My throat goes tight. My eyes start burning.
I’m going to cry. Right here, in front of everyone, at the most important event of my career.
“Hell of a first impression.” The voice behind me is low, rough around the edges, unexpectedly gentle. “I feel like I just kissed my way into a soap opera.”
A laugh escapes me, half sob, completely genuine. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You okay?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice, and turn to face Santa.
“Come on.” A hand, large, calloused, surprisingly careful, wraps around my elbow. “Let’s get you out of the spotlight.”
He guides me away from the main room, somehow making it look casual, like we’re just moving through the party instead of fleeing the wreckage of my professional life. The crowd parts easily, people stepping aside for him without seeming to realize they’re doing it.
We end up at the bar tucked in the southwest corner, partially hidden by decorative pine garland. The bartender takes one look at my face and starts making me something without being asked.
Santa positions himself between me and the rest of the room, blocking me from view, giving me space to fall apart in private.
The drink appears, hot cocoa, but when I take a sip, there’s definitely whiskey in it. Maybe rum. Something strong enough to burn on the way down.
“Figured you needed it,” he says.
I drain half the mug, feeling warmth spread through my chest, loosening the panic squeezing my lungs.
“Breathe,” Santa says, his tone steady, like he does this all the time. “In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth. Again.”
I follow his instructions, dragging air into my lungs, forcing it out slowly. Once. Twice. Three times.
The hyperventilating eases.
My hands stop shaking.
“That’s better. You’re okay.”
“Not really.” My voice wavers. “I just destroyed everything. My partnership, my career, probably this entire event.”
“Look at the room.”
I glance past him. The party is still going. Conversations resumed, and the quartet never stopped playing. People are eating, drinking, laughing.
“Nobody cares,” he says. “Ten minutes from now, they’ll forget it happened. Drunk guy caused a scene, got shut down, left. That’s it. The event’s fine.”
“Scot’s not going to forget.”
“He’s a jackass who can’t handle rejection.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s simple math. “That’s his problem, not yours.”
I sigh. “He’s my business partner.Wasmy business partner. Now I don’t know what he is.” I laugh, but it comes out broken. “God, this is such a disaster. Six months of work, gone. Giuseppe is never going to sell us the company now, not after this mess. Scot will make sure of it.”
Santa is watching me with those intense green eyes, and I notice for the first time how he holds himself, weight balanced, ready to move, like someone who’s used to things going sidewaysfast. There’s a stillness to him that’s almost predatory, but somehow it makes me feel safer instead of scared.
“Who are you?” I finally ask. “And where the hell is Declan?”
His mouth quirks, and I catch the hint of a dimple. “Funny story, actually. Your Santa, Declan, turns out he’s wanted for arson. Two cabins, nearly killed a family. Also, attempted theft, battery on a cop, and skipping bail. Twice.”
I blink. Process. “What?”
“My partners and I picked him up this afternoon on Main Street. He was outside your sister’s bakery in a Santa suit, eating cookies like he didn’t have a care in the world.” He crosses his arms, and the Santa suit pulls tight across his chest in a way that’s deeply distracting. “We were hauling him into our truck to take him in when your sister… Lily, right? She came running out, panicking about the party having no Santa. She wouldn’t let us leave until I agreed to fill in so it didn’t ruin your event.”
