The waitstaff is beyond five-star—more like five-conjured-stars-and-a-moon.
A tall, older man dressed head to toe in red and green, with an elf hat tilted jauntily to one side, stirs cocoa with dramatic flourishes like a Broadway bartender.
He distributes whipped cream, chocolate curls, and sprinkles with the same grace I use when icing cookies at warp speed.
Where was this guy when I was knee-deep in powdered sugar and fighting off carpal tunnel trying to frost ten thousand gingerbread men for this very party?
There are other drink offerings, of course. It’s Uncle Uzzi.
Nothing is ever just cocoa.
There’s a cauldron of spiced cider that steams in festive patterns—currently snowflakes and reindeer.
A sleek mirrored tray with fizzy cranberry mimosas that refill themselves.
Glasses of wine that hover on tall tables politely beside their drinkers like loyal familiars.
And naturally, a row of Shifter friendly hot toddies labeled guaranteed not to interfere with healing factors. Because obviously.
I should be ordering something hot and sweet.
Something to soothe my nerves.
Maybe even a stiff toddy to pair with my emotional unraveling.
But instead, I’m too busy dying inside.
I don’t say Ebenezer’s name.
Not as I smile politely at the cocoa elf and grin while he dusts a twelve inch mug of spiked cocoa with edible gold glitter.
Not as Emery oohs over the floating marshmallow snowmen doing synchronized backstrokes in her mug.
Not as I feel the memory of Eb’s hands on my hips, his voice growling my name, his laugh vibrating through me like a favorite carol.
No, I don’t say his name out loud.
Because if I do?
I’ll fall apart.
Instead, I smile and nod and pretend being here without him doesn’t feel like heartache and what-if.
But I think it hard enough that Uzzi—being the nosey old goat he is—turns to me with that look.
The one that sees too much.
He offers me a glass of mulled wine. I take it.
And then, because I’m clearly a glutton for punishment, I blurt, “Why do men like him make strong, independent women like me feel like weak, whiny, clingy nincompoops?”
Uzzi’s lips twitch.
“Ah. So we are talking about Ebenezer.”
“I didn’t say his name,” I mutter.
“You didn’t have to. Your aura is practically screaming it in seven languages. Loudest in German, oddly.”
