Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

S andy glanced over at Moonshine, his fuzzy-faced companion. The canine stood in the Prius's passenger seat, smushing her nose against the window. Sandy sighed at the vacant, snow-covered main street of Mayfield. The small town consisted of a two-lane downtown that was of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it variety. "What kind of man am I going to find in the sticks to keep me warm through the holidays? The answer is none. Zip. Zero. Nada. There won't be any bear bars out here unless they're of the wild animal kind—stuffed and mounted to a wall."

Moonshine tilted her head at him.

He checked the time on his phone. Noticing it was a couple of minutes past 8 a.m., he buttoned up his peacoat. "Don't look at me like that. I could be in a relationship if I wanted to, but who wants to be smothered all the time? Relationships are suffocating—my mom and step pops are a prime example. Why am I talking to you? I'm turning into Julia," he scoffed.

Moonshine barked as if in agreement.

With a last peek in the rearview mirror, he adjusted his ebony bangs to ensure they stayed out of his eyes. He turned his round face to the left and then the right, ensuring he hadn't left any candy cane residue on his face.

Sandy peered up at the historic three-story Italianate building. The name etched on the front window indicated that McCormick's General Store, circa 1982, had locations in both Mayfield, IL and Madison, WI. He had a feeling he'd be the only Korean-American in a several-hundred-mile radius. He sat up straight. It's okay. You got this. Sandy secured his red earmuffs over his head and tucked his red scarf tighter. He climbed out of the car and went around to the passenger door to gather Moonshine. "Okay, here's the deal. You have to be extra good. I need this gig to get me through the holidays. It's the only job left that has decent pay. My new job doesn't happen until after the new year, so, if you break it, you buy it. Understand me?"

She looked back at him with one ear lifted in disdain.

"Don't you dare pretend not to hear me." Sandy escorted Moonshine to the store's front door. The open sign was lit, but the doors didn't budge. He knocked once and then a few more times until a head of wavy reddish-brown hair weaved through the store, navigating toward Sandy. Whoa, a man the size of a lumberjack soon flipped open the front door locks. His flannel-clad arm held the door for Sandy and Moonshine.

"We don't allow dogs in the store," the lumberjack said with his legs spread and hands on his hips. The stance would've been slightly intimidating if not for the hint of kindness around his mouth.

"I'm not a customer. I'm Sandy Holiday. I'm here for the interview." He removed his earmuffs as he stomped snow off his dress shoes, leaving wet clumps around him on the welcome rug.

The bearded woodsman gave him a quizzical once over. "It's already 8 a.m.?" He glanced at his FitBit and shook his head. A look of frustration stretched across his features before he returned his gaze to Sandy. "Your last name is Holiday?"

"Is there a problem with that?" Sandy tilted his head to the side, playfully curious about the Brawny Paper Towel guy. He's so not my type. But, damn, I'd buy his paper towels.

"It's—Are you pulling my leg? That's really your name? This morning is—Who are you?" The frown on the man's face deepened.

We're off to a catastrophic start. Shit. Do something. "I'm here for the Santa's Helper job. I know bringing a dog to an interview is unorthodox, but I'm dog sitting for a friend and with this weather and the long-ass drive from Chicago I couldn't abandon her. But Moonshine's not a normal dog. Okay, so she's a dog. Yes. But she's chill AF."

Moonshine let out a jubilant woof as if to prove Sandy's point.

"I'm Patrick McCormick, store manager." His lips turned down as he studied the dog. "The start to this day has been unusual."

"Oh, this might fill you with cheer . . . " Sandy ran to a nearby display of reindeer antler headbands. He grabbed a pair and placed them on Moonshine's head. "Ta-dah! Instant reindeer. And she's great with kids, adults, and, ah, I dunno . . . fish? She could totally be the store mascot for the holiday season. That'd break TikTok."

The response from Patrick wasn't as thrilled as Sandy would've liked; in fact, the guy seemed like someone had rammed coal up his nose. Sandy didn't know what to think of this handsome, yet detached, guy.

"Follow me." As Patrick climbed the stairs, Sandy couldn't help but notice the thick jean-clad thighs in front of him and the very tight butt. However, Sandy didn't have much time to stare. Patrick was so quick on his feet that Sandy and Moonshine had to jog to keep up.

With sluggish fingers, Sandy struggled to untie his scarf and unbutton his peacoat. By the time they arrived at Patrick's third floor office sweat poured down his back and his lungs heaved like an Alaskan Husky after running the Iditarod.

Patrick pointed to hooks by the door. "Feel free to hang your stuff." He rounded his desk and wiggled his mouse. His eyes scanned the screen. A deep crease formed between Patrick's eyebrows.

