Page 56

“Yeah, I’m trying on Christmas, remember?” I tape up the sides of the box, making it through the hardest part of wrapping. “And I took a class.”

Nathan’s already on the next present while I start on the ribbon. “On how to try on Christmas?” he asks.

I laugh. “On gift wrapping. To try to get myself bonus points, I put myself in charge of HQ decorations. Barrel likes clean lines.” The sides of my wrapping paper are puffing out too much. “Clearly it went… not great.”

He chuckles to himself. “Best aim of anyone I know, yet can’t fold her edges.”

“I was built for the FBI, not Christmas.” I tie off the bow and start on the next toy. “Though it was refreshing to do something totally unrelated to work. Something I could fail at that wasn’t life or death for a change. I guess the irony now is, did I learn enough in my no-consequence class to keep me alive?”

Cameramen walk around the toy store following the judges as they talk to the Santa Wannabes. Right now, they’re at Freddie’s table. He’s tying ribbon around a box while chatting with Holly and Ryan, but all I imagine is him using that gold strand to strangle someone.

“You gonna make it?” Nathan asks, and I’m confused until I see that he’s looking at my hands. I must’ve been wincing while getting another paper cut.

I grab the next toy, a surprisingly heavy slime craft kit. “I’ll try not to get too much blood on the paper,” I promise.

“I thought it was adding a nice pop of red.” He pulls off his gloves. “Here, take these.”

I gasp. “Santa hands.”

Technically, Nathan’s hands are nothing like what I imagine Santa’s hands look like. They’re strong, smooth, and veiny with nails kept at a clean, trimmed length. They’re really quite excellent hands, and I get to look at them up close for the next twenty minutes. What I can’t do is think about what those hands feel like on me. My brain gets this. My heart, though? It’s gone rogue and beats wildly at the thought.

“Payne? Here,” Nathan repeats, flapping the gloves in front of me. There’s no time to argue—to tell him to put the gloves back on immediately because one, he’s breaking character, and two, Santa hands!—because cameramen circle us as Michelle and Ron approach our table.

“Well, hello there!” Ron says with a cheerful smile, showing off his row of straight white teeth. In greeting, he waves his mug, two candy canes soaking in the whipped-creamed beverage. Ron’s fifty-six, lives in upstate New York, and is self-employed. Two decades ago, he filed for bankruptcy, but nothing major since. He seems to have turned things around.

“Hi!” I say, stuffing my hands into the gloves.

“How’s it going over here?” Michelle asks before taking a sip of her drink. She’s a decade younger than Ron and has lived in New York City since her midtwenties after graduating from college with a degree in accounting. She transitioned into fashion and now works with designers and events like the Santa Claus Con on behalf of her department store.

“Holly jolly,” I rush out, saying the first Christmassy thing that comes to mind. “Ron, you’ve been a Santa volunteer for years, right?” I imagine him with a bell every holiday season ho-ho-ho-ing his way to a full bucket of coins. “Any tips?”

“It’s all in the laugh,” he says, and I give Nathan a pointed look.

I watch Ron carefully as he steps closer to pick up one of our wrapped gifts. Along the corner of his slightly reddened lips are tiny bumps. How hot are their drinks? “This is beautiful work,” he says, analyzing the craftsmanship. Luckily, it’s one of Nathan’s.

From where Ron and Michelle first stood on the rink, they seemed larger than life, impressive almost. They’re the judges, the ones who, along with audience votes, decide who will earn the coveted Santa of the Year title. I just see them as humans, though. Background checks will do that to a person.

I don’t recognize his face or his voice, but this time, when Ron speaks, there’s something vaguely familiar about him. I can’t tell if it’s because I’ve seen him on TV before, like in a Holly Winter way, or if it’s because he could be anyone’s gregarious grandpa. Michelle feels less familiar but still recognizable, so it must be the TV thing.

“We’ll let you get back to it,” Ron says when Nathan and I don’t respond to his compliment.

We have six toys left but can’t wrap all of them now that Football Santa’s destroyed our last roll of paper. We’re able to patch the pieces together and wrap two more presents by the time the clock stops.

Piles of toys remain at the other tables, and the judges go around counting what remains as the cameras catch the sad faces of the Santa Wannabes and their elves. After multiple paper cuts, ribbon burns, and scissor calluses, we make it three spots above the elimination cutline. Fireworks Freddie and Clifford place higher, having wrapped more presents than us. Cameron and Arjun also make it through.

“I hope you’re all warmed up,” Todd says beside Nelly as the Con crew loads up the presents onto wagons, “because after your lunch break, with delicious sandwiches provided by our friends at Sammy’s Sammys, you’ll be delivering toys! I’m Todd.”

“And I’m Nelly.”

“And we’ll be back in a merrrrrry minute!” they say in unison.

Camera lights switch off, and the hype team takes over to play games and give the audience a chance to win swag. Back at the Plaza’s Grand Ballroom, different cameras are turning on to capture a live performance by a pop star for the livestream viewers.

“Todd!” I shout, squeezing between audience members excitedly taking pictures and filming videos. I manage to catch up to him. “Hey. So, this toy delivery. What are the routes?”

Todd flashes me a too-wide host smile even though the cameras are off. “That’s supposed to be a surprise.”

I give him a look, and his smile falters, like he’s just remembering that I’m FBI and not some glittery elf. There’s a real threat and lives are at risk, and I sincerely hope he hasn’t forgotten that. I don’t want to add Todd to my suspect list because then I can’t say “Santa Suspects,” but I will if I must.