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He does a double take. “A snowman?”

“Right.” It’s easier to talk about what I’m about to tell him in cozy, magical Christmas terms instead of the cold, hard words of my reality.

It takes him a second to catch on, but he plays along. “Okay. You had a summer snowman. So… you and Frosty.”

“I thought we had a good relationship,” I continue. “We both got what we needed out of it, until I got distracted with work and let my guard down and I just… I thought the relationship was going to last longer, but it didn’t.” I tilt my head back to take in the entirety of the Empire State Building. “He… melted.”

I don’t know if Nathan followed any of that, but his nostrils flare, so I think maybe he does understand. “I’m sorry to hear about you and Frosty and your… relationship,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“It changed everything. I can’t lose something else, especially not right after the—”

“Melting, yeah,” Nathan finishes. “I hear you.” He runs his hand down his face, forgetting he’s wearing a fake beard. The string pulls down and pops back up, snapping him in the nose. “There’s a lot going on, Payne. We had hardly any prep time. I’m getting dizzy with how many Santas there are running around. The competitions are slowly wearing us down.” He grabs my hand, warming it. “We’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got.”

His version of a pep talk sinks in. “You’re right. I always knew you were perfect for being my man.” I finish the sentence way too early and realize it a second way too late. Nathan’s got a smirk playing on his lips and will probably never let me live that one down for the rest of the day. “Being my man on the inside, obviously, is what I meant,” I amend. “Thought that was implied.” I toss a few Red Hots in my mouth so I don’t say anything else incriminating.

Instead of a snarky comeback or a smug expression, Nathan gives me an honest-to-goodness grin, his eyes crinkled like those sugar-coated holiday cookies.

“Payne, Lambros,” Meyers says into our earpieces. “I have an update about the fingerprints on the toys. Bird lifted a partial.”

“Did it show up in the system?” I ask, pressing my concealed push-to-talk button hidden in the folds of my sweater.

“It did,” Meyers says.

I lean forward in anticipation. “Okay… and? Whose is it?”

There’s a pause, and then Meyers says, “Lambros’s.”

The vein in Nathan’s temple pulses. “I wasn’t wearing gloves for some of the wrapping,” he says, looking at his now-gloved hands.

“It’s true. He gave them to me,” I quickly tell Meyers, as if we need to defend ourselves.

“Yeah, both of your prints were all over those presents, but not this one. It’s weird they didn’t have everyone use the same cute wrapping paper,” Meyers says.

“What’s cute about gold and silver paper?” I ask. “That’s what all the Santa Wannabes used. Really feels like the Con could’ve had more fun with that.”

Meyers sounds confused when she says, “No, the penguin-patterned paper. That’s the one we found Lambros’s print on.”

“Penguins?” I blink a few times, confused.

Why would Nathan’s fingerprints be on wrapping paper we didn’t use?

“Was that the only patterned paper?” Nathan asks.

“There were a few gingerbread people and mistletoe patterns, too, but nothing on those,” Meyers tells us.

I can’t pinpoint why this feels familiar, but it does.

“It was a stretch to think this would give us a lead,” Meyers says. “So many people touched those presents. I’ll have more soon.”

“I don’t like any of this,” Nathan mutters once our earpieces go quiet.

“It’s not how I’d choose to spend my Christmas Eve Eve.” When I say it, it feels like a half-truth. I’m doing the job I love with the man I… with the man I respect and enjoy being around, and I get to do it in a light blue convertible from 1954. The Sadistic Santa bits? Yeah, I’d leave that part out.

“Can you show me the riddle again?” he asks, so I do. “They’re not adding up.”

“We have the numbers—”

“Which came in a popcorn advent calendar. Doesn’t that feel, I don’t know, kind of personal?”