“Shut up,” I mutter, checking the pressure gauge on Engine 12 for the third time. This is safer territory. Fire hoses don’t require me to examine my feelings or worry about whether I said too much last night.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: How’s Dean this morning?
Right. Reality check. Dean’s laid up, which means I’m not just filling in for Santa duty—I’m replacing a fifteen-year Christmas legend. No pressure at all.
I drive to Dean’s house, trying not to think about how Mads smiled when I finally shut up and kissed her. Trying not to remember how she felt in my arms, perfect and trusting and dangerous to my peace of mind.
Dean’s sitting in his recliner, looking about as miserable as a guy can look in flannel pajamas.
“How you feeling, Chief?”
“Worse than I’ve ever felt in my life.” He winces as he reaches for his coffee. “But never mind me. We need to talk about Santa duty.”
My stomach drops. “About that?—”
“Don’t even think about backing out, Lennox. This town’s been counting on Christmas magic for fifteen years. I made it look easy, but it’s not.” He fixes me with that stare that made rookie firefighters wet themselves. “Kids have been writing letters since Halloween. Six-year-old Ellen Cooper specifically asked for the ‘nice firefighter Santa’ this year.”
“I’m not exactly the nice?—”
“You will be for Christmas.” He leans forward, serious as a heart attack. “Asher, those kids believe in magic because we make them believe. You screw this up, you’re not just disappointing children—you’re destroying their parents’ faith too.”
Great. Just what I needed—more pressure to be something I’m not.
When I get back to the station, Ellen Cooper’s waiting for me, perched on the front bumper of Engine 12 as if she owns the place.
“You’re too grumpy,” she announces before I can say hello.
“Good morning to you too, Ellen. Shouldn’t you be with an adult?”
“My mom’s over there.” She points toward the front. “If you’re gonna be Santa, you need to be less grumpy and more twinkly.”
“Twinkly?”
“You know. When your eyes get happy. Mads has twinkly eyes. Yours are just... grouchy.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“I’ll work on the twinkly thing,” I tell her, which makes her giggle.
“Good. Because Christmas is in three weeks, and you need lots of practice.”
Three weeks. To learn fifteen years’ worth of Dean’s Santa expertise. To figure out how to be magical instead of grumpy. To not disappoint every kid on this island.
To not disappoint her.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a picture from Mads—coffee cups at Twin Waves Brewery with the message:Thought you might need caffeine after last night’s paint emergency.
And there it is. That feeling in my chest when someone’s squeezing my heart and expanding it at the same time. She’s thinking about me. About what I might need.
When’s the last time someone did that?
I’m typing a response when the station alarm goes off.
Hazel comes in and grabs Ellen before leaving.
The emergency turns out to be a false alarm at the elementary school, but by the time we get back, I’ve convinced myself that texting about feelings is exactly the kind of emotional minefield I should avoid.
