3. Wink

3

Wink

A s disorienting as it was to suddenly discover that I’d been turned into a Christmas tree ornament, I was nothing if not adaptable. I mean, I’d been shuffled between various jobs for as long as I could remember, always learning something new. And this? Nothing to do but dangle? There really wasn’t much to it.

And I quickly decided it wasn’t such a bad gig. It could certainly be worse.

No work, no tightly wound boss, no getting scolded, and all the peace and quiet an elf could ask for. I was finally being left alone. It was almost like retirement! And even better, I’d ended up in the home of an omega who perfectly fit the description of eye candy. I might not have been a fan of gummies or chocolate, but he was just the right amount of sweet for me. He had hazel eyes that seemed to look greener when he turned to glance my way, and dark brown hair that flopped adorably across his forehead every time he dipped his chin .

The room was filled with the most delicious scents—pine sap, cinnamon and nutmeg, and the man himself who I swore smelled like honey. I watched with longing as he prepared a plate of cookies then turned toward the hallway, calling for someone named Chewy. Was he already mated?

A gray tabby cat got up off the couch and gave a languid stretch, before turning toward the tree, and I swore his eyes locked straight on me, narrowing in suspicion. Animals had an uncanny ability to pick up on things humans couldn’t see—could this Chewy see me?

The lights flicked off, and I settled in for the night, grateful for the solitude. Unfortunately, it turned out that sleep wasn’t really something a Christmas ornament could do, and I quickly got antsy and bored. And even though I had no physical body to speak of, I swore my joints were getting stiff.

I had nothing but time to think about all the trouble I’d caused, leading up to the final straw, landing me in this purgatory. Surely, Santa couldn’t blame me for my personality. It wasn’t my fault that none of the other elves understood my sense of humor. I was good at my job—at all the jobs I’d worked, in fact!

What was it I’d said about retirement? Nope, I took it back. I was too young to retire. Get me the hell out of here!

Sometime shortly after midnight, there was a thump, breaking me from my self-pity cycle. I held my breath—well, not really, because I didn’t have lungs at this exact moment, but you know what I mean. Another thump, followed by a soft clatter, and the cat came running out from the hallway, tail held high, batting a small plastic ball between its paws.

That wasn’t all that appeared, though. A small roly-poly body waddled around the corner, covered with gray fur, a black mask, and a striped tail. A raccoon! Not a real raccoon, exactly, but it seemed the man was a shifter. Huh! I’d known my fair share of them at the North Pole, but I hadn’t really gotten shifter vibes from him.

I watched with interest as the cat and raccoon played for a little bit, rolling around on the floor. Soon, though, the game petered out, and Chewy hopped up onto the arm of the couch, glaring at me with his yellow-green eyes. The tip of his tail flicked dangerously, and he reached out a single paw, batting at me so that I began to swing. Back and forth, around and round I went, the room spinning until it was a blur, and my metaphorical stomach heaved.

Oh, jingle balls, I’m going to barf , I moaned, which I suspected was impossible in my current form, but I wasn’t keen on finding out for sure.

Luckily, Chewy was distracted by a scrabbling sound. It seemed the raccoon had gotten hungry and climbed up onto the coffee table where the plate of cookies was sitting. Chewy joined him, and one by one, the raccoon picked up the cookies and dipped them into the glass of milk, nibbling and gnawing at them until there was nothing but crumbs left on the plate. The cat, meanwhile, tried to shove his entire head into the glass to lap at the milk.

The two animals made short work of the entire snack, and they soon settled onto the couch where they preened each other, the raccoon burying his cute little paws into the cat’s fur, while the cat curled around to lick the shifter. But when there came a muffled sound from above, the cat was up faster than I could register and scampered off to hide. The raccoon, meanwhile, puffed up and made a chittering sound that I assumed was meant to be aggressive, but was really just kinda cute.

My heart seemed to beat faster, and since I was limited to hanging here, I was forced to wait in abject terror for whatever horror awaited the adorable omega and his cat. What appeared, though, wasn’t horrifying at all. In fact, some would argue that it was the exact opposite, as an all-too-familiar figure emerged from the fireplace.

Santa?

