His gaze wanders for a moment before he starts walking toward a stall with colorful thick knit hats and scarves. We each inspect the goods, fingers rubbing the soft cozy yarn. A hat would be nice. I keep meaning to get one, but I usually use part of my scarf to wrap my head. I wish I could justify buying something. Even thoughSpitfirehas agreed to my fee, I’m still stressed about money.
I’m not sure I’ll ever not be stressed about money, even if I have thousands tucked away. After the trauma of experiencing such a sudden, unforgiving change in circumstances once, Ithink there will always be a corner of my mind bracing for it to happen again. But at least I can window shop.
“I wish I could make a bed of this stuff and lay in it forever,” I say. Though when I turn Liam is already checking out, his purchase is tucked into a stamped brown paper bag.
“What’d you get?” I ask as he walks over.
In answer, he pulls out the hat the same color as my coat and pulls it onto my head, causing my short hair to flip out around my ears.
I yelp, tearing it off and almost send it to the ground to be trampled. Instead, I leap up and attempt to put it on Liam, but he catches my wrists, holding me in place so my body is pressed against his. Even through my layers, my atoms seem to vibrate—on high alert.
Heat swells in my belly.Danger. Danger. Danger.
“Take the hat, Henri,” he orders and fuck me it’s kind of hot.
“It’s too expensive. I saw the prices in that store.”
“It’s a gift.” His hands slide up to work the cap from my grip. The scrape of his fingers against my palms sends a shiver through me and he must feel it because he says, “You’re cold, and the tips of your ears always seem like they’re on the verge of getting frostbite and falling off.”
“I do like having my ears.” Arguably the most intelligent response I could make.
“Of course you do, smart girl.” This time he lightly pulls the hat over my head, smoothing my hair. “When you’re done with me, you’ll have something to remember me by. You’ll be running out the door to class, and when you grab your favorite hat, you’ll think of me keeping you warm.”
“My favorite hat?”
“It has to be your favorite if it’s your only one.”
I know that even if I had a hundred hats, it would still be my favorite.
A phone rings and Liam pulls away, patting at his pockets until he retrieves his phone. “Hey.”
“The daddy kink Santa chair is late.” Jasmine’s frantic voice is loud enough that I can hear her clearly, even if I have no idea what she’s talking about. And so can a family walking by who give us nasty looks. Which is fair. I personally wouldn’t want to explain that specific sequence of words to a curious child.
Liam flushes. The more I get to know him, the more I like watching his face, how he displays exactly how he feels without bottling it up. I never feel like I need to be scared of him hiding things from me. “Umm, could you say that again, but actually tell me what’s going on?”
He and I step to the side and out of the way, brushing up against a cluster of trees with branches weighed down by ornate ornaments and snow. I stand close enough that I can continue to listen to Jasmine. “The chair for the Sexy Santa shoot was originally delayed by three days, so it was supposed to be here now for the shoot this afternoon. But I just got the update from the antique guy I’m loaning it from and he said there’s a snowstorm, so who knows when it will be here, and the shoot is in an hour.”
“What type of chair do you need exactly?” I ask and Liam tilts the phone to pick up my voice.
“Something old timey, throne like? Santa overlooking his domain in a broody yet sexy sternness. The more gold and red velvet the better. Please tell me your connections to the wealthy and hopelessly single can do something for me.”
“I think I have someone I can ask.”
11
Henri
I’ve consumedSpitfirefor years. There are few constants in my life, but the writers followed me wherever I went. Familiar names on bylines and words that, after reading their work for years, felt like they came from friends. Giving me advice about everything from cleaning period stains to why I should finally watch every Nora Ephron film ever made.
Now, seeing the production for the magazine live, feels like I’ve stepped into my own personal Santa’s workshop.
Though the Santa here has a very chiseled silver fox thing going for him—shirtless, with leather suspenders holding up his fur-trimmed red trousers. A hat sits jauntily to the side of his quaffed hair as he poses in front of the camera.
“I can make sure to text you when they’re done here if you need to head back to the shop,” I tell Marty, who came through with the replacement throne—a high back chair with hand-carved swirls and leather cushioning that he agreed to loan them for the shoot in return for crediting the shop. Not the same as Jasmine’s original vision, but when it arrived, she insisted thatit leaned more into the topic of the article: why so many people have the hots for sexy Santa.
“I think I’ll stick around to make sure the merchandise is taken care of.”
“Sure.That’s why.”
