Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

P atrick adjusted the glasses on the tip of his nose as he waited for the next child to climb the stairs with Chelsea to share their Christmas list. Patrick loved playing Santa. Granted, he couldn't figure out what got into him when he started flirting with Sandy. He's an employee for crying out loud, and you just met the guy. No more out of character flirting.

Sure, Sandy looked cute in the elf costume, and he was this giant ball of fun sunshine, but five minutes ago he was unhappy with the man for offering up his marketing knowledge to help save the store. He'd have to stop being so sullen and accept the fact that Sandy's good intentions were just that—generosity of spirit. The last time he trusted someone, outside of Chelsea, that had backfired on him and his family.

Chelsea ushered six-year-old twins to his chair. "Santa, this is Greg and Mindy. Okay, you two ready to tell Santa what you'd like this year?"

"Hello, have you two been good this year?" Patrick asked his standard Santa question.

The bashful twins crawled into the chair beside him and quietly shared their gift wishes. They took extra time, but Patrick didn't mind. Their single mom worked hard to provide for them. He made a note to guarantee they got what they needed through the store's toy drive program.

A couple of hours later, Sandy flagged Chelsea over, and they moved to the steps by Patrick. "I need to swap out the battery on the camera before we continue with the next round."

"Perfect timing." Patrick winked at Sandy. "We're ready for more carols." As he stood, Sandy scooted around to the curtained area. "We're going to take a musical interlude with my right-hand elf."

Chelsea stepped up to the microphone.

Patrick and the entire store turned quiet as they sang an acoustic version of "Happy Christmas."

Across the stage, Patrick caught Sandy as he stuck his head out from behind the curtain with a look of shock. Chelsea's beautiful voice. Patrick met Sandy's gaze. There was interest and curiosity in that look. Is it because I'm Santa, or does Sandy know it's me beneath the costume? He shook his head, almost missing his cue to join in the song, and raised his arms to get the crowd to sing along. At the end everyone clapped and cheered. A few folks even had tears in their eyes.

A surge of joy ran up his spine. This was what it was all about—bringing the community together and sharing a bit of happiness. Even the building landlord and his family had shown up today. And Patrick spotted purple-haired Viv from the café, her three sons, and a slew of grandkids. Thankfully, the writer/photographer attended from the weekly newspaper, The Cardinal , which would get the store some positive coverage. Patrick had spoken with his parents last night, and due to the icy conditions between Madison and Mayfield, they'd decided it would be best for them to travel after the roads were treated.

An hour later, the photo line had emptied. Sandy worked with a few families that wanted printouts right away, and Chelsea started a story time session for the kids. In his Santa persona, Patrick shook hands with the crowd and strolled toward the hot beverage station, for a cup of cider. Jim, the property landlord, stopped next to him.

"Hey, you got a minute?"

"Sure thing. Let's go up to my office." He led the way through the crowd and took them upstairs. Once inside, he closed the door and removed his beard, wig, hat, and glasses. "What can I do for you?"

Jim scratched his ear. "I really hate doing this—today of all days."

Patrick folded his arms across his chest, preparing himself for whatever news Jim needed to share.

The landlord pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Patrick.

The bottom dropped out of Patrick's stomach as he scanned the contents. "You're evicting us?"

Jim stepped closer to the desk. "It's a ninety-day notice. If you can get the back rent paid by then, this can be torn up, but if not . . . it's nothing personal. I can't afford to let this slide any longer."

Patrick ran a hand through his hair. He knew he was late on the rent, but he hoped to get another loan at the bank. But they still hadn't given him an answer. His face burned with frustration and the thick padded costume became stifling. "What about a payment plan? Small payments to gradually get the store back on its feet."

"I don't have that kind of time. If the store can't make the monthly fees, then I need to try and get another business in here that can. Maybe if you call your dad he could . . . "

Patrick shook his head. That wasn't an option. "Thanks for coming out today and bringing your family. It means a lot even though . . . " Patrick held the notice up because he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Take care, Patrick." Jim turned and slipped out of the office.

As the door clicked shut, Patrick crumpled the paper in his hand. He wasn't a violent man, but damn if he didn't want to punch the living daylights out of something right now. Ten years of his life and this was all he had to show for it. Ten years of living in a small town, making some friends, and suffering through a few failed relationships. And now the worst part of it all was delivering the news to his mom and dad. He could imagine the devastation in his dad's eyes. One son had stolen from the family and the other ran a store into the ground.

Patrick needed to get out of this damned costume before he burst into flames. He stormed out of his office and headed into the locker room. He tossed his belt on a bench, then went for the jacket and shirt with the fake belly. He was so angry he slammed a door on one of the lockers. The action felt so good he repeated it . . . over and over and over again.

"Ah . . . hi." Sandy stood at the door, frozen in place—as if he was too afraid to move or breathe.

Patrick's face heated up and each painful breath scaled his lungs. And he probably looked like a deranged Santa, half-dressed and assaulting an inanimate object as if his life depended on it. But he didn't care. He had failed the store and his family, and his world was officially unraveling. "Do you need something?"

