowd flow.”
I squeeze between Mads and Lila on the couch and try to ignore the way Mads shifts to make room for me, the brush of her shoulder against mine.
“So,” says a woman I don’t recognize who has short, curly white hair, “we’re thinking luminarias along the boardwalk path. Nothing that violates fire codes,” she adds quickly when she sees my expression.
“LED candles,” Mom clarifies. “Battery operated.”
“That could work,” I admit. “As long as we have clear pathways and proper spacing.”
“See?” Mads nudges my shoulder. “You’re already thinking like Santa. Keeping everyone safe while making it magical.”
“I don’t do magic.”
“Sure you do,” Mads’ six-year-old younger sister, Ellen, pipes up from her spot on the floor, where she’s coloring what appears to be a very detailed Christmas wish list. “You make fires go away. That’s magic.”
“That’s science.”
“Magic science,” she says firmly.
I’m about to argue when Hazel clears her throat.
