“I’m not rushing. I’m questioning my life choices.”
“Too late for that. You already agreed.”
We have to pack in padding, which Mads already has lined up. Mom jumps behind the screen to help, which is embarrassing to say the least, and she doesn’t stop until I resemble a stuffed sausage. I emerge from behind the screen like an idiot.
“Oh,” Mads says softly. Then louder: “Oh wow.”
Is my face red? It’s so hot in here. “That bad?”
“That good.” She’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You look...you actually look like Santa.”
“I look like a firefighter in a red suit.”
“You look like a version of Santa who works out and knows how to handle emergencies,” Mom corrects.
Mads approaches with a real-looking beard. “Okay, this next part might get weird.”
“Might?”
“I need to position this correctly. Which means...” She gestures vaguely at my face. “I need to touch your face.”
“Right.”
“Strictly professional,” she insists, but there’s pink in her cheeks now.
She steps closer, close enough that the vanilla and sea salt envelops me again. Her hands are gentle and sure as she positions the beard, fingers brushing my jaw as she adjusts the straps.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, concentrating.
I’m trying to hold still. I’m also trying not to think about how close she is, or the little furrow that appears between her eyebrows when she’s focused, or the way her touch is making my brain forget basic things like breathing.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “How does it feel?”
“Itchy.”
“All beards are itchy at first.” She tilts her head, studying her work. “Try walking around. Santa has very specific body language.”
“He does?”
“Jolly but authoritative. Welcoming but still magical.” She demonstrates, shoulders relaxed, arms slightly away from her body. “Kids pick up on everything.”
I try to copy her stance. Immediately feel like I’m going to fall over.
“Too relaxed,” Mom observes. “You look like you’re about to take a nap.”
“Here.” Mads steps closer again. “May I?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Her hands are light on my shoulders, adjusting my posture. “Shoulders back, but not rigid. Like you’re welcoming the whole world.” Her touch is appropriate, but it’s still making my pulse do complicated things.
“Better,” Mom says approvingly.
“Now try saying something Santa-ish,” Mads instructs.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something about Christmas.”
