When I looked back at Alex, his smile had softened into something tangible and unguarded. He raised his hand in a gesture that mirrored the one he'd been practicing, but it wasn't Santa's choreographed welcome. It was Alex, reaching out across the space between us.
I lifted my hand in response. Tomorrow would bring enough practical concerns—Noel's injury, Marcus waiting for Santa, and all the questions still hanging between us. But tonight, standing in the star-scattered darkness, I let myself believe in possibilities I'd been too afraid to name.
Chapter seven
Alex
Three sharp knocks echoed through my grandmother's house, startling me from sleep at 5 a.m. I stumbled to the door to find Holly's nephew—one of the teenage cast members—already retreating down the porch steps.
"Sorry!" he called over his shoulder. "Aunt Holly said it couldn't wait."
He'd slipped a note under the door: "Production meeting, 9 a.m. Your presence is requested."
Mrs. Brubaker's distinctive handwriting left no room for misinterpretation.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching him disappear into the pre-dawn darkness. Six nights left until Christmas Eve. Six nights until the show. Yesterday I'd driven Noel to the clinic, helped him get settled, and played the supportive community member. Then I'd spent the rest of the evening hiding in my grandmother's house, ignoring two calls from Ben and one from Holly, telling myself I needed time to process.
The truth was more straightforward and more cowardly: I knew what they wanted to ask me, and I wasn't ready to answer.
Two hours later, pulse racing, I pressed my hand against the theater's stage door. The iconic red Santa suit hanging in Noel's dressing room had haunted my dreams all night. I'd arrived hours before the meeting, telling myself I wanted to check on set pieces. The real reason was harder to admit—I needed to see Ben before facing everyone else's expectations.
A rhythmic scraping sound drew me toward his workshop. I told myself I'd peek in, then retreat to somewhere less complicated. It didn't turn out to be that easy. The sight of him bent over his workbench stopped me cold.
He was restoring what looked like a Victorian rocking horse, his movements precise and gentle as he stripped away decades of worn varnish. Wood shavings dusted his hair and worn flannel shirt. His expression captivated me—complete absorption in bringing something beautiful back to life.
"You can come in." He gestured with one hand without looking up. "Unless you're planning to hover in doorways all morning."
"I didn't want to disturb your concentration."
"You won't." He tested the rocker's motion, frowning at a slight catch. "Though I'm surprised to see you here at all after yesterday."
The gentle rebuke landed. "I should have called you back."
"Yeah." He kept working, his voice neutral. "You should have."
I stepped closer and inspected the rocking horse, desperate for safer ground. Despite its wear, the craftsmanship was exquisite—hand-carved mane, glass eyes that caught the light, and delicate scrollwork on the saddle. "This is museum quality. Where did you find it?"
"Hospital storage. It's been gathering dust since the 1970s when they renovated the children's ward." His hands never stopped working as he spoke. "I've been meaning to restore it for months. Seems more urgent now."
The question of Noel's replacement hung unspoken between us. I focused on the toy instead, trailing my fingers over the smooth wood of its neck. "My grandmother had one like this in her parlor. She never let me ride it—said it was too fragile—but I used to imagine it coming alive at night, like in those old stories."
Ben's hands stopped. "Sometimes imagination is more powerful than reality." He turned his head toward me. "Like believing in Santa Claus."
"Don't." I stepped back from the rocking horse. "I know what everyone wants, but I'm not the right person. I'm not Noel, and I'm definitely not his father."
Ben reached for a finer grade of sandpaper. "Nobody's asking you to be either of them." The subtle rasp of his work punctuated his words. "Though you seem determined to reject something you haven't even considered."
"I'm a dancer, not a—"
"Not a what?" His tone stayed gentle but firm. "Not someone who understands how to connect with an audience? Not someone who knows how to tell stories through movement and presence?"
I turned away, focusing on a chisel lying askew on his workbench. "I should go. I've got—"
"There's a production meeting at nine." Ben reached past me to straighten the tool, his arm brushing mine. "We need to figure out how to handle this situation. You could at least listen before deciding you're not interested."
"I haven't decided anything."
"No?" He kept arranging his tools with methodical precision. "Then stay. Help us figure this out. Unless you're planning to disappear again?"
