Page 4 of Pining for Christmas

Golden light glows around the edges of Jack’s office door. I pause on my way past, fist raised, but I don’t knock. I can’t.

My hand drops to my side and I hurry past on silent feet. My heart aches in my chest, long after I’ve raced up the stairs to my room.

Jack

ASanta hat. ASanta hat.Am I that fucking old already?

Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Gina’s a sweet girl; she probably meant to poke fun at my beard. And my habit of bringing the workers gifts of hot drinks and cookies during long, cold winter shifts.

And yes, okay, the fact that I’m graying at the temples. And in the beard. And in the chest hair.

I slump back in my desk chair with a groan.

Fuck. I’m a dirty old man.

Because there’s a chance Gina meant it as a friendly warning… about Clara. There’s no way Gina hasn’t noticed the way I look at the young bartender sometimes, when it’s been a long day and a headache squeezes my skull and my restraint wears as thin as the frost lacing the windows.

She’s so damn beautiful, her caramel hair always braided over one shoulder, stray tendrils framing her heart shaped face. When she’s thinking, her pearly teeth dig into her plump bottom lip. There’s a tiny gap between her front teeth, and it’s so fucking cute, I could slam my head against the bar.

I know Clara’s too young for me. Too sweet, too innocent.

Iknowthat.

Or my brain does, anyway. And I’m not an animal. My brain’s the part that makes decisions, no matter what my body and my heart cry out for.

And make no mistake: they cry out for Clara. They have for almost a year now, ever since she started working behind the bar and I noticed the way the regulars looked at her. Like those men would rather drinkherdown than a pint of beer. Like they were two steps away from crawling onto their bar stools and lunging for her, calling out her name.

Those first few times I noticed, it took every ounce of my self control not to throw those horn dogs out on their ears, marching them bodily across the bar floor. But they never did more than make eyes at her, and unless they cross a line, unless she tells me she’s uncomfortable, it’s none of my business.

None of my business.

Fuck.

I’d give anything for Clara to be my business. Not as an employee or a tenant, but as a woman. Asmywoman, mine to care for and spoil. Mine to protect.Mine.

I’ve never been the jealous type before. But with Clara…

I don’t recognize myself.

“You leave her alone,” I mutter to myself—the same thing I tell myself every night when the bar’s closed up and we’re the only two left in the building. Clara doesn’t know I used to crash in the room above the bar before she moved in, and now after late shifts, I can either get a stiff neck on the sofa in my office, or take my bike across town on dark, slippery roads.

She’ll never know. She’d worry herself sick with guilt, and there’s no need. I’d give her that room a thousand times over. Even if it means putting myself out. Even if it means she’sthereall the time, making me sick with longing.

My chair creaks loudly as I push to my feet, staring around my office with tired, dry eyes. It’s dim, lit only by a table lamp, with a woven rug spread over the floorboards and a squashy red sofa pushed against one wall. The painting on the wall is a local artist’s, one of the nearby creek, and the bookshelves arecrammed with fishing guides and mystery novels instead of the business books Ishouldread.

What would Clara change in this room, if I let her decorate it? Would she make it warmer? More homey? Would she change that painting?

Why did she blush so badly when Gina made that joke about sitting on my lap?

I dig the heel of my palm into my eye. Damn stupid thing to wonder. Clara probably felt sorry for me—probably felt awkward because she knows how much I like her, and she agrees that I’m too old.

Midnight is a distant memory as I move around my office, picking up the day’s mess, moonlight slanting through the window and lighting up the snowy street outside. I pile up papers and file them away. I log the workers’ hours and pay earned—including a nice fat holiday bonus each. And I pass the Santa hat piled on my desk a couple times before swiping it up, jamming it onto my head in a flash of wry humor.

I keep clearing up, the pom pom swinging around my neck.

It’s Christmas Eve, after all. And only the worst kind of man can’t laugh at himself.

* * *

---