“I still think all that Christmas paraphernalia is weird, but we can talk about that later,” she tells me with the wave of her hand. “Now I want details!”
I fall back on the couch and cover my face with my hands.
“Oh no,” she groans.
“Yeah,” I tell her and nod my head. “It was unbelievable. Every part of it. Start to finish and everything in between. He’s kind of perfect.”
“He’s perfect adjacent,” she snaps. “The over-the-top Christmas fetish is a lot to take in at once.”
“I think it’s cute,” I defend him because I have to and because if she really knew his dad was Santa and he was the heir, she’d feel very differently about the entire situation.
“It’s not what you think,” I tell her and try my best to make it palatable for her. “It’s complicated. It’s a family thing that he grew up in so it’s kind of all he’s ever known.”
“Maybe,” Grace rolls her eyes. “So you had incredible sex, you had a great time, and you look satiated but dare I say a little sad?”
I run my hands through my hair.
“I’m just scared I won’t hear from him again,” I admit.
“Charlie,” Grace’s voice is firm. “There’s a strong probability you willneverever hear from the man again. We walked into this, eyes wide open, knowing full well this was going to be a one-night thing with a hint of the possibility of something more.”
“I know,” I admit in a small voice. A fever dream. A distant memory. Would I regret it?
Tears well in my eyes.
I imagine Santa smiling at me, telling me he remembered me.
Hugging me.
I may not have felt like I mattered growing up when I tried so hard when I struggled and felt so alone. But he loved me even then. He knew my name.
He knew my name by heart.
I struggle not to cry when my brain slowly moves over to the memory of the smiles with Stetson, the stolen kisses, the pantry, the teasing, the sex.
Would I regret it?
Never.
Would I ever get over it?
No. But that’s on me, for signing the clause.
“So you can’t be upset, and you can’t be mad,” her voice cuts into the memories like a knife and goes up an octave. “And I swear to God if you cry over a man you just met forty-eight hours ago, I’m going to bash you in the head with this pillow.”
“I’m not going to cry.” I swallow a lump the size of Texas. I am one hundred percent going to cry myself to sleep every time I smell sugar, take a shower, eat cookies, see reindeers. The man has not only ruined me for all other men—he’s ruined freaking Christmas. Thanks, Stetson, thanks Santa.
“Liar,” Grace points at me with narrowed eyes. “I can see the quiver in your mouth!”
“I’m hungry!” I shout back at her as I cross my arms. God this sucks!
“Charlie, there is no way I’m going to let you be sad about this guy, even for a minute. We leave tomorrow—did you forget that?”
“No,” I shake my head in misery. “I did not forget that.”
I just didn’t need the reminder!
“Just get over him,” she waves at me like it should be something easy.
