“What can I get for you, miss?” The barista asks, drawing my attention away from what is sure to be the beginning of the perfect Christmas romance. I’m glad, though I’m not sure I want to bear witness to something I’ll never experience.
That man would never give me the time of day, let alone begin a beautiful Christmas romance with me. It’s better that I stick to my fictional book boyfriends and pretend that I’m the female protagonist being swept out of my small town and into his luxurious king-size bed in his insanely large penthouse for a bachelor.
“Four hot cocoas with whipped cream and chocolate shavings, please.” I tell her as I hand over the cash for them. I’m not even going to check to see how late I am today. It’s too late now, might as well deal with the consequences while sipping my hot cocoa. I shake myself, tugging my beanie tighter against my unruly amber curls.
“There’s no time for emotional character studies or imaginary dream stories, Holly.” I mumble to myself.
The barista gives me a questioning look, and I only shake my head slightly. I will not spill my internal monologue to the street-cart barista. She only shrugs her shoulders before handing over the drink tray full of my hot cocoas, and I thank her before ducking out of the way.
Spinning around, I rush towards the door of Macy’s, only to be met with a crowd of people streaming down the sidewalk towards me. I’m pushing my way through when I feel my foot slip on the edge of the sidewalk, and I know there’s no saving myself from what’s about to happen. I’m going down, and I’m going to land in the streets of NYC. This is it, guys. My last moments on Earth will be in a pile of green felt, sequins, and hot cocoa. It’s a tragedy.
I can hear a horn blaring, someone’s yelling, and I can’t help but squeeze my eyes shut.
My last thought?
Who’s going to feed Chester and turn on his Garfield episodes?
That’s the sad existence of my life.
Chapter Two
Snow Place Like Midtown
Ryatt
Idon’t know what I imagined New York City to be like, but I’m one hundred percent positive this isn’t even close to my wildest dreams.
It’s not the noises–although it's deafening–or the smells–which are far from the baked goods and peppermint I’m used to–that throw me off. Although those are obnoxious, especially compared to my life back in Sugarplum Hollow. No, it’s just how small the city makes you feel.
Standing at the base of these skyscrapers, I feel the weight of them pressing down, a reminder that humans have built mountains of steel and glass. Giants towering over the streetswhile the people below rush past without even glancing up. They live amongst wonders and don’t even notice.
I also wasn’t prepared for what is considered Christmas decorations around here. From the massive Christmas tree that hundreds of people are taking pictures in front of to the people ice skating in Central Park, I am so far away from what I’ve always considered Christmas. I guess it’s different when Christmas is your entire life. We don’t have overly dramatic displays like the one in front of me.
Macy’s, the home to the Macy’s Day Parade, is known for their large Christmas displays. If you are to believe this pamphlet I picked up. The window is wrapped in fake garland wrapped in white twinkling lights with a bright, red display of Santa Claus.
Boy, did they get his look wrong. I’m pretty sure Nick hasn’t looked like that in a very long time. I stare at it, half amused, half offended.
I almost pull out my phone to take a picture, just to show Caspian and Orion when I get back home. They will get a kick out of what the normies think Nick, aka Santa, looks like. Normies are non-magical folk who live their lives with no idea of the “others” who exist right along with them. It’s hilarious when we see how much they worship the “reindeer” with zero idea that we are shifters and have a human side that can stand beside them.
Like I am now.
A gust of wind whips down the street, bringing with it the scent of roasted chestnuts, exhaust, and burning oil. It’s all wrong. I tuck my hands deeper into my pockets as I sigh. Keeping my gaze on the overzealous Christmas display, I can’t help wondering—not even for the first time—if leaving home was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I keep telling myself I left for freedom, for space, for clarity. But deep down, something else has been nagging at me since before I ever stepped footin Manhattan. Something that pulled me here like a string I couldn’t cut, even when I tried. Did I imagine this so differently that I believed this to be something it wasn’t?
For the first time in my life, Christmas feels…distant? Even amidst the Christmas songs pouring out of each building, the fake Santa’s ho-ho-hoing while chiming a brass bell, and all the over-the-top displays of Christmas decor, I can’t feel the true magic of Christmas. This isn’t the biting loneliness of being away from home, something I could fly back to, and easily remedy. No, this is the distance that lives in your chest and whispers you don’t belonghere.
Maybe it’sright. Maybe the only place I belong is on Santa’s team and not being the architect I’ve always dreamed of being.
“Excuse me?”
The nasally voice snaps me out of my self-deprecation.
I look down to find a tall, immaculate blonde woman smiling at me. Her teeth are far too white, her smile feeling a little too rehearsed. She’s wearing designer everything, exuding an air of money. Her lipstick is the perfect shade of mistletoe berries, which is the only thing I like about her so far. She looks as if she walked right off one of the “Christmas in the City” billboards I saw in Times Square when I first arrived.
“Sorry,” she says, her tone dripping with anything but remorse. “You were standing here, and I thought you looked like you needed a friend…or maybe somethingmore?”
Her voice, tinkling with flirtation, grates against my ears. Her white-gloved hand brushes back her perfect blonde curls off her shoulder in a carefully calculated movement that I’m sure she’s practiced in the mirror a few times. Something human women do, but we shifters can spot for what it is. I won’t say that we are superior, but when your mating comes from fate and nature, everything else feelsoff? Not that there’s something wrong with this creature in front of me, but she isn’t my mate.
“I’m good,” I reply, taking a subtly polite step back.
