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He looks down at his wrist. From the day he took the job as Santa, he hasn’t taken off the cuff. Not for a second. And it doesn't come off easily. Someone took it off him. It’s the only conclusion. Someone wanted him stranded, unable to be tracked.
Without the tracking cuff, his team will have a hard time finding him. There’s a massive planet to search. Even with everyone looking, it’ll still be touch and go whether or not they find him in time.
His Christmas magic might attract their attention, but that’s not at its most powerful until Christmas Eve night. That leaves him trapped here with Scarlett for the next few days.
He smiles as he looks into the kitchen at her. She’s twisted her long auburn hair into a messy bun at the back of her head, keeping it out of her way as she cooks. Why does she have to look so fucking adorable?
Thirty-five years as Santa, and he waits until he’s injured and trapped, less than a week from Christmas, to find someone he’s interested in. Talk about bad timing.
He needs to find a way to get home. He needs to figure out if someone ambushed him, and make sure they pay for their treachery. That should be his main focus.
So why is he still looking at her? Still thinking about what they did in the shower. Wishing he could do it for real.
He meant what he said to her. He could have so much fun with her. He could give her what she wants, what she yearns for.
He pushes to his feet and stands at the window, peering out at the snow. He can’t do this again. Can’t let someone get close to him. Besides, having sex with her would mean telling her who he is, and that’s a sure fire way of killing off any attraction. She’s not going to want to be with him if she knows who he is.
He looks over at Scarlett again, piling eggs and bacon onto two plates. The problem is, she might have to help him attract the attention of his search party, which would also mean he needs to tell her the truth.
She’d more than likely think he’s off his fucking head. Of course she would. What else could she think if a strange bloke sits her down and says, ‘Hey, so I forgot to mention that I am actually Santa. Want to help me get back to Lapland?’
Even saying the line in his head sounds fucking ridiculous. He’s never had to tell someone the truth. Everyone he deals with on a daily basis knows who he is.
He’s Nick. Santa. Leader of a group of mythical men who kill demons and monsters set on destroying the Earth. End of unbelievable story.
That part sounds even more ridiculous. The Santa part is a hard enough sell, without adding what he does for the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. How do you even begin that conversation with someone outside of his world? It’s impossible.
It doesn’t help he’s not exactly the image she’d have in her head of Santa. One of his predecessors went to town on the cookies and food left out by the children, and now they all get labelled as... what had Scarlett said,cuddly. Great image that had stuck through the generations.
‘I hope you’re hungry.’
He snaps out of his thoughts as Scarlett places the plates on the table. He lowers onto the chair opposite her, wincing as his ribs protests. Being thrown from the sleigh didn’t agree with his body. ‘Thanks. It smells amazing.’
‘You’re welcome. My culinary skills aren’t the best, but I can whip up one impressive full Irish.’
He keeps his smirk to himself. She’s still not making eye contact with him, focusing far too intently on her breakfast. ‘Do you live out here alone?’ he asks, tucking into one of the best breakfasts he’s had in a long time.
She finishes chewing a mouthful of bacon, then takes a drink of coffee. ‘I don’t live here all the time. I was left the cabin by my grandparents. I come out here for holidays and every Christmas to get away from all the craziness. I just like the peace and quiet here.’
He takes a mouthful of coffee, while he gets his head around that. He noticed the very clear absence of anything Christmas related in the house. Could make things interesting if he does attempt to come clean about who he is. ‘Not a fan of Christmas?’
She shrugs and wipes up her fried egg with a piece of toast. ‘I used to be. It sort of lost its magic for me. That probably sounds a bit strange to someone who clearly loves it.’
He lowers his fork back to his plate. ‘Why do you think I love it?’
‘Your arm is covered in Christmas tattoos.’ She leans across the table and lowers her voice. ‘It was a bit of a hint. I’m clever like that.’
‘Ah, fair point,’ he admits, laughing. ‘Yeah, I guess I do like it. What happened to make it lose its magic for you?’ Her smile fades as soon as he asks the question. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ She turns her cup on the table, not saying anything for a minute or so. ‘It was life in general I guess. I lost my parents when I was young, and my grandparents took me in. Then they died a few years ago, and it was just me. There didn’t seem much point in making all the fuss after that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don't be sorry. I love it out here. It’s so quiet... usually,’ she says winking at him.
‘I can be sorry about that part.’
‘Don’t be. It’s the most excitement I’ve had for a long time.’ The adorable blush comes back and she looks away, clearing her throat. ‘Anyway, you’re welcome to hang around until the storm clears. If you want, of course. Then again, I don’t really think you could leave, even if you wanted to. The roads are going to be impassable at the moment.’
