Page 2 of Babygirl for Christmas

I close the box and finish getting ready for work, my mind sifting through who could have possibly sent the cookies. I really don’t have any friends to speak of. When I moved back to town, I was so focused on taking care of grandma that there wasn’t any time for friends. I’ve run into a few friends from high school at the store or the salon from time to time, but we’re nothing more than casual acquaintances now.

* * *

The salon isquiet when I get there—it’s the calm before the storm. Today’s going to be bedlam. It seems like every one of our clients decided to wait until the last two weeks before Christmas to schedule appointments. I’m booked straight through until closing time with zero breaks. I flick on the lights, making sure the storefront and reception area are both tidy before getting my station set up for the day.

The bell on the door jingles as Sam pushes his way inside, letting in a gust of cold wind.

“It’s colder than a witches titty in a brass bra out there.”

He stomps off his boots, chunks of snow collecting on the mat, then tosses his coat and scarf across the reception desk. I can feel my jaw tick in annoyance, but I’ve long since learned to school my expression. It’s been a bit of a battle with the stylists since I bought this place. They were used to a very hands-off owner that allowed them to make their own hours, coming and going as they pleased. That was one of the first things I changed.

Sam has been one of my biggest allies since I bought the salon, but his sloppy ways drive me crazy. I’ve got a little OCD issue when it comes to my workspace, and having things thrown willy-nilly like that sets me off something fierce. I must not hide my annoyance as well as I thought because Sam rolls his eyes and picks up the coat and scarf to hang up in the breakroom.

“Thank you!” I shout.

He makes an inarticulate grunting noise, which I take as a ‘you’re welcome.’

Another jingle of the bells and Sasha comes in like a whirlwind. She dumps her things on her chair and circles back around to face me. “You will never believe what happened… Paul proposed!” she squeals, bouncing up and down like a hyperactive rabbit.

“Congratulations,” I say, pasting a cheerful smile on my face.

Sam pokes his head around the corner. “It’s about damn time that man got off his ass and put a ring on it.”

He sticks his hand out and flips it back and forth, mimicking that Beyoncé video. I can’t hold back my laugh at his antics. The rest of the morning goes smoothly. We get everything set up for the day, and all of the stylists—even Jenny the receptionist—are on time for a change. It gives me a sliver of hope that we are finally starting to become a team.

The day flies by, and before I know it, we are closed for the day. I collapse into my chair and sigh heavily. My feet are killing me. I would do just about anything for a massage right about now, but the only thing in the cards for me tonight is a hot bath. Admittedly, it’s better than nothing. If I were still in my apartment in downtown Chicago, it would be a lukewarm shower.

“Okay, I’m out of here. Want to walk out with me?” Sam asks.

“Nah, it’s okay, you go ahead. I’m going to catch up on some paperwork before I head out.”

Sam looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You should save that for tomorrow and get some rest, boss lady. You’re going to run yourself into the ground with all the hours you’re working.”

“I’ll be fine. I won’t stay too long,” I promise.

He gives me a skeptical look. One that says, ‘I know you’re full of shit, but I’m letting it go for now.’

“Have a good night, Cherry.” He leans in close, giving me a side hug.

* * *

Two hours later,I’m finally home and completely regretting the choice to stay and work longer. I plop down on the couch as I debate on a quick shower versus the bath I wanted earlier. The aches in my body crave a long soak in the tub, but a shower would mean I could be in bed that much faster.

A rap at the door draws me out of my inner debate. Which is probably a good thing because I was leaning toward option three—falling asleep on the couch right where I sit, clothes and all. I peek out the peephole and see no one outside. Strange. The burst of cold air that hits me when I open the door sends a shiver down my spine.

A quick look confirms there is no one around, but a box is sitting on my doorstep. I look around again, trying to see who could’ve left it, but the night is empty of people. I pick up the box and carry it inside.

I sit on the couch and place the package on the coffee table in front of me. It’s beautifully wrapped in shiny red paper with silver stripes and a big silver bow on top. I pull the card from the top, brow furrowing when the picture is a replica of the partridge in the pear tree cookie. The card simply has my name and declares it’s from Santa.

I chew on my lip, weighing my options. Do I open it or not? Who would leave a gift on my porch without saying anything? I should probably be concerned. Obviously, whoever this “Santa” is sent the cookies this morning. The excitement of getting a gift is starting to creep in—I’m a sucker for surprises, and whoever is doing this is making that familiar itch inside me spring to life. The warm feeling of the Christmas spirit flickers to life as I rip into the shiny paper and open the box—pear scented bubble bath, lotion, and a candle sit nestled inside pretty silver tissue paper.

I take it as a sign that I’m meant to relax in the bath for a while. I take my present into the bathroom and start the tap. The sweet scent of pear permeates the air from the bubbles. I light the candle and turn the vanity lights off. I slide into the hot water, not bothering to silence my moan of pleasure. The heated water instantly starts soothing my aching muscles.

Thank you, Santa, whoever you are.

2

Nick

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