Page 20 of Santa & His Elf

Not yet.

After dinner, we could have talked about this over pie. Pecan pie. My favorite.

Pouring fresh apple cider into wine goblets, Dad falters at Nick’s words and splashes juice over the rim of my glass. I snap into action and mop up the mess with my linen napkin as Mom’s high-pitched voice pays us an unwelcome visit. “You’re our—you’re our… what?!”

“Son-in-law. Hasn’t Pepper explained everything to you already?” As cool as a cucumber, Nick offers his goblet for my father to fill.

Shrinking down in my chair, wishing the floor would gobble me up, Nick sidelong glances my way, eyebrow raised in question. Surprise radiates through the bond. I shrug all the way to the top of my pointed ears. What can I say? Surprise?! Whoopsie? Gotcha? He was curious why I wanted to postpone this family dinner. Now he knows. I’d planned on telling him. I promise I did. It slipped my mind when he slipped into certain orifices. Then it slipped my mind again when he swooped me up like we’re living in some romance movie, then whisked me down the stairs of our house and set me in a reindeer-guided carriage. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting any of the lovely eight. I was a bit star-struck. It’s not every day you meet a legend. Or have one pull you through the snow to your parents while you and your partner make out like we didn’t just finish half a dozen times at home.

So yeah.

I tried.

I did.

It… slipped my mind.

Mom gulps down her cider, and Dad follows suit. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, half choking me to death as Santa remains oddly chill.

“Pepper,” Nick addresses me.

“Yes?” I squeak, looking up at him halfway under the table, where I wish to escape.

He nods toward my parents. “Do you want to explain, or should I?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Leaning over like we’re not sitting in front of my family and I’m not having an internal meltdown, my partner, who was a giant mess until recently, leans down and kisses me on the cheek. It’s simple. Just a peck. But it means everything.

Swallowing down the sudden lump in my throat, I slowly turn my head to face him. He nudges his nose with mine and kisses my lips.

My mom gasps.

My father refills his glass.

The sweetest man in existence nudges his nose to mine a final time, turns to my family, and explains everything… about the tree, what our pairing means, and how his father never informed him of pretty much anything about his new job. He admits to the lack of sleep and our bond.

I listen to every word, staring at the side of his face in awe of this person. I am grateful for him—for his patience and for taking the lead. Slowly, I slide back into my chair and tentatively rest my hand on his knee. Santa seems to appreciate the connection when he cups his hand over mine.

“So, he’s your… he’s…” my mother fumbles once Nick’s finished explaining.

“Mr. Claus,” Nick confirms, nodding.

Hearing it put like that for the first time, I still.

I am Mr. Claus. His Mr. Claus. We’re the Clauses.

Oh. My. Jingle Bells.

“But what about children?” Mom asks as she serves herself a helping of turkey and stuffing.

Following her lead, Nick fixes himself a plate and adds a heaping of mashed potatoes next to five sweet cornbread slices before moving to the protein. “We spoke with Doc. It seems the giving tree has supplied Pepper with the means necessary for us to be parents.”

“How?” my father blurts and quickly looks away as his cheeks flush tomato red.

I steal a slice of cornbread from Nick’s plate and nibble on the corner. “Don’t ask, Dad. Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

Sitting forward in her chair, Mom grips the edge of the table. “I’ll be a grandma?”

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