CHAPTER 1
I've always believed in Christmas magic. The peppermint-scented, snow-swirling, hot-cocoa kind of magic. The sort that makes people softer and the world look like it's wrapped in twinkle lights. When the snow falls and covers the world in a pure blanket of innocence, when the wind outside bites at the tip of your nose and ears, reminding you of winter’s embrace, miracles are abundant.
But standing in the middle of Santa's Workshop Amusement Park, knee-deep in fake snow that's currently freezing solid over my boots, I'm starting to question my life choices. Maybe there is indeed a point where you can have too much holiday spirit.
"C'mon, baby," I mutter to the peppermint-red sleigh parked beside me. The sleigh's animatronic reindeer, Blitzen, my personal favorite, has decided to give up mid-jingle, his head drooping like he's over this day as much as I am.
"I swear, if one more thing breaks today…" I mutter under my breath. There is more than enough money in this park to keep things up and going. I don’t understand why so many items have fallen into disrepair. If you ask me, the owner should spend a few more dollars on the park and a few less on globetrotting to elite golf courses around the world. No one would ask me that.I’m an hourly employee wearing tights and pointed ears, for goodness sakes.
"Holly!" Mrs. Jensen, the park manager, waves from the North Pole Gate, her coat flapping in the wind. Unlike me, Mrs. Jensen is a permanent, full-time employee. She lives not too far down the hill and works not because she has to, but because she enjoys it. Her favorite is when she gets to play Mrs. Clause. "We're closing early! Storm's rolling in!"
I blink. "Already? It's barely five!"
"Already," she confirms, already half-covered in swirling snow. "Go clock out, dear. Roads'll be a mess soon."
Great.
I glance around at the empty park. The last guests have already scurried toward the parking lot, clutching cocoa and candy canes like survival gear. The cheery loop of Christmas carols still plays over the speakers. “It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” is blasting and honestly, it's beginning to sound a lot like irony.
By the time I make it to the breakroom, flakes are falling thick and fast. My phone pings and I glance down to see the text. Winter Weather Advisory: mountain pass closing by dusk.
Of course.
My ancient Subaru, sitting in the employee lot, doesn't like steep grades or cold weather. She coughs through winters like an asthmatic walrus. But I figure if I leave now, I can probably make it. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe? I look up to the darkening sky and make a quick request to the universe.
I make it halfway through the parking lot when I see it. My car, with a flat tire. A very, very flat tire. The treads had been wearing thin for a long while, but tires are expensive, and I planned on asking for them for Christmas. My dad always demands a wish list and loves gifting practical gifts. My mom ismore like me. I can count on her great fashion sense to bestow at least one or two new outfits. I have the best parents.
I groan and give the steering wheel a defeated tap. "Merry Christmas to me."
I should call AAA. Santa, aka my dad, gifted me a year’s membership in my stocking last year. I pull the card out of my wallet and punch the numbers into the phone and wait. Except, nothing happens. There’s no ringing on the other end. No sound at all. I have a full battery, what is going on?
Dang!
My phone’s signal is already down to one bar. I look around the parking lot hoping to wave someone over. See if I can catch a ride with someone down the mountain.
My heart sinks when I realize the parking lot is empty. Everyone else is already gone.
Everyone except…
A black SUV parked across the lot. Sleek, expensive, snow piling neatly on its roof like frosting on a sugar cookie.
And next to it, a man in a charcoal overcoat and leather gloves, talking into his phone with that kind of calm authority that screams "man in charge."
Justin Bell.
Director of Operations. Aka: Santa's Workshop's resident Grinch. Aka: the owner of the park. The man who spends more time jetting around the world than spending time at the resort he owns.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed and about as festive as black coffee. He walks like every inch of snow should move out of his way on command. I've seen kids literally stop laughing when he walks by. He could end world conflicts with one look.
Not that I'm intimidated. Okay, maybe a little. A tiny bit. A teeny— who am I kidding? He intimidates the crap out of me.
I hesitate for a second. "Well, Holly," I mutter. "It's him or a slow death by hypothermia."
I square my shoulders, give myself a little pep talk and march over.
He ends his call just as I approach, tucking his phone away. His dark eyes sweep over me, landing on my elf costume of green velvet, striped tights, and jingling hat. I probably look like Christmas threw up on me. But hey, if he doesn’t like it, he has the ability to change it. He owns the place after all.
"Miss White," he says, voice low and even. "You're still here."
