"The Third?" Caleb chuckles. "What happened to the first two?"
"Oh, they're imaginary. But this one will be real." She bounces on his knee with enough vigor to make him grunt. "You can do that, right? Mom said when I'm older, but you'reSanta."
"Consider it done." Caleb winks, and I catch Margie's eye roll.
"Thanks for that," she mutters, but she's fighting a smile. "Guess I'm spending my weekend researching Saint Bernard breeders. Though knowing Ana, by next week she'll have moved on to wanting a pet dragon."
"I heard they're much easier to care for," I whisper back. "Better house-trained."
Caleb's still nodding as Ana details her elaborate plans for Sir Droolsalot's future career in alpine rescue. The sight of him so invested in her ridiculous dream makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
"Girl," Margie nudges me, "you've got it bad."
I can't even argue. Because yeah, watching Caleb Miller play Santa like it's his calling in life? Definitely doing things to me.
After I lock up, having survived approximately eight million questions about whether elves really have pointy ears, I find Caleb still lounging in that massive Santa chair.
I step between his legs. "This needs to go," I tug off the fake beard, wrinkling my nose at the synthetic fibers. The hat follows, revealing his curls in complete disarray. I can't help running my fingers through them, trying to tame the chaos. His eyes drift shut at my touch.
"You're good at that," he murmurs, leaning into my hand.
"Someone has to keep you presentable." But I'm smiling as I smooth down one particularly rebellious curl. "Though I have to admit, you made a surprisingly hot Santa."
His hands find my hips, tugging me closer, and the heat of him bleeds through my ridiculous elf costume, making my skin tingle. "Only surprisingly?"
"Mmhmm." I let him pull me into his lap, the velvet of his suit soft against mytights.
I lean down to kiss him, but his hand catches my chin, stopping me just inches from his mouth. His eyes are dark and hungry, but there's something else there too—a nervousness I rarely see on him.
"Wait," he says softly, reaching into his pocket with his free hand. "I think we should let fate decide something first."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you'll be my girlfriend."
"I don't need signs from the universe, or fate—"
"Trust me." He presses a Magic 8 Ball keychain into my palm. "Just give it a shake."
I roll my eyes but do as he asks. The answer floats up:Obviously yes.
"Wait—" I shake it again.
Go for it.
And again.
Are you really still asking?
"Might have tweaked the universe's messaging a bit." His thumbs trace circles on my hips. "Keep going."
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
All signs point to Caleb.
Stop shaking and kiss him already.
And I do, because how can I not? Because this ridiculous, golden-hearted man rigged a Magic 8 Ball to ask me out. Because every time he looks at me—like I'm rare, like I matter—it sets a fire in my chest I can't put out.