Uncertain of his impression on the other man, he felt a flutter of panic in his stomach as he hung his things. Is it me or is this guy super uptight? Maybe I could lighten the mood ? "You don't have chairs? Or a chair?" He unhooked Moonshine's leash, placing that on a hook, too.

Patrick concentrated on navigating, his features down-turned as if annoyed. "They take up space."

"Yeah, and it's so jam-packed with stuff in here." Sandy took in the spartan room. The shelves, organized with binders dating back a decade, were neatly labeled accordingly for taxes, employees, and inventory. There office contained nothing else except Patrick's computer and standing desk.

"This idiotic platform isn't bringing up your information." Patrick slammed his mouse down. The plastic cracked, startling Sandy.

Oof, this guy is tough. Where's a nutcracker when I need one? Be charming but not too enthusiastic. Sandy swayed back on his heels as he stood in the middle of the room with Moonshine. "Hey, I'm right here. Why don't you fire away with any questions you have?"

"Do you drink?"

"Well, I—What?" Sandy stumbled, confused by the random inquiry.

Patrick ran a thick hand through his hair. "I fired a drunk photographer this morning, so I'm off my game."

"You're kidding me? That's what I am. A photographer." A glimmer of hope ran through Sandy. He took the liberty of rounding Patrick's desk. Firing an employee explains why he's so grumpy. "Do you mind?"

Patrick's brows scrunched together like there was a protest in the making, but Sandy didn't wait. He took control of Patrick's keyboard and mouse, clicking to display his website. "My portfolio."

The sound of Patrick inhaling practically echoed around the room. The scowl lifted from his face. "Did you eat a candy cane recently?"

The heat of embarrassment hit Sandy's cheeks. He couldn't resist those mini candy canes during the holidays. And the drive out to Mayfield had lasted forever. The long trek combined with nervous tension had him scarfing half the bag before he arrived.

"No wonder you have so much energy. You'll regret that choice once the sugar wears off," Patrick said all that in an accusatory tone before scrolling the photos. "These are impressive."

Under Patrick's desk, Moonshine's tail swished back and forth like a metronome, hitting Patrick's Red Wing work boot.

"You two should take your show on the road."Patrick raised a brow at the dog.

Is he lightening up? Keep doing whatever you're doing, Moonshine. "Oh, she's not my dog. She's my best friend's girlfriend's mutt."

Moonshine growled as if insulted by the derogatory remark.

"Sorry," Sandy said to Moonshine. "She's not a mutt. She's half bearded collie and half human."Sandy met Patrick's startling green eyes. Wow. He's like an Irish lumberjack. So not my type, but that color's more beautiful than a Christmas tree. Patrick's woodsy scent lingered between them. They were standing closer than Sandy realized.

Patrick cleared his throat. "Would you mind going to the other side of the desk?"

The warmth of Patrick's breath hit Sandy, throwing him off balance. Damn, is this the candy cane high? Must be the candy canes. He nodded and then gave a brisk whistle for Moonshine.

"It'll be full-time. Provided your background check clears—should have that any minute now. Would you be able to start today?"

"Yes, and the pay is $40 an hour?"

Patrick's eyes bulged. "No, $17."

Sandy deflated and stuck his hands in his pants pockets. There was no way he could take the job for that kind of money. The commute wouldn't be worth it. He'd have to find something else.

With folded his arms, Patrick glanced at his computer and then at Sandy. "Listen, if you can do the photographer's job along with playing Santa's Helper, then I can swing forty. Deal?"

Sandy stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Done."

Moonshine a couple happy barks as they shook.

"What about a live reindeer?" Sandy wiggled his eyebrows in Moonshine's direction.

A sign escaped from Patrick as he ran a hand through his hair, which Sandy clocked as some kind of stress-induced reflex. "I'm not insured for dog bites, so I'll need you to sign a waiver that she's had her shots. It's all on you if she takes a chunk out of someone."

"Fantastic!" Sandy pulled a biscuit out of his pocket for Moonshine. The dog sat, rolled over, and sat again. He tossed the treat into the air and Moonshine lept up and caught it. Patrick shot him a curious glare. This guy is so buttoned up. Does he even know how to relax? I'm making it my mission to remove the antlers lodged from his backside.

"Let me show you the locker room and costume."

"Ooo, dress-up time." Sandy clapped. He turned and pointed at the dog. "Moonshine. Stay."

Moonshine spun around in a circle and laid down.

"I dunno if you had time to look at our products online," Patrick said, as he led the way. "We sell everything from clothing to sports equipment, outdoor goods, and toys. The holiday hours are different from our regular hours. I'll email you that information." Patrick pushed open the Staff Only door. "It's unisex with a shower, but no one ever uses that. Well, I do. Sometimes."

