"Holly!" I protested, but couldn't help smiling at her transparent matchmaking.
"Is there something wrong? Mistletoe is a perfectly respectable herbal ingredient." She busied herself with straightening already-perfect rows of bottles. "The fact that it's traditionally associated with holiday romance is purely coincidental."
Alex laughed. "Is there any occasion you don't have a special tea for?"
Noel chose that moment to groan. "Speaking of what I want—maybe some actual medical attention?"
"Right." Alex straightened, all business again, though his eyes lingered on mine. "I'll let you know what the doctor says. About everything."
"And I'll handle rehearsal." I found myself reaching out to Alex to steady him as he adjusted his grip on Noel, my carpenter's hands gentle against his dancer's grace. "Take care of our Santa."
"Our?"
"The town's," I corrected quickly.
Holly's hand settled on my shoulder as they maneuvered through the door. "You know, Ben, some traditions are meant to be preserved as they are." She nodded toward the scarred counter. "And others..." Her eyes followed Alex. "Sometimes they need someone willing to build something new while honoring what came before."
"I should get to rehearsal." I couldn't quite meet her knowing gaze.
"Of course." She pressed another packet of tea into my hands, this one smelling of pine. "For later. When you're ready."
As Alex helped Noel toward his car, I thought I heard sleigh bells in the distance, though no horse-drawn carriages were due in the square until the weekend festivities. Holly smiled thatmysterious North family smile and adjusted the crystals in the window.
***
Rehearsal went better than expected, even with Noel absent. Alex appeared with only an hour left. He shared the bad news that Noel had to stay off the leg completely for a few days and would likely still be on crutches on Christmas Eve, the play's date.
Marcus took it hard when he found out Santa couldn't come, but Charice promised him a special visit as soon as Noel could walk again.
Nobody spoke about whether we should find a replacement, although Jack and Charice glanced at Alex when a scene called for Santa's appearance. By the time everyone headed home, exhaustion had settled into my bones, but I knew my mind wouldn't let me sleep. I decided to head home and work in my backroom workshop.
Night settled over Yuletide Valley like velvet scattered with jewels, the kind of crystalline darkness that only comes with the arrival of winter. The hushed anticipation hanging over the town muffled the sound of my saw as I worked.
I kept tracing the same curves over and over with my fingers, unable to find the perfect line. Holly's "special tea" thermos sat unopened on my workbench, occasionally catching the lamplight. Every time I glanced at it, I remembered how Alex's fingers had brushed mine as we helped Noel.
I set my tools down, finally admitting that craftsmanship wasn't going to be enough to quiet my thoughts. The problem wasn't the wood—it was the question I'd been avoiding since Alex arrived in Yuletide Valley.
What happened when he left?
I'd watched him light up during rehearsals, the patience he showed with Marcus, and the genuine joy that broke through his polished exterior when something clicked. He belonged in Yuletide Valley.
Still, wanting someone to stay and giving them a reason to were entirely different things. And what did I have to offer a man who'd spent fifteen years on Broadway? A workshop full of sawdust and a life that had never extended beyond county lines?
Outside, my breath clouded in the frigid air. I needed to check on the theater—make sure I'd locked up properly after rehearsal. It was a reasonable excuse for a restless craftsman to be out walking at midnight.
My feet carried me down Cedar Street, past the darkened shop windows with their twinkling displays. When I spotted the warm glow spilling from Alex's grandmother's house, I stopped.
In the upstairs window—the one I'd stripped and reglazed myself last spring—Alex moved through what must have been his grandmother's bedroom, practicing gestures I recognized from watching Noel as Santa. Where Noel channeled his father's legacy, Alex brought something uniquely his own to the movements—a fluid grace that transformed simple gestures.
He extended his arms in Santa's welcoming embrace, and the lamp behind him turned his silhouette golden, outlining the lean muscle of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. When he turned, light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his throat. Instead of Noel's natural warmth, Alex infused the motion with an artist's precision—and I couldn't look away.
As if sensing my presence, he paused mid-gesture. Our eyes met through the wavy antique glass. His chest rose and fell visibly, even from this distance.
The distance between us was simultaneously vast and nonexistent. I recognized what Holly had been trying to tell me—some traditions don't need preserving so much as reimagining, letting the original spirit guide something new into being.
A shooting star traced a silver path overhead, drawing our gazes upward. Another streak of light followed the first, then another, as if the Geminid meteor shower had waited for precisely that moment to peak.
From the direction of the town square, sleigh bells chimed softly—probably the winter wind catching the decorative harness hanging outside Morgan's Antiques.
