Page 5 of Pining for Christmas

The bar is dim when I lock up my office, lit only by shafts of moonlight and the sparkling string lights draped on Clara’s tree. She thinks I didn’t notice her dragging that sorry little shrub inside a few days ago, but the truth is, I got a lump in my throat when I saw it.

I didn’t want to make a big deal. Didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

But these little touches she leaves around the place… they make my heart twist. Make my skin prickle with heat.

Clara got half the picture right: she brought in a fir tree, with fresh, wintry needles, and she wound glowing gold lights through its branches. It cheers up the corner of the bar, warms a spot that would be nothing but shadows otherwise.

But there’s one thing missing. At the base of the tree, the floorboards are empty. There are no piles of gifts, no brightly wrapped presents. It’s naked. Sad.

Hey, I don’t mean Clara should’ve bought things forme.Fuck that. She works hard, and she should keep her money. But it’s part of the image, right? Part of the reason for having a tree. And a girl like Clara deserves huge mounds of gifts, endless piles of perfectly wrapped boxes tied with ribbons.

I don’t have endless piles of gifts, and my wrapping skills are shitty. But I figured a few bags’ worth wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t crosstoomany lines.

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding here?

But I want her to have them. So maybe I just won’t tell her it was me.

The shopping bags rustle by my legs as I cross the bar floor, not bothering to flick on a light. There’s enough moonlight to see by, and anyhow, this feels like a deed that should stay in the darkness.

Anonymous. Deniable.Shameful.

An older man, keeping his messed up feelings in the shadows.

I sigh and kneel before the tree, bags pooling at my sides, and a chill seeps through my jeans. I wrapped these gifts days ago, weeks ago some of them, but as I lift them out one by one, I can picture them perfectly beneath my shoddy wrapping.

A box of those fancy teas that Clara likes—the ones she hoards like a squirrel, only allowing herself one cup a week.

A vanilla-scented candle for her attic room.

A cross-stitch kit.

A novelty shot glass with her favorite cartoon character.

A soft, pale green scarf to replace the one she snagged on a bramble last month in the woods. It’s not an exact match to the one she lost, but the shade will go just right with her eyes.

On and on they go, small gifts and trinkets that all together tell a damning truth—that I’ve been watching her. Obsessing, even. Remembering every tiny detail, storing tidbits away like a dragon sprawled on a pile of gold.

If Gina didn’t think badly of me before tonight, she will now, and yet I can’t bring myself to stuff the gifts back in the shopping bags. Not when I know they’ll make Clara smile.

“Ho fucking ho,” I mutter under my breath, the Santa hat pom pom sliding against my shoulder as I work. The last gift crinkles in my grip as I place it beneath the tree: the latest book by Clara’s favorite author. Something sexy with werewolves in it. Best not to wonder too much about that one.

A floorboard creaks behind me, and I freeze, kneeling beside the branches. String lights twinkle an inch from my nose, and my heart sinks all the way to the base of my belly.

Busted.

I know those quiet footsteps; that faint coconut scent. That hitch in her breath haunts my dreams.

I’m caught, and there’s no getting out of this. There’s only one person that could be.

Clara

Ican’t sleep. Almost an hour of laying in bed, staring at my attic ceiling, and I’m still horrified. Radioactive with embarrassment. Every time I huff out a breath or roll over, trying to get drowsy, my chest twinges with the memory of Gina’s jokey question.

What do you think, Clara? Want to sit on Jack’s knee and tell him you’ve been good?

My cheeks still burn hot enough to fry an egg.

The look on Jack’s face. Hisstare.

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