Page 17 of Pining for Christmas

Besides. I still haven’t seen him properly with his clothes off. I’ve wanted to for years. And inquiring minds need toknow.

“What do you have planned for Christmas?” I trail behind him out of the office, stealing a glance at my tree with the small pile of gifts. “Are you playing Santa for anyone else?”

Jack scoffs. “‘Course not.” He pushes the bathroom door open. “No one else has been good.”

I hide my smile, stepping under his arm onto the tiles.

I know it’s wrong to be jealous, but I’m glad. This Santa ismine.

Jack

One year later

I step out of my office, head throbbing and mouth dry from another long shift. Christmas Eve is always a killer. Everyone for miles around wants to gather, to have a drink or three, and it’s a great earner, but the staff are always dead on their feet by the time we close.

Now, though, the bar’s empty. Quiet. A big tree glows in the corner of the room, lights glittering and strung with baubles.

I ease my handfuls of bags out of the doorway, careful not to knock them. I may have gone overboard this year.

The thing is, I love all our regulars, but I don’t trust them enough to leave Clara’s gifts out where they could get trampled. And we have a tree at home, sure, but we both know full well we’re not making the trek back across town this late at night on Christmas Eve. Not with Clara perched on my bike. Not on those icy roads. No way, no how.

Besides, Christmas at the bar is kind of a tradition. So it’s this tree I cross to, laden with gifts, a Santa hat crammed on my head.

Gina burst out laughing when she saw me wearing it earlier. But Clara’s reaction was the best—the radioactive blush that spread over her pretty cheeks.

“I don’t want to know,” Gina had declared, throwing up her hands behind the pump.

No, she probably doesn’t. Gina talks a big game, but she’s protective of Clara. Like a big sister. I can’t blame her.

My boots thud against the floorboards, and the gift bags rustle as they brush against table legs. I’m most of the way across the room before I see it: the flurry of movement, underneath the branches.

“Huh.” I come to a stop next to the tree, my beard shifting as I grin. “You beat me here.”

Clara kneels on the floor, dressed in the set of spare pajamas she keeps upstairs, stacking parcels wrapped in shiny paper under the tree. The swell of her belly presses against the shirt, stretching the checked flannel.

“I told you not to get me anything.”

Clara snorts. “Well, I didn’t listen.”

“No, you didn’t.” I watch her closely, my chest aching with how much I love her. And we’re alone now. Finally alone. “You feeling okay after your shift?”

I’ve urged her to stop working now that she’s pregnant, as soon as she wants, but Clara says she wants to work until she drops.

And I toldherthat had better be a figure of speech, but she just laughed. And damn it, I meant it. Clara’s feet would barely touch the floor if I had my way. I’d carry her from room to room, and fetch her snacks and hot drinks, and rub her sore shoulders.

Sure, I do those things anyway. But that hard little bump—it drives me mad. Dials all my protective instincts up to eleven.

“What did you get me, little elf?”

Clara shakes her head, stacking another parcel. “You’ll have to wait and see tomorrow.”

Whatever it is, I’ll love it, though not nearly as much as I love theothergift she got me, the one growing inside her. It seems too good to be true, but I keep pinching myself, and she’s stillpregnant, so. Guess this is happening after all. I must have been good in an earlier life.

“You shouldn’t kneel on that cold floor.”

“And you shouldn’t boss me around.”

But there’s no heat to her words, and Clara lifts a hand when she’s ready. Lets me help her up. And when she turns to me, the lights from the tree shine in her big eyes. “Will you be long down here? I want you to keep me warm.”

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