"You're Santa?" Sandy said in a voice full of wonder.

"What of it?" Patrick growled. The vein in his neck throbbed.

With hands held up in surrender, Sandy seemed to gingerly approach him. "We have one more kid who'd like a photo op with, well, you."

Patrick wiped a hand across his face. His palm came away damp with sweat. Not much of a shocker, really, seeing as the suit mixed with his temper had turned his body into a frigging furnace.

"I can tell him no. I'm great at denying children their dreams," Sandy snarked.

Too drained from his emotional outburst to care about anything anymore, Patrick shook his head. "Don't do that."

"Personally, I think you should go downstairs just as you are." Sandy handed the shirt and belly over to him. "Are you alright?"

Patrick grunted. "Tell them I'll be right there."

Sandy gave a curt nod and disappeared out the door.

Fucking great. He's going to think I've got anger management issues. But I think I'm allowed to have them today of all days.

As Sandy came down the stairs, visions of Patrick's ripped torso danced through his head. Holy shirtballs! I did not see those abs coming. And the way Patrick's eyes turned an even darker, sexier shade of green when he was mad! Sandy waved a hand in front of his face when he remembered how hot angry Santa had looked. It made him wonder how naughty he'd have to be to get a fiery reaction from Santa.

"Is he coming down?" Chelsea met up with Sandy on the floor.

He nodded in a trance-like state. His brain had officially left the building.

"You look weird."

Sandy blinked himself back to reality. "I think something or someone pissed Patrick off. He was beating the living snot out of a door, and he looked like one of those cartoon bulls where the steam rolls out of their nose."

Their features scrunched up like they needed to solve a puzzle.

Santa walked up to the stage.

Sandy and Chelsea took their places. Sandy aimed and shot photos of the last kid with Santa. Something about Patrick had changed. The teasing from before was gone, and his anger was back in full swing. Even with the final child, Sandy couldn't get Patrick to relax or smile like before. Dissatisfied with the photo, he called it quits, hoping that this really was the end of the day.

Sandy put a foot on one of the steps leading to Santa and Chelsea. "I'm going to start uploading the photos onto the laptop."

"Use my office," Patrick mumbled as he stood and marched away.

"Don't worry. There's a folding chair in his closet in the office."

"Lifesaver." Sandy shot them a smile and headed behind the curtain to pick up the rest of his things. He snagged Moonshine from the stage.

After a quick doggie break and a detour to get dog food from the car, they made themselves at home in Patrick's office. Moonshine flopped down on her makeshift bed and relaxed.

"That's exactly how I feel," Sandy said to the furry dog as he lowered the standing desk and retrieved the folding chair. As soon as he sat down, relief hit his legs. "Oh yeah, Daddy like." He tossed his hat onto the desk and flipped open the laptop. The next few hours of uploading the photos from his camera onto a site seemed to take forever. The next time he looked up at the clock he was shocked to learn it was after eight.

Chelsea stopped by the door to the office. They stood in their regular clothes, shrugging into their jacket. "You're done for the day."

Sandy stretched and yawned. "Am I? Thank the bejesus cuz I am exhausted. Who knew being an elf is the most exhausting job on the face of the earth?"

Chelsea pulled a stocking cap out of their pocket. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat a cow. Seriously, point one out and I'll tackle it and eat it caveman style."

The corners of Chelsea's mouth turned up. "Get changed and meet me outside."

Sandy flipped the laptop shut. In record time he changed. Somehow, he hadn't seen Patrick for the rest of the day, and even now his boss didn't check in with him. He grabbed Moonshine and his jacket and headed downstairs.

He found Chelsea outside. Snow fell, but thankfully the wind had died down completely. For an Illinois winter night, the windchill no longer cut through him like a knife.

"Wherever we go, they better like dogs."

Moonshine wagged her tail, approving that suggestion.

Chelsea tilted her head for the pair to follow them down the street.

All the other businesses on Main Street—Cathy's Cuts Salon, the T-Shirt Shack, The Cardinal—were closed for the night. The black-painted lamp posts lit up the sidewalks, and the holiday lights hung from wires above gave the town a cozy feel. The brisk walk went quickly as they traveled the six doors down from McCormick's.

Chelsea held the door open to Ace's High Bar for Sandy and Moonshine. Sandy dusted the snow off his jacket. Moonshine followed suit and shook herself.

Ace's small, square interior looked like it couldn't hold more than a hundred people comfortably. The reclaimed pine plank ceiling and walls gave the place the illusion of a cabin. Warm lighting and a corner fireplace provided an overall cozy atmosphere. Four high-topped tables stood against a wall near a karaoke. The place smelled clean, to Sandy's surprise, a mix of Pine-Sol and spirits.

Off the scowl of a burly man behind the bar, Sandy turned to Chelsea. "Are you sure it's okay for us to have Moonshine in here?"

A short auburn-haired woman wearing a knitted Santa's stocking cap bounced over to them and bent down to pet Moonshine. "Don't mind Randy. He loves dogs but is wary of strangers. Hi, Chels."

Chelsea nodded at the waitress as they unzipped their jacket and hung it on a rack near the front door.

