The moment the door closes, Ella turns to me. "What the hell was that?"
"I have no idea." I lean against the counter, my heart racing. "It just... happened. Like I could see what she needed before she said it."
"That's not normal, Sam."
"I know."
We stand there in silence, the smell of lemon and sugar heavy in the air, while something that feels suspiciously like magic settles around us like snow.
Chapter Four
Nick
The North Pole isn’t what people think. It’s not all endless ice and blizzards, no matter what the postcards say. Up here, it’s more like a village tucked away in the kind of twilight that never quite tips into night. The sky is always showing off, streaked with green and purple lights, and the buildings look like someone couldn’t decide between a ski lodge and a cathedral made of glass. It’s cold enough that you might reach for a sweater, but you’d never really need it. The snow doesn’t melt, either. It just sort of disappears, like sugar stirred into tea.
Right now, the whole place is buzzing. It might be May for everyone else, but up here, we’re already knee-deep in prep. The workshops are lit up, and you can hear the clatter and chatter from halfway across the square. People think we’re all about toy-making, but that’s just the story that looks good on a Christmas card. The real work is a lot messier and not nearly as easy to explain.
I’m standing in the middle of the main courtyard, clipboard in hand, pretending to keep track of the chaos. Truth is, I’m not really watching anything. My eyes are open, but my mind’s off somewhere it has no business being.
And there she is again. Samantha. I can’t shake the memory of how she looked at me that night, moonlight catching in her eyes like she could see right through me. I keep hearing her laugh, the kind that’s low and honest, and remembering how her skin felt under my hands, solid and warm, like she was the only real thing in the room.
"Mr. Kringle."
I blink. Someone’s talking at me about magical distribution patterns out in the Pacific Northwest, but it’s all just noise right now.
"Mr. Kringle, are you listening?"
I focus on the speaker. One of the coordinators whose name I should definitely remember. "Sorry, what?"
She tries again, something about energy flow and timing, and I nod like I’m following along. As soon as she’s gone, my mind slips right back to Caraway Cove.
The first time I saw Samantha, she was behind the bakery window, flour on her cheek, pulling a tray from the oven. I knew right then I was in trouble. I’ve been around longer than I care to count, seen more faces and stories than I could ever list. My whole job is figuring out what people need, what gives them that little spark in their chest, the thing mortals call the Christmas spirit.
But I've never wanted anything for myself. Not like this.
Not until her.
That night wasn’t supposed to happen. I went into the bakery to do my job, just watch, get a feel for the place, maybe figure out what made that little town tick. Instead, I ended up circling around this sharp-tongued, soft-hearted woman who looked at me like I was someone worth knowing. She touched me like I was real, not just some patchwork of magic and old promises.
My actual job involves distributing the spirit of Christmas throughout the mortal world. Not presents, though sometimespresents are part of it. More like ensuring certain encounters happen at certain times. Making sure the right person hears the right song, or finds the right book, or bumps into someone they need to meet at exactly the right moment. It's about cultivating connection, fostering generosity, and maintaining the thin thread of hope that keeps humanity from sliding into complete cynicism.
I don’t actually ride around in a sleigh with flying reindeer. Not most of the time, anyway. There was that one time back in the 1800s when a poet saw more than he should have, and I’ve been cleaning up that mess ever since.
The point is, I create experiences. I weave moments of magic into the fabric of the mortal world. And right now, I'm supposed to be planning the distribution patterns for the upcoming season, ensuring maximum impact with minimum disruption to the natural flow of mortal events.
Instead, I'm thinking about what Samantha's skin tastes like. The way she moaned that first time I slid into her.
She’s probably forgotten me by now. Just one night with a stranger who disappeared without a word. She probably thinks I used her, that it was nothing but a fling. The idea makes my throat close up.
If she had any idea how much I've thought about her. If she knew that leaving her was the hardest thing I've done in centuries.
"You're doing it again."
I turn to find Everett standing behind me, arms crossed. My head elf cuts an imposing figure at just over six feet, dark hair pulled back in a style that would look at home in any mortal boardroom. The elves here bear no resemblance to the jolly little helpers of popular imagination. Think less workshop sprite, more otherworldly corporate executive with an occasionally alarming sense of humor.
"Doing what?" I ask, though I know perfectly well what he means.
"Daydreaming." Everett's silver eyes narrow. "That's the third time this morning. We're trying to finalize the Western Europe protocols, and you're staring into the middle distance like some lovesick mortal."
