Page 4 of The Santa of the Mountain

“Nothing,” my sister coos before shifting into a voice that gives our mother’s a run for its money. “I’m not going to let Santa get drunk on his last day,” she whisper-shouts.

“Can I get drunk?” the kid asks.

“No, but you can get a nice bike. Would you like that?Ho, ho, ho.” I turn back to my sister, whispering. “I’m not drinking it. I’m going to bathe in it to kill whatever germ soup is now growing on my face.”

“I had soup for lunch,” the kid says.

“Chicken noodle, right?” I rasp, the lingering smell clinging to my beard.

“Wow,” he gasps. “You really are Santa.”

I pat him on his head. “How about you grab a candy cane from one of Santa’s little helpers, and I’ll work on that bike for you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want a bike. I want whiskey like Santa Claus.”

Another sneeze. Another cringe. Jesus, my spirits were high but now I’m counting down the minutes until—fuuuuuuck.

I lock eyes with a damn angel on the ice rink. It’s brief but it’s enough to knock the wind out of my lungs. “Off my lap, kid.”

Jesus. I’m growling. I’m not the jolly Santa I set out to be on my last day.

“But you aren’t getting me what I want,” he moans.

“Whiskey,” I mutter, “You’ve got it.”

I can’t lose sight of her. I need to get to her. There’s something about her that’s setting off a chain reaction like I’ve never experienced before.

My sister thumps me on the shoulder. “Cole!” Turning to the kid, she says, “Here’s a candy cane. Have three! Just don’t tell your mom what Santa said. He was kidding. Tell him you were kidding.”

I stare at the kid. “Get off my lap, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

The kid grabs his candy canes and hops off my lap, skipping to his mother as I rush to my girl. Shit. She’s on the other side of the rink.

“Where’s Santa going?” a kid mutters, followed by incoherent murmuring.

None of it registers as I calculate the quickest route. Straight. Down. The middle. I charge, arms pumping as I make my way to the edge of the rink, grab the wall, and leap over it in a single bound. My feet hit the ice, followed swiftly by my back, head, and complete darkness.

2

KATE

As I trudgedown the garland-lined staircase at the Whispering Winds Inn, everything feels black and white. Muted and drab. The small mountain town inn seems less magical than when I first entered through the grand wooden doors and glimpsed the festive decorations that put any Hallmark movie set designer’s work to shame.

The soft sound of Christmas music in the background grates my frayed nerves. The smell of cinnamon, clove, and sugar cookies is so cloying that I’m holding back my gag reflex. And the strings of lights, tinsel, and ornaments are sparkling a little too brightly.

Then again, my aversion to bright lights and general merriment might stem from the copious amount of eggnog I consumed during dinner last night. The dinner where I sat and watched my sister canoodle with her fiancé—my ex—across the table. A clenched smile on my face and alcohol seeping through my pores as they shared a steaming mug of hot cocoa. Forced laughter as he brushed whipped cream off her nose and then sucked it off his finger.

Sigh.The joy of being in love… and the misery of being perpetually single and reminded of that fact every holiday season.

Usually, I have enough Christmas cheer that it doesn’t faze me, but this year my cheer’s spread thin, orchestrating the perfect winter wedding for my sister. I don’t even care that she’s marrying Henry. He and I were never going to work.

The wedding is a hard pill to swallow because it’s the wedding of my dreams. The one I’ve planned for longer than I’ve been a professional wedding planner. But what’s the point of planning a wedding that will never happen? Might as well have someone I love see my vision come to life so I can at least experience it second-hand.

But watching my dream wedding morph into someone else’s feels like a sharpened candy cane straight to the heart. Today, I’m feeling it more acutely. And the text messages from my sister aren’t helping.

Pearl: We need to talk.

Pearl: Meet us a Windy Brews at 9 am?

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