AllFreeNovel
Share Us
What was out in plain sight, however—and what had definitely not been there earlier—was an elf costume laid over the edge of the bed, complete with pointy shoes, striped tights and pointy ears like the ones Annabelle had been wearing the night before.
There was a card folded atop the costume, and I picked it up and read quickly:Thanks for walking me home. Thought you liked my outfit, so I got you one to match. A-
"Nice," Callan noted, and I turned to find him looking down at the ridiculous outfit over my shoulder.
"They keep giving me things," I said, my tone more exasperated than intended. I gestured to the once-useful table that now held the enormous gingerbread house.
Callan glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the sad stripped tree and the ribbon dangling from the mantlepiece, left over from my un-decorating the first night. "Kind of seems like they forgot to finish decorating," he said.
I gestured him to a chair to sit down by the gas fire and switched it on. "No, I moved everything I could. There was so much red and green and glittery gaudiness in here I couldn't even think."
"The woman whose job it is to make other people decorate their homes takes the time to UN-decorate her hotel room."
I moved to the desk, where the enormous gift basket sat. I’d pulled cookies and chocolate out over the last day or two, and remembered seeing a little bottle with the Half Cat label in there somewhere. "I enjoy irony," I said flatly, finding the bottle. "Aha!" I held it up.
Callan had sat in one of the chairs by the little round table, and as I looked at him there, I had a rush of doubt. I’d brought a man to my room. Not just a man, but the most important part of the show I was supposed to be producing for my uncle. My job—my life, really—depended on me not screwing things up, and I was in the midst of repeating my most recent horrible mistake. Still, when my eyes met Callan’s, it was hard to feel like it was wrong.
Callan smiled and pointed at the bottle in my hand. "The Half Cat again. I guess that's a thing."
I peered at the picture on the label. It was the same drawing from the business card Wiley had given us, but now I had time to really look at it. It was a drawing of a fluffy cat sitting a chair of sorts—a wheelchair, really. The cat had only its front legs, and the back of its body sat in the little chair. The absence of back legs didn't seem to bother the cat—at least not the cartoon one—if the silly grin on its face was any indication. "Poor cat," I said quietly. "What a weird mascot to choose."
"Maybe it's a real cat."
I looked up and met Callan's eyes. "No, it can't be."
"We should probably visit the distillery and find out."
My impulse was to agree immediately. To make plans for tomorrow and the next day, and next month with this man whose dark eyes made me feel warm and tingly inside, whose gaze made me feel understood and really seen all at once. But I’d jumped into things too quickly before, and technically, this was a work arrangement, no matter how much I might have liked for it to be something more. "Yeah, maybe."
If my sudden reluctance bothered Callan, he didn't show it. Instead he rose and pulled two glasses from the top of the dresser under the television and returned to the table. As I poured out a couple fingers each of the Half Cat, he watched me with a careful smile on his face. God, those lips were sexy. My body was tingling again at his proximity.
"So who goes first?" he asked. "You, I think."
I sat across from him, picking up my glass and staring into the brown liquid. "Fine." I swallowed the contents of the glass, intending to roll smoothly into the fastest version of the story I could. Instead, my throat ignited and I erupted in a sputtering coughing fit caused by the fire I’d just thrown down my gullet.
Callan looked alarmed, but when he stood up to try to help, I waved him off, doubled over and gasping in my chair. When I could manage, I coughed out, "Water. Please."
He complied and when I’d finally managed to get a few sips and ease the coughing fit a bit, I smiled at him, my watery eyes meeting his. "I'm okay." This was not the same stuff Annabelle had given me the other night. This had a touch of cinnamon or something. Probably some carcinogenic Christmas-related spices. Like nutmeg and arsenic.
"The cat's not messing around," he said. He sipped his own drink, his eyebrows rising in appreciation.
I had regained my breath, and with the additional bracing warmth of the alcohol sliding through me, I told Callan the story I had only told a couple times before. To my mother. To Lynn. And now to Callan.
"I was seven," I began, wishing suddenly for more bourbon but knowing I’d be on the floor if I drank anything else. "And it was Christmas Eve.” I closed my eyes briefly, the painful image of my childhood home flickering to life in my mind like some well worn photograph behind glass. “I lived with my parents, and we always went really big decorating for the holidays, so my house was completely decked out. I would have loved this town back then," I said, shaking my head lightly, thinking about it as what felt like an ancient sadness washed through me. "We'd had dinner, and I'd gotten to open one gift—that was our tradition. I remember exactly what it was because I thought it was such a big deal at the time."
"What was it?" Callan asked, his voice low and quiet.
I smiled and shrugged. I remembered everything about opening that gift, because it was the last Christmas present I’d ever opened before the holiday had soured for me. I remembered the green paper, the little white bow, the proud smile on my mother’s pretty face and the way Mom had glanced at Dad, whose expression stayed neutral, even as I had squealed in delight. Grief shot through me and I took a steadying breath. "Just a stupid necklace. But it was the first jewelry I'd ever gotten. It was a heart with my birthstone in it. Not a big deal really, but it was to me. It was gold and I thought it was so fancy, and I wanted to wear it immediately, but my mom thought I should wait until I had an occasion, so she tucked it back under the tree. I still remember how it caught the lights and sparkled. Since my birthday is in April, the birthstone was a diamond. I'm sure it wasn't a real diamond—my parents struggled for money. But it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, either way."
"Sounds beautiful," Callan said, his voice low and reverent, and his dark eyes on my face as I spoke.
My heart stuttered as I remembered the rest, steadying myself to get it out without tears. "I couldn't sleep after my parents tucked me in, and I wanted to get up and get my necklace. Just to look at it a bit more. So I got up.” I closed my eyes hard and then opened them, avoiding Callan’s gaze. “And my dad was in there, pulling on his coat. The tree was right by the front door. He had a duffle bag with him, and I was really confused, so I asked him where he was going."
Callan nodded.
"He told me that he'd been helping Santa for years. That he went out on Christmas Eve to help distribute gifts, and not to worry."
“I’m guessing he wasn’t helping Santa?” Callan asked, a hand gripping the armrest on the chair as if bracing himself for the end of the story.
