Page 160 of Again, In Autumn

“There are children.” I gesture to the innocent eyes all around.

Santa covers a laugh. “That’s the only reason I can’t walk around shirtless in a place of business?”

I shrug. “It’s the most obvious one.”

He shakes his head and says, “I have a shirt on under this. Please. My hands are dirty, and I’m about to boil.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want your sweater to get dirty…” I drop the piping bag and approach his curious, almost flirty eyes.

Are we flirting? I don’t know him. I don’t know his age, why he looks this way, or if he’s followed me here to murder me. Still, I put my hands on the bottom his sweater and lift it up to -

Holy abs, Batman. I snap my jaw shut and beg my eyes to move off his exposed skin.

Santa works out.

His white T-shirt rides up as I get the sweater over his head. It falls back into place as he shakes out his floppy blonde hair, the hat somewhere tucked in the balled up sweater. His hair is clean and nicely cut, shaved above his ears, and his biceps pop out from the under the short sleeve of his shirt. He’s tall and toned and not so odd-looking anymore, but I tell myself to stop looking at those facts.

“Thank you,” he says, oblivious to the gawking onlookers in the courtyard.

They’ve all become a little thirsty from those baked goods. I notice a woman shove an entire cupcake in her mouth while she stares Santa down.

I put his sweater beside my cat tree sweatshirt and clear my throat to continue decorating unaffected. But, I’m not unaffected. Not at all.

He says, “Why are you so knowledgeable about gingerbread house construction?”

“Because I’m the Hansel and Gretel witch.” I grab a piece of the roof.

“Right.” He laughs. “And that’s the job you have to return to on a Saturday?”

“No,” I answer slowly, swirling on roof shingles. I focus on my task and the non-answer gets to him.

Santa says, “If cooking children is not your day job, then what is?”

I lean over and check out his progress. He’s drawn a single, pathetic line of frosting on his cookie. “You’re going too slow,” I tell him. “I can’t finish this alone. I can’t take home the glory alone.”

He tilts his head. He twists the bottom of the piping bag around his finger and presses the other hand into the table firmly, looking me straight in the eye.

“I make gingerbread houses every year for Christmas,” he says. “I only pretended to be clueless so you’d help. You had that type A glint in your eye. I knew it would work.”

“Hey,” I start, but I’m not sure I’m offended.

Santa straightens up with a smile. “It’s in the bag.”

With that, we don’t say another word for the remaining fifty minutes. We decorate the cookie pieces: he does some very creative mosaic work with crushed peppermint, I drip icing off the roof edges, and he makes a gumdrop Twisler streetlamp.

We wordlessly put together our pieces and assemble the structure with finishing touches. While the other groups are laughing or arguing, either taking it too seriously or not serious at all, Santa and I have pulled together a pretty decent one-hour gingerbread house. It has a roof, a porch, a pretzel bench, and tiny rosemary wreaths.

“Time!” the announcer calls out. He begins walking around the table, interviewing the contestants.

I drop my piping bag and cup my smiling cheeks. “It’s so beautiful!”

“Yeah. It’s not bad,” Santa says.

“Not bad?” I point to the sprinkles I painstakingly pressed into a delicate swirl of icing. “Did you see my string of lights?”

He drops his hands to his hips and meets my eye with a wink. “You’re a champion decorator.”

I’m quite pleased with myself. As both a creative and Virgo, my batteries have been recharged. I’ve forgotten about my coffee-stained appearance and my quest to find Effie. I’ve been sucked into a random moment with this stranger and calmness washed over me, not once questioning what or why this was happening, worrying about Heather or the booth, or feeling self-conscious about my interactions.

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