"I don't blame him. Normally, I'm not a fan either." Sandy waved at the bartender just to prove he could be friendly.

The waitress stood. "Sit anywhere you like." She grabbed a couple of menus from the bar counter. "Flag me down when you're ready."

Sandy took the lead and beelined them to a table next to the stage. He removed his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. Moonshine took the liberty of lying down on the edge of the stage. Sandy tilted his head at his preoccupied dinner companion. Chelsea seemed to have their gaze trained on the auburn-haired woman. "How do you know the waitress?"

"High school. Sam. Samantha. Gómez."

"As in the Addams Family?"

Chelsea made some sort of sound at the back of their throat.

Sandy laid a hand flat on the table. "Okay, you have to start using full sentences if we're going to hang out because I don't speak Morse code or whatever the hell kind of shorthand you're doin'."

Chelsea returned their attention back to Sandy with their head dipped down.

"So, you like Sam?"

Chelsea jerked their head up. Their cheeks turned pink. "We used to know one another."

A smug smile graced his lips. "Yeah, we're gonna need some dranks." He held a hand in the air to Sam, who hustled over with a couple of waters. "I need something strong because I had to deal with children all day long and a grumpy Santa."

Sam chuckled as if she could relate.

"And something extremely unhealthy to eat." Sandy scanned the menu. "This double burger thing. And your very best tap water for my canine friend."

Sam focused on Chelsea. "Your usual?"

Sandy could've been wrong, but Sam's voice seemed to take on a sultry tone when she spoke to the gentle giant.

"Thanks." Chelsea gulped down the water like they were in a desert.

Once Sam left, Sandy planted his elbows on the table to lean in for a confidential chat with Chelsea. "Did you two bang once upon a time? Cuz I'm getting serious lady/nonbinary wood vibes between you two."

Chelsea clapped a hand over their mouth to keep water from shooting out. Chelsea took a moment to breathe. "Not ever. And you should talk. What was all that between you and Patrick today? I thought I was going to have to take the children to a safe space."

"Ah ha! They can speak!" Sandy was delighted that he finally got them to break out of their shell. "I had no idea that Patrick was Santa until I saw him shirtless in the locker room. And normally the extremely fit are not on my to-do list, but he is one fine piece of man morsel. Truth, I may have drooled on myself."

That earned him a genuine smile from Chelsea.

"Not that I'm interested in him. I'm not. I can just appreciate pretty things. Have you known him long?"

"I've known Patrick and his family forever. I worked for his dad when I was in high school. And then when I moved back from Austin . . . I needed a flexible schedule because of my mom, so he hired me."

"What's up with your mom?" Sandy couldn't help snooping. It's what he did best.

Chelsea shifted on their chair and looked away.

"Sorry. I can be rude and intrusive, and sometimes I forget that other people have boundaries."

They cleared their throat. "She has MS."

He put the pieces together. They must be taking care of their mom, so that's why they moved back.

Sam placed a highball glass of a bright red concoction in front of him and a frosted mug in front of Chelsea. She rested a hand on the back of Chelsea's chair.

Sandy lifted the glass and smelled cranberry. "What is this?"

"We call it a Kringle Cryer Cocktail. Pace yourself. Food will be up in a few." Sam squeezed Chelsea's forearm before she spun away to help a group that entered.

He took an exploratory sip of his drink and relaxed as soon as the delicious flavor hit his tastebuds. "You need to ask that girl out. Also, what the hell is in that mug?"

Chelsea flopped a hand at him about Sam. "Root beer."

Wrinkling his nose, he bent over to smell it when Chelsea held up their glass to prove they weren't kidding. "I've never met a grown adult that drinks that stuff willingly. Yeesh."

Chelsea gave a half shrug.

He sipped his drink. He couldn't stop wondering what had set Patrick off earlier in the day. "Any ideas who or what might have upset Patrick this afternoon? I thought he was going to rip the door off its hinges."

"Besides the super store and the financial issues, the only other thing I know about is his brother . . . "

Sam dropped off their food and turned away with a wave as more customers entered.

"This joint is crazy busy." All of the tables were full now, and the bar had people in every seat. "Something went down with his brother? Ooh, family drama. Can I have some more, please?" he asked in a horrible Cockney accent.

Chelsea chewed, setting half of their club sandwich down on their plate. Their brow rose as if questioning the idea of spreading rumors.

"I'm a horrible gossip. Get used to it and spill."

They wiped their mouth. "Dolan stole money from the store."

Surprised, Sandy flopped back in his chair. He didn't expect that at all considering Patrick seemed like a wholesome salt-of-the-earth type. He figured that kind of straight-arrow goodness ran in the McCormick family. Sandy grabbed his glass and chugged half the drink, completely disregarding Sam's warning. It's mostly cranberry juice and it's light on the alcohol. What harm could it do? "How did it happen?"

"How'd what happen?" Patrick materialized at the table with a beer in his hand.

Sandy's cheeks had already turned red from the alcohol, but now he'd bet they'd gone a scarlet at almost being caught digging for dirt about his boss. Shit, did he hear that?