Even if I have to break the whole damn world to do it.
Chapter Four
Meredith
OfallnightsforRudolph to throw a tantrum, it has to be the same Christmas Eve someone mailed me a ghost from my past.
I rub my eyes with one hand as I steer through the dimly lit parking lot with the other. The dashboard clock glows 8:47 PM. The roads were almost empty on the way over—everyone else is home wrapping presents or drinking cocoa under twinkly lights. I’m here, back at Frost Plaza, on a mission to placate a misbehaving reindeer and pretend the snow globe sitting on my kitchen counter isn’t a loaded gun aimed at my brain.
My tires crunch over patches of old snow as I park and cut the engine. A sigh slips out before I can stop it. So much for going home early, Meredith. I grab my black coat from the passenger seat and shrug into it, bracing for the slap of winter air.
The cold hits the second I step out—sharp, clean, relentless. My cheeks sting as the wind knifes across the lot. I lock the car and stride toward the entrance gate, chin tucked against the chill, the glow of the plaza’s Christmas lights pulling me forward.
Even half-powered, Frost Plaza looks like a brochure: candy-cane-striped lampposts, strings of fairy lights draped from booth to booth, animatronic elves frozen mid-carol. It’s pretty, I’ll give it that. Under other circumstances, I might even allow myself a little pride. Right now, all I see is another problem that refused to wait until morning. Another thing demanding I keep everything running, smiling, sparkling.
Just ahead, by Santa’s workshop display, Jerry from security paces in front of the life-sized reindeer animatronic that stands dark and lifeless. The rest of the holiday tableau is dimmed since we closed early. Rudolph—centerpiece of the whole damn thing—is dead-eyed and dark, his nose black instead of glowing obnoxious red.
“I can't stand this damn holiday,” I mutter, picking up my pace. Snowflakes catch in my hair; I shove a strand behind my ear, already over it.
Jerry spots me and waves, shoulders dropping with relief. “Meredith! Thank God you came back,” he calls, his breath puffing in white clouds. He’s bundled in a navy parka, knit hat pulled low.
“Had to, didn’t I?” I give him a quick, tired smile. My teeth chatter a little. “What’s the damage? You said something about a short?”
“Yeah, this guy.” He gestures at the reindeer, nose wrinkling. “Started flickering like a horror movie the second you left. Theneverything just went out. Lights, nose, harness, all of it. I thought it was a fuse, but then I smelled something burnt.” He grimaces. “Didn’t want to risk an electrical fire, so I cut the power to this whole section and figured I’d better call you. Sorry. I know you were off for the day already.”
I wave him off. “No, you did the right thing. I have to report this to maintenance and see if they can make it back here quickly.” Annoyance eases a notch. I’d rather get this fixed now than wake up to a charred Santa’s village and a PR nightmare. “Let me take a look.”
We walk up to the offending reindeer. Rudolph is one of eight fiberglass bodies hitched to a shiny red sleigh, all faux snowdrifts and glitter. I run my hand along the cord trailing from his hind hoof into the fake snowbank.
“You little menace,” I murmur to the inanimate creature. I half-expect it to flicker to life out of spite. Earlier today he pulled the same stunt. Wouldn’t light up until I tightened a loose bulb in his nose. Band-Aid fix, apparently.
As I’m tracing the cable, Jerry shifts from foot to foot beside me. “One of the seasonal hires was hanging around when it happened,” he says. “Offered to help. Said he knew his way around wiring, but I figured we should wait for you. Liability and all that.”
“Seasonal hires?” I glance up. “Everyone clocked out hours ago.”
“Santa,” Jerry says, tipping his head toward the workshop. “Nick. He hung back when the lights went out.”
I follow his gesture, squinting through the haze of falling snow and multicolored bulbs. At first I see only the dark shape of Santa’s workshop hut and the oversized candy canes flanking its door. Then a figure steps out of the shadows, and my breath catches before I can help it.
He’s tall—obvious, even at a distance. Broad shoulders fill out the red Santa coat, but not in the usual lumpy, pillow-stuffed way. He’s shed the fake belly; the jacket hangs open enough to reveal a black thermal shirt that clings to a solid torso. Definitely not mall-Santa standard issue.
He’s missing the beard, too. Instead of cotton fluff, he has a strong jaw dusted with stubble that catches the light when he moves. His Santa hat is stuffed into his coat pocket, dark hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. As he comes closer, the illusion of “jolly old man” collapses completely. Santa is…young. And very much not ugly.
I force my gaze back up where it belongs—face, Meredith. Eyes. He’s probably mid- to late twenties, close to my age. Clean lines to his features, a mouth with a hint of a smirk like he’s in on a joke no one else knows. His eyes are hard to read in the low light, but they land on me and feel…sharp. Determined, maybe?
I freeze a half-second too long, blatantly staring. His mouth curves wider, as if he’s noticed and finds it amusing.
“Evening,” he says. His voice is deep and warm, threaded with humor. “Someone call for Santa’s tech support?”
I push to my feet, brushing snow off my knees. My cheeks are burning; I decide to blame the wind. “Didn’t know the North Pole outsourced IT,” I say, arching a brow. I cross my arms, partly for warmth, partly because I feel suddenly exposed.
He chuckles, a low, easy sound. Behind me, I hear Jerry try—and fail—to choke back a laugh. Great.
“We do it all,” the man—Nick—says. “Make toys, deliver presents, occasionally bring dead reindeer back from the afterlife.” He stops a couple of feet in front of me. Up close, he’s somehow worse. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and the kind of bone structure marketing departments beg for. A gust of wind lifts a lock of his hair; I have a stupid, intrusive urge to smooth it back.
Nope. We are not doing that.
I stick out my hand instead. Professional. Safe. “Meredith. I run this circus. Thanks for sticking around to help, Nick.”
