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“Mac!” She throws her arms around my neck, and I lift her as she buries her face in my neck. “I love you, too.” She laughs as I spin her around, and when she almost kicks Cinnamon in his sharp nose, I smirk. But more than that, my heart seems to beat double time, because this amazing woman in my arms said she loves me. I’m not letting that go. I can’t. She’s part of me now.
“I’m not Santa.” I put her on her feet and kiss her. “I’m your man.”
Cinnamon clears his throat and holds up a finger. “Apologies, Santa. But you put on the hat. It chose you. That can’t be undone. The hat always chooses the Santa.”
“What the fuck is this? Hogwarts? A hat can’t choose shit.” I keep my arm around Jocelyn.
Cinnamon blinks. Hard.
I suspect the prior Santa may have been ‘salty,’ but I’m a damn salt mine in comparison.
“Santa.” He takes a look I’m reasonable tone. “You have to come to the North Pole. This isn’t a responsibility you can avoid. This job—your job—is extremely important to all the people of the world. The children need you to show them that magic exists, to give them hope, to be that extra bit of miracle in their year to get through the next.”
“Sorry, but you have to find someone else.” I mentally kick myself for ever putting that stupid hat on my head. I never thought it would actually mean anything. After all, like I told the elf, I have a checkered past, to put it lightly, and I’m no miracle worker for children. Hell, it’s all I can do to take care of Sylvester, and all he does is lounge around on his cat trees and snack all day.
The elf swipes his hat off his head, revealing blond hair sculpted into a peak with a twist and curl at the end. “Santa, there is no backing out of this. There is one Santa called whenever the previous Santa is…” He glances at Jocelyn. “Retired.”
Her cheeks heat. “It was an accident.”
“I know.” He nods. “I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that there is only one person in the entire world who can be the next Santa. The hat has chosen.”
“The hat can choose again.” I shrug.
“That’s not possible,” Cinnamon says sadly, some of the wind leaving his sails as his nose starts to quiver. “Santa, please.”
“Oh my God.” Jocelyn kneels. “Are you crying?”
“No.” He pushes his chin up. “Of course not.”
“Look, I’m sorry I put the hat on.” I hand it to him. “But I’m not Santa. Not even with the weird white hair and all the rest.” All the rest currently encompasses my knowledge of all the naughty and nice children in the world, the care and feeding of flying reindeer, and the down to the millisecond schedule required to deliver all gifts before sunrise Christmas morning, plus stocking fillers. But that’s not important.
“Mac.” Jocelyn rises and faces me. “Maybe he’s right.”
“What?”
“Maybe you are Santa.” She runs her fingers through my beard, sending a tingle down my spine. “Maybe all this happened so the hat would come to you.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Cinnamon pipes up. “That’s exactly right.”
“I’m not Santa.” I tilt her chin up so she meets my eyes. “I’m yours. I belong here with you.”
“Well, maybe I could come with you to the North—”
“Absolutely not!” Cinnamon chirps. “We’re already behind schedule. We need Santa desperately, and humans are not allowed at the North Pole. You’d die of the cold without Christmas magic to warm you.”
She frowns. “Mac’s a human.”
“No, he’s magical. The hat has given him Christmas magic.” Cinnamon edges closer, his hopeful eyes on me. “You can feel it, can’t you? You know who’s naughty and nice. You can feel Christmas approaching. Can’t you?”
“That’s not some Santa power.” I shake my head. “Everyone knows Christmas will be here in 23 days, 1 hour, 12 minutes, and 31 seconds.” In the back of my mind, I feel a strange itch. It’s never been there before. But it’s like a calling. And I get the sense that I’m a compass pointing straight at the North Pole. I fight that sensation, trying to bury it deep. “I’m not Santa.”
“But you are.” She strokes my white beard again, then swallows hard and steps back. “Mac, he’s right.”
“No, he’s not.” I follow her step and pull her against me. “I’m not leaving you.”
Her eyes are already tearing, wetness flowing down her cheeks.
“No, lil bit. Don’t cry.” I wipe them away.
“You have to go.” She sniffles.
“No, I don’t.” I keep her in my arms.
“But think of all the disappointed children. We can’t do that to them.”
“The parents buy the presents. There’s no Santa.”
She shakes her head sadly and gestures at Cinnamon. “I think we’re past the point of denying the existence of Santa and magic.”
