“Quinn, your students need a good example of unconditional love because you know if their parents have a problem with apicture,the love they’re getting at home is anything but.”
“Seriously never say you’re bad with words again.” I shove his shoulder, amazed at how perceptive he is. How a change of scenery has already unlocked this poet inside of him. “Tonight’s going to be amazing. You’re going to crush your speech. Let’s focus on that for now, okay?” He nods, tentatively, tapping his gloved fingers on the spine of his notebook. “Have a gingersnap. They’re delicious.”
Patrick accepts the cookie with a smile.
We stay out for another few hours, enjoying the view and the fresh air. Our conversation is more periodic, but lighter in tone and flirtier in nature. Patrick draws in his notebook. I crack open the paperback I tucked into my bag—a collection of Christmas-themed short stories by literary greats. It’s nice to be reading something for pleasure for once. I miss absorbing words and worlds for the sheer joy of the experience.
I break out the cider thermos in the late afternoon. Patrick surprises me by producing a bottle of bourbon to make hot toddies.
“To take the edge off my public-speaking nerves,” Patrick says, as if we need a reason to day drink on New Year’s Eve.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Saint Nick.”
The bourbon does the trick to warm us and draw us close. So close, in fact, that we’re snuggling on our picnic blanket with gloved hands roaming all over. Our cold, gingery lips come together. It’s pulse-spiking and surreal.
“I take back the saint part,” I whisper headily. “You kiss like a sinner.”
He gives me a wolfish grin. “I know another thing that would take the edge off my public-speaking nerves.”
Without hesitation, we climb all over each other right there on the blanket overlooking the town.
29THE GREAT WORK BEGINSQUINN
357 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
“Sorry about the letterhead,” Emmanuella says when she hands the first Merriest Mister itinerary to me on that first Monday of the New Year. In the upper left, there’s a pleasant, wispy script that reads:From the desk of Mrs. Claus. “We are going to get new stationery printed for you.”
“There’s no need to waste perfectly good paper like that,” I say, refilling my coffee cup and reading through the to-do lists, which are broken down by day.
Emmanuella shrugs, almost too acceptingly. “If you insist.”
Most days have vague agendas likespread Christmas cheer to villagersor more concrete items likeapprove acts for Elf Extravaganza, while Sunday has a big circle around it with the wordsOPENING DAYwritten across it. I ask the council what this means.
“The Merriest Mister and the new Santa have been invited to be the celebrity team captains at the first game of the Sunday Night Snowball Fight season,” says Emmanuella, as if those words aren’t the most ridiculous words ever spoken in any human language.
Scratch that. The most ridiculous words ever spoken in any human language are, “I’m the Merriest Mister, and I live at the North Pole now.” What Emmanuella said is a close second.
I nearly do a spit-take with my coffee. “I’m sorry. You want us to do what now?”
The last sport I played (against my will, I might add) was the Oakwood Elementary charity dodgeball game. We used the spongey balls meant for children in gym classes. The whole event was mostly for students and parents to get a good laugh out of their teachers making utter fools of themselves.
If I do this, I’ll be making an utter fool out of myself on an even larger scale without intent. Patrick’s New Year’s Eve speech went well, so I know the village supports us, but I basically stood behind him the whole time and smiled, dolled up as arm candy. This is way more out-there than that.
“It’s a hoot!” Samson says, throwing me an encouraging smile. I can tell he’s an avid fan.
“Snowball fighting is the North Pole’s most special sporting event,” says Colleen, showing off her Team Evergreen scarf. I wouldn’t have suspected fandom from her of all the council members. “This is the elves’ way of welcoming you both. It’s a tradition of theirs. They do this battle of the se—”
Colleen meets my eyes and abruptly ends her sentence. Battle of the sexes was what she was about to say, but obviously my gender throws a wrench into that outdated idea and language.
“I’m not sure about this,” I say, panic rising in my throat.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick says to me. “I’ll go easy on you.”
If only he knew that’s not what I’m worried about.
“Couldn’t Patrick throw the first pitch alone?” I ask.
“He could,” says Chris. “But the elves would likely take offense to that. They’d think you don’t want to participate.” He flicks a wary glance toward his fellow council members.