It wasn’t the Santa I knew, though, thank gods. I wasn’t in the mood for another scolding, or even worse, an “I told you so.” This version of him was older and far more jolly around the middle, and I suddenly wished that this pitiful Christmas tree had a few more needles for me to hide behind. Would he recognize me as an elf if he saw me? This felt like an embarrassing situation to have gotten myself into. I’d hate to have to explain. It wasn’t every day an elf was fired from the North Pole.

I held my non-existent breath, waiting for him to catch sight of me, as Santa crouched down to place a single present under the tree, but he didn’t even look up. He just turned toward the coffee table, reaching for the plate of would-be snacks. He picked it up and examined the crumbs, before looking under the plate, as if his treats were hiding from him. “What the heck?” he muttered, stumped.

The raccoon sat up on his rear paws and made a few noisy chatters, and Santa looked over at him, frowning in confusion, which drew his bushy brows dangling into his eyes. “Well, hello,” he said, crouching down. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Chit-chit, the raccoon said, and Santa nodded. “Ah yes, of course. You’re nocturnal.”

I watched on as they seemed to carry on a conversation, only half of which I could understand, and I suddenly wished I’d taken that elective in school on animal talk as a second language.

Santa’s lip came out in a pout. “You ate all of them?” Then he picked up the glass and looked down into what remained of the milk, the bottom a sludge of soggy crumbs. “And is that cat hair?” I smothered a laugh behind my porcelain lips .

Santa stood and looked down at his middle, patting it absently. “No, don’t apologize. It’s all right. It’s not like I’m hungry. You can make it up to me next year. I like hot chocolate best, with extra marshmallows.”

Don’t ask me how I managed to make a gagging sound without an actual mouth, but I did. I couldn’t help it! Hot chocolate was gross, and marshmallows were worse! Santa straightened up and looked around, searching for the source of the sound, and he even went so far as to walk up to the tree, peering through the branches.

“Hmm, I’m hearing things. Must be my low blood sugar,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the naughty raccoon, and I swore the shifter shrugged.

Grumbling under his breath, Santa picked up the carrot and took a stubborn bite from it, before wishing the raccoon a merry Christmas and clomping toward the fireplace where he made his grand magical exit, a billow of stardust left in his wake.

Once the coast was clear, Chewy came back out of hiding to rejoin the raccoon, and the shifter turned the TV on, the two animals lounging on the couch watching Hallmark movies until the digital clock on the stove said 5:32, before they finally headed back down the hall, presumably to bed.

At least I’d had some entertainment while stuck like this. I was lucky to be paired with a nocturnal shifter, I guess. I had no idea how long I would be here, though Santa had said something about next Christmas. I supposed that meant a full year, though I had no clue what he’d meant by telling me to prove to him that I was made for something more. And if I did prove it to him—whatever it was—what then? Would I be welcome back at the North Pole, maybe given a new job ?

Dawn broke, the sun streaming through the window, and still, no sign of the omega. I waited, a feeling of anticipation making my nerves vibrate. When he finally did make his appearance, I would’ve gasped if I could. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers, and they were tented with his morning wood. He was better than any Ken doll!

But then I noticed something wasn’t right. He looked a little… rough. His hair was tangled, and there were deep bags under his eyes. He yawned wide, dead on his feet as he headed straight for the coffee maker.

I had this strange sense of disappointment. At the North Pole, human holiday celebrations were the stuff of legends. Lavish family meals, kids squealing as they tore paper from presents. At the workshop, we’d all come up with elaborate stories for the children who would receive the toys we made.

I’d always suspected they were exaggerating, but this? This was… a letdown.

Until the man wandered into the living room and gasped. “The cookies! They’re gone!” He too looked under the plate, then on the floor under the table. “Chewy, did you eat the cookies?” he called, though the cat was still sleeping after being awake all night.

What was this guy’s deal? Was he playing a game? I watched him eat those cookies himself.

Then his eyes caught sight of the lone present under the tree, and he stilled, frowning. He crouched down and pulled out the gift, checking the tag. “From Santa?” he read aloud, scoffing.

I watched as he peeled back the paper and opened the box. Inside was a snow globe, with a little tiny Santa’s workshop and an even tinier elf that seemed to be waving. The man laughed lightly, entranced as he tipped the globe to set the snow swirling .

The man obviously wasn’t a child, and therefore shouldn’t have received a gift from Santa, but that wasn’t the strangest part.

No, the strangest thing was that I’d made that snow globe myself.