His mouth curves. “They’re honest. And they don’t pretend Christmas is about anything other than getting what they want. I respect that.” He smiles, eyes softening. “One little girl told me she left extra carrots for the reindeer tonight. Wanted to make sure they got as much as Santa.”
An unwanted ache tugs at my chest. “That’s cute,” I say, voice a little softer.
“Yeah.” He studies me. “What about you? Get any wishes in?”
It’s a joke, but something about the way he watches me makes my pulse skip. For a second, the world narrows to snow, lights, and the weight of his attention.
I open my mouth, reaching for something light—then the plaza flickers back to life. Lights spark along Rudolph’s harness, his nose blazes red, and sleigh trim twinkles in a ripple of color. A cheerful jingle bursts out of hidden speakers, “Deck the Halls” chiming bright and oblivious.
“Hey, there we go,” I say, more relieved than I should be. One problem solved. Holiday spirit restored, at least in this tiny corner I control.
Jerry jogs back, rubbing his gloved hands. “Any more sparks?”
“We’re good,” I say. “Rudolph lives.”
“Perfect. I’m gonna finish locking up the front and get out of your hair, boss. You need me to stick around?” His gaze flicks to Nick, then back to me. He’s offering to stay if I want backup.
I hesitate. The plaza’s big, and once the lights are off and gates are shut, it’s just darkness and echo. But I’ve closed alone before.And Nick is here—though technically he’s off the clock and a stranger, no matter how many kids sat on his lap today.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Just need to kill the music and last lights. Nick will walk out with me.” I glance up, arching a brow at him. “You’re not abandoning ship yet, are you?”
He smiles easily. “My car’s out back. I’ll stick with you.”
Jerry nods. “Alright then. Merry Christmas, Meredith. You too, Nick.”
“Merry Christmas,” we say in unison.
He disappears, his footsteps fading, the jangle of keys and click of doors marking his progress. Quiet rolls in to fill the space he leaves. Only the looped music, the low hum of lights, and the whisper of wind through the pines at the plaza’s edge remain.
I exhale, breath clouding pale in front of me. “Well. That’s one crisis averted.”
We start walking slowly across the square. Without people, Frost Plaza shifts. Vendor stalls stand shuttered and dark, the Ferris wheel at the far end motionless, its colored bulbs glowing against the night. The fake snow, dusted now with real flakes, glows faintly in the light. It’s beautiful the way abandoned places are, too much sparkle with no one to soak it in.
Nick turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “You did a hell of a job,” he says. “The whole place…it’s kind of enchanting.”
The word slides under my skin, warming some place I keep cold on purpose. I’ve poured too many late nights into making this place look like magic, even If I personally want nothing to do with it. To hear it from someone outside my usual staff makes something in my chest loosen.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “That’s nice to hear.”
We head toward the rear of the plaza, our footsteps the only sound on the path. I hug my arms around myself for warmth. Nick notices. Without a word, he shrugs off his Santa coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I’m good,” he says when I start to protest. “Thermal’s working. You look like a popsicle.”
The coat is warm and heavy and smells like him—woodsmoke, pine, a hint of spice. Being wrapped in it feels oddly intimate, like stepping into his space without touching him. “Thanks,” I murmur, fingers clutching the front closed.
Snow flurries dance under the lampposts. I sneak a glance at his profile: straight nose, solid jaw, lashes any woman would sell her soul for. Under the lights, I finally catch the color of his eyes—deep brown, nearly black, with flecks that catch when he looks at me, he feels strangely familiar but he doesn't have one of those common faces.
He catches me staring and I look away, heat prickling my cheeks. He lets it go.
“So,” he says casually, “heading home to family after this? Or just you and the problematic reindeer tonight?”
“Family is far from here,” I say, shoving my hands into the Santa coat pockets. My fingers bump something soft and rolled—padding, probably. “I was going to go home, open a bottle of wine, argue with John McClane about what constitutes a Christmas movie.”
He smiles. “Die Hard? Nice. I pegged you for the kind of woman who’d pretend she doesn’t like Love Actually but has it memorized.”
I fake a gasp. “Excuse you. Die Hard is the ultimate Christmas movie and I will die on that hill.”
“Hey, no judgment,” he says, laughing. “Nothing says holiday cheer like crawling through vents in a tank top and bare feet.”
