Page 10 of Christmas By Lamplight
“What about my voice? People recognize?—”
“It’s possible, but in that context, what are the odds of anyone making that connection?” She stopped. “But I’m not going to lie. It’s a risk. But the children need to know their Christmas wishes matter.”
He read the letters again, slower this time, like he was memorizing every word.
“I’ve been doing charity events since I was in high school,” he said finally. “Children’s hospitals, literacy programs, library fundraisers. I love doing it. But that one stupid video—” He stopped. “But . . . I’ve ruined Christmas, so I owe it to those children.”
“You don’t owe them.”
“Yes, I do.” He handed the letters back. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow. Seven p.m.”
“Okay. I’ll be Santa.”
“Thank you!” She fought the urge to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Her heart swelled with affection for this man who was about to face a difficult situation but was willing to do it for the children.
Before she could stop herself, Carrie said, “For what it’s worth, you didn’t ruin Christmas. You had one bad moment on national television. That doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done.”
“Tell that to the internet.”
“The internet is full of people who’ve forgotten that they make mistakes and love judging people who have.” She met his eyes. “I’m not one of them.”
His expression shifted, as if he had something important to say. Instead, he just nodded. “Seven p.m. I’ll be ready.”
The Santa suit lay across his bed like a red velvet accusation. Tanner picked up the jacket, heavier than he’d expected. The fabric was worn at the elbows, shiny in places from years of use. How many other men had worn this? How many other Christmas Eves had it seen?
Tanner unfolded the letters again and gazed at Hailey’s careful handwriting, Marco’s smudged pencil, and Jade’s crayon drawings in the margins. These children didn’t know who Tanner Blake was. They definitely didn’t know about the scandal or the lost funding. They just wanted someone to tell them Christmas still happened when they were stuck in hospital beds.
He’d done dozens of hospital readings over the years. It started by chance. A friend’s child was sick, so he went to visit with a book that he thought she would enjoy, and somehow it became his thing. It made his rollercoaster of a career feel worthwhile. He never wanted to be famous. He wanted to tell stories. The hospital visits let him do that in its purest form.
Until Portia ruined it.
No, that wasn’t fair. He did it to himself. He lost his temper and gave her exactly what she’d been angling for. She’d been difficult all day, making demands, needling him, and making snide comments about how lucky he was to be on a show with her. He’d held it together until she made that crack about his mother. He should have known better.
The suit’s beard smelled like dust. He held it up to his face and looked in the mirror. Ridiculous. He looked like a mall Santa who’d lost his job and kept the uniform. But the children would see Santa. That was the magic of being young enough—you saw what you needed to see.
He thought about Carrie downstairs, probably going over her notes for the twentieth time. She’d created this entire event in three days, convinced the hospital to partner, gotten the word out online, and rallied the local community—all while her own business was failing.
Shannon had mentioned business troubles while Carrie was in the back room, so he admitted he’d seen the rent notice. He hoped his assumption was wrong, but Shannon confirmed it. Lamplight Books would probably close before the year was out. But Carrie hadn’t said a word to him about it. She was apparently too proud to ask for help.
He respected that, and he understood it. He’d grown up watching his mother work two jobs rather than ask his father for child support. Pride could be expensive, but sometimes it was all you had.
The Santa pants were too short, but he hoped his black boots would hide it. The hat barely stretched over his head. The whole look fell short of the magical Santa these children needed, but it was all he had, so he would make it work somehow.
His laptop chimed with an email from his audiobook publisher. They were reconsidering his contract for the upcoming spring recording schedule. It was industry speak for waiting to see if he was still toxic.
Tomorrow would determine that. If the fundraiser went well, it might shift the narrative away from him. But it was crucial that he kept his identity hidden, or he would make his PR nightmare even worse.
The smarter choice would have been to say no. But when Carrie held out those letters, she hadn’t begged, demanded, or guilted him into it. She’d just offered him a chance to be useful again. To use his voice for something that mattered.
He folded the suit carefully and placed it on the chair by the window. Through the glass, he could see Main Street preparing for tomorrow. Families hanging lights. The diner extending its hours. The whole town gearing up to support the children.
And Carrie’s bookshop stood at the center of it all.
Right now, sitting in his drafty apartment above a failing bookshop, he was glad to be part of it all. It gave him a purpose—to get through tomorrow, make children smile, and then go home to LA and try to salvage his career.
He would try not to think about what he would be leaving.