The corners of Sandy's mouth twitched. No. No, dirty thoughts. Stop it right now. Do you hear me? No sudsy, steamy daydreams about your new boss. He's bland. Boring. And sweet Kelly Clarkson, he's the opposite of glowing.

Twenty full-sized metal lockers painted the store colors, Kelly green and cream white, lined the walls. The room smelled like a pinecone. A Christmas tree stood in the corner with little handmade ornaments clinging to the branches.

Patrick nodded at the dangling decorations. "We had an ornament party."

A rolling rack stood at the back wall. Patrick unzipped one of the garment bags. A bright red, green, and white costume appeared. "This is the elf suit. We use the same ones every year. Don't worry, they're dry cleaned."

"No cooties then?"

"No." Patrick zipped up the bag. "On to tech and camera stuff."

Does this guy have a sense of humor, or has his flannel shirt suffocated it out of him? They headed out of the locker room and toward the stairs.

"No wonder you're so athletic. These stairs are insane."

"Ah, thanks." Patrick clutched a palm around the railing as if the compliment threw him off balance. "The elevators are too slow for me. I don't like waiting. Santa's workshop's located on the first floor." Patrick rounded the post at the end of the stairs, almost colliding with someone wearing an elf suit. "Perfect timing—you two are going to be working together. Sandy meet Chelsea. Pronouns are they/them."

Whew, someone to give me a break from this too serious jockstrap. Sandy shook hands with Chelsea. "He/him/his or Sandy the Elf, or I also respond to ‘I've got candy.'"

Chelsea adjusted the elf hat, and a flicker of a smile appeared and disappeared on their face. They turned and headed to the Workshop.

There must be some kind of moody epidemic going on in this village. "They are extraordinarily chatty."Sandy wondered how he'd make it through the holidays if everyone was this congenial.

Patrick walked away as if expecting him to follow. "Don't take it personally. Chelsea doesn't do small talk. I think you two will work well together."

Sandy wasn't so certain. He jogged to keep up as they zig-zagged through clothing racks and aisles until Patrick stopped with a hand stretched as if expecting to stop and admire Santa's Workshop.

Santa's throne and workshop were a child's dream. The cozy structure resembled a gingerbread house, filled with candy, toys, and video games. Fake snow fell from automated machines, and holiday music filled the air. Cookies, popcorn, and hot chocolate stations were interspersed with booths for kids to make ornaments and wrap gifts.

Patrick led Sandy to the inner sanctum, behind the curtains. "This is where Santa, the elves, and the magic happens." A tabletop was cluttered with a camera, a printer, headphones, and a ton of cables. "You'll print out the photos after the kids pose with Santa."

Sandy ran a hand down his tie, considering the equipment before him. He picked up the Canon and inspected it, before returning it to the table. "You're not serious, are you?"

Patrick's back went rigid at the question. "What's the problem? This is part of the tradition at the store. If you don't like it, then feel free to get the heck out of here."

Sandy placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder and then removed it immediately. The last thing he needed was for this guy to think he was hitting on him. "This camera is from the ‘90s. Possibly the 1890s." He let out a bubble of laughter to show he was mostly joking.

"We can't afford anything else. We print out the copies for our customers and they love it, so if you have a problem with this then maybe this isn't the job for you." Patrick gritted his teeth.

"Whoa, hang on. Not at all." He reached out to place a hand on Patrick's forearm and stopped himself. "I'm a professional photographer. Let me bring in my own equipment. The camera, the lights . . . you won't have to print, which means you'll save money. I can email or text high-res images, and for the rare customer who wants a print I can create high-end quality images. You can charge more in those instances."

"You can do all that?" Patrick asked.

"Sure, and if they want anything matted, mounted, and framed, we'll figure out an invoicing and delivery plan. Or we could set up a page for them to purchase off your website—kind of like they do for marathon runners?"

Patrick's throat bobbed as if he were swallowing a ball of ice.

Sandy couldn't figure out if the silence from the other man was a good thing or a bad thing, but he pressed onward. "It'll cost them a lot more to frame. I'll need to receive a percentage for the time and be reimbursed for the materials."

"That could work," he said with marginal enthusiasm, but Sandy took the comment as a full-throated go ahead.

With a loud, "Woo-hoo!" he threw his arms into the air. "Let's do this. I have my travel camera with me, which will work for today, and then I can bring everything else from home this afternoon or tomorrow morning."

The deep crease between Patrick's eyes returned. "First, I need you to go with Chelsea. You can't wear your fancy clothes. Go to the second floor, get some jeans, a flannel, and we'll dig out some boots for you."