“Definitely.”
We stand andgather our coats. “I just need to do something real quick,” hesays. “Do you want to wait here or make your way to theexit?”
“I’lldetour to the bathroom and then meet you at the door?”
Cole nods once,kisses my cheek, and disappears into the crowd.
When I exit thebathroom a few minutes later, I pause, tucking my purse between myknees so I can put my coat on. The Christmas Punch must be messingwith my balance because my purse slips from between my legs at thesame moment my coat slips from my fingers. I spin around in time tosee someone dart forward and catch my coat before it hits thefloor.
“Thankyou so much,” I say breathlessly, reaching for my coat. As my gazemeets a pair of inky dark eyes, my outstretched armfreezes.
Santa Elvischuckles at my reaction. “Here, let me help.” He makes a twirlingmotion with his finger and holds up my coat with the arm holesfacing me. After he assists me, I scoop my purse from the floor andsling it across my body.
“Thanks,” I say. “Your set tonight was great. I feel like I wastransported back in time and got to see Elvis live and inperson.”
He smiles broadly,the dim overhead lights reflecting off his pearly whites. “That’squite the compliment. I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”
“Lovedit.” I’m gushing, but I can’t seem to help it. This guy bears anuncanny resemblance to Elvis, and I feel star struck. “This nighthas been full of Christmas magic, and getting to see you performwas part of it.”
“Well,I’m all about Christmas magic,” he says, tweaking the bauble on hisSanta hat, which is still perched on his head. “Whenever I do theSanta Elvis gig, people run up to me afterward to tell me what theywant for Christmas.”
“Isthat all they run up to you for?” I ask, tilting my head and givinghim a wry smile.
He tosses his headback and releases a burst of laughter. “There are certainly otherreasons.” His tone and expression are flirty, but as he gives me anappraising look, the flirtation is replaced by something akin tokindness. “Want to make a wish to Santa Elvis? I’ve heard I’m goodluck.” He winks at me, but it’s friendly with a hint of mischiefrather than flirtatious.
I laugh at thesurrealness of this situation: standing in a cramped, dimly-lithallway in a bar in Niagara Falls with Elvis Presley’sdoppelganger, who’s just asked me to make a wish as if he’s trulySanta Claus. “You know, I think I’m good. I have everything I wantthis year.”
“There’s nothing your heart desires?” He leans one shoulderagainst the wall, waving a hand in the air. “Put it out there intothe universe, darlin’. If Santa can’t handle it, the universewill.”
Yep. Surreal. Butreally, why not? While I wouldn’t usually blurt out my heart’sdesire to a stranger, it’s not like I’m ever going to see this guyagain. And considering my upturn of luck this last year, I’d sayit’s worth putting it out there.
I’vealways taken wishes seriously. Birthday candles, stars, dandelionfluff. The wishes don’t necessarily come true, but that doesn’tstop me. I’ve discovered over the years that when it comes time tomake a wish, it’s like having a moment of clarity. What’s importantto me?Whoisimportant to me? What do I want for the year ahead?
Do Iwish to see Cole again? Wish that my friendship with Mindy cansomehow be repaired? Wish to excel in my new job? My mind straysback to Cole and what feels like our fateful encounters the lasttwo Decembers. Ithasto mean something, doesn’t it? After another moment’scontemplation, I say, “It’s unlikely it’ll ever happen,but—”
“Bupbup bup,” Elvis says, straightening and crossing his arms over hissparkly red jumpsuit-clad chest. “Positive thinking. That’s the keyto getting shit done.”
I sputter out alaugh. “Okay, positive thinking. I wish for…my own happily everafter. Whatever that looks like.”
Elvis’s slow nodmakes the bauble on his hat bounce back and forth. “A happily everafter. I like it.” His gaze shifts past me and his dark eyessparkle as his smile kicks up a notch. I peer over my shoulder tosee one of the women he was flirting with before his show earlier.He pats me on the shoulder as he moves around me, leaning in closeto say, “I wish you all the luck in the world, pretty lady. As forme, I’m off to go get my own happy ending, if you catch mydrift.”
I’m still laughingto myself a minute later as I wade through the crowd to get to theexit. Cole is waiting there, his eyes sweeping the room. The secondhe sees me, the concerned crinkle of his brow disappears, and thegrin he gives me has my stomach swooping and fluttering.
“Allset?” he asks when I join him. At my nod, he crooks his arm andlifts it toward me. In his other hand, he’s holding a small whitetakeout box that’s stamped with a logo from one of the restaurantswe passed on our way here.
“What’sthat?” I ask as I loop my arm through his.
Eyes twinkling, hecups his free hand around his ear and shakes his head. “Sorry,can’t hear you.”
Outside the bar,we walk a few feet down the sidewalk and then he gently pulls me toa stop. “You said earlier there were a few times you wished yourfriends were here to do things with you. What werethey?”
“Oh…”I’m suddenly embarrassed to admit I love doing cheesy touristthings. As a photojournalist, I’m sure Cole has been forced intodoing all kinds of touristy things for the sake of his job—lastyear’s trip to Bellevue Village is proof of that—but I don’t knowif he’d do any of them by choice. “Well, I, um, wanted to doDinosaur Adventure Golf.” He laughs, but I’m not sure if it’s theadmission or the way I scrunch my nose when I say it. “And theSkyWheel.”
“Huh,okay.” He glances up and down the street. “I think it’s a bit toocold for golfing with dinosaurs, but we could do SkyWheel if youwant. The gondolas are heated.” He must sense my hesitation becausehe holds up the white container and wiggles his eyebrows. “We canhave this on the ride.”
“Areyou sure you don’t mind doing something so touristy?”
“Not atall. The views are great, and it’ll give me an excuse to snuggle upclose to you again like we did in the bar.”
