Page 21 of Mistletoe Face Off

“Your daughter’s here?”

I gesture with my thumb over to the seats behind us. “She's right there, coloring.”

Without another word, Santa—I really have to find out this guy’s name—makes his way over to Macy. She turns to look at him and her eyes light right up.

“Santa!” she exclaims and immediately jumps out of her seat and gives him a hug.

I smile, warmed by the scene. Macy usually hangs back from people, always wary of them, her anxiety keeping her from too much connection. But with this guy, she's quite the opposite, and it warms my heart to see. It gives me hope that someday, hopefully, she can overcome her anxieties and do the things she wants to do so much.

“You are such a good skater,” she says as I join their little group.

“It was a lot of fun. Not quite as much fun as singing karaoke with you and your mom last week, though.” His eyes capture mine for a moment, and it's like they have an electric current that connects me to him.

“I think figure skating is a hundred times better than singing Christmas songs,” Macy says.

I place my arm around Macy's shoulders. “My daughter wants to be a figure skater someday. Isn't that right, honey?”

Macy gives a solemn nod. “I do. So much.”

“Well, let me give you some advice. Don't do it in a Santa suit. It makes it way harder,” he replies, winning a giggle from Macy.

“But Santa, that's what you wear every day, isn't it?” I say.

“Don't worry, Mommy. I know this isn't the real Santa,” Macy replies.

I blink at her. “How do you know that for sure?”

“Santa can't figure skate. Everyone knows that,” she says, her eight-year-old kid logic at work.

The guy dressed as Santa leans closer to her. “Don't tell the other kids. They're not as smart as you and they haven't worked it out.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Santa. Or Not Santa,” Macy replies, her features serious.

A grin claims my face. “In that case, can you tell us who you actually are?” I ask.

“No can do, sorry,” he replies.

“A first name at least,” I prod.

He pauses a beat before he replies, “I’m Harry.”

“Harry. Pleased to meet you.” I extend my hand and we shake, the touch of his skin against mine ramping up the electricity flowing through my veins.

“Harry and Holly,” he replies, his eyes dancing. “We sound like a 70’s folk music duo.”

“I guess we do,” I reply.

“Tell me, Macy, where do you train?” he asks.

I open my mouth to reply when my daughter responds with, “Oh, I don't figure skate on actual ice. It's just in my living room at home. Sometimes in the kitchen when Mommy’s cooking dinner, but it’s a bit more slippery in there,” Macy replies, and my heart squeezes for her.

“You can't be a figure skater without practicing on the ice, you know. In fact, it’s kind of a big part of the sport,” he says.

Macy looks down at her hands. “I know.”

“Macy is working up to that,” I reply, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “Aren't you, honey?”

She looks up at me, her lips in a thin line, and nods.

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