Chapter 1

one

?. . .?

Massaging the furrowed spot between my brows, elbow perched on the edge of an oversized antique desk, I stare in frustration at the mess of paperwork before me. Plans and lists, lists and plans. Gotta check them twice—always twice. Christmas itself has thrown up over the bureau just as it has thrown up over every inch of the North Pole, or Santa’s Village, to be exact. I'd be in Holly Jolly Hell now if I didn’t love the holiday as much as I do. Though, I must say, since my father handed over the family business months before the biggest day of the year, I’ve been sliding one step closer to that fiery pit.

For six hundred years, my dad hand-delivered presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve. This year, he and my mom retired to someplace warm, and the magic of this world, my world, was passed from father to son as it was always foretold.

I’m Nicholas St. Claus Jr.

You may call me Nick for short.

I’ m the new Santa.

Try that one on for size.

See if the boot fits.

It doesn’t.

For years, I lived in and out of this magical place, touring the human world and experiencing many of its wonders. By my sixty-fourth birthday, you’d have thought I’d be ready to take my father’s place—to wear the coat and sash with pride. I thought the same—I’d live my days among the humans, many non-believers, and I’d be ready for the responsibilities when the time came.

Now that I’m seated behind his desk carved by elves, in a crushed velvet chair that feels more like a throne, performing his tasks with the scent of mint chocolate hanging in the air, I don’t feel like the man every child adores. I feel like a fraud.

An overstressed fraud in way over his head.

Heaving a sigh, I push the mile-long list from my mind so I can relax in the ambiance of my office. The elves did an excellent job redecorating the room from my father’s red-and-white egotistical Santa theme to mine—simple reds, greens, golds, and black—regal yet classic. It’s soothing to the eye and the soul, as is the large ornate fireplace that burns bright all year round with no electricity or more wood. Magic. Almost everything here runs on it, including the fireplaces. There’s no smoke or carbon monoxide poisoning, only light, warmth, and a subtle crackle. My Christmas tree is much the same. Real, yet frozen in time. No needles to fall. No need for water or trimming. Next to the carved mantel, its white twinkle lights glow as flames glint off antique-gold bulbs, and yards of iridescent ribbon fill in the spaces between branches. Snow falls outside the bay window that overlooks the village square. Day after day, it coats the ground without fail, never to accumulate more than a few inches. No slosh to worry about. It's light and airy, as the best snow should be.

Just like in your dreams, it’s a true winter wonderland. There’s no other place like it in the world, and there will never be.

Leaning back in my chair, I sip hot chocolate with marshmallows from one of my father’s old-fashioned, hammered tin mugs. Where humans have bars for liquor in their offices, here at the North Pole, we have a bar for hot chocolate. Okay, and maybe there’s a little alcohol, too. Nothing tastes better than Bailey’s and cocoa, except perhaps mint. I love mint—everything mint. I’d say it was a Santa thing… that it’s in my blood. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Dad hated mint. It’s okay. You can gasp at the blasphemy. He preferred cinnamon. Everything had to be cinnamon.

Can I tell you a little secret?

I despise the taste of that potent spice.

All right, you can gasp again.

In my defense, the scent is pleasant. The taste, not so much.

I swallow a final drink before I return to the mountain of papers once more. It might be three in the morning, but I hardly sleep these days, with Christmas less than three months away. I also loathe sleeping in the palace—a mansion-sized cabin my parents built. I spent my childhood there. If it weren’t for my sister, Holly, I would’ve gotten lost in that place more times than I can count. It’s far too large for just me. With her living in the human world, it’s also too lonely to live there alone. I prefer the brown leather couch in my office to a king-sized bed, no matter the sheets’ thread count .

I guess it’s about time to go over tomorrow’s workshop schedule. There are new toys to be made.

Hours pass in the blink of an eye as I draw the magic-infused blueprint for a new doll parents can sync with an app on their phone. More cups of cocoa are consumed. I take a bathroom break and stretch when needed, but I don’t rest. Instead, I hum to Christmas tunes that play in the background.

A gentle rap, rap, rap sounds at my door, followed by a yawn.

“Yes?” I call to the only person who would consider bothering me at such an early hour.

“You’re still awake.” He sighs.

“I am.” Which, as I already said before, isn’t unusual.

Another sigh sounds before my door opens, and in walks Pepper, my head elf. By his pinched expression and messy mop of jet-black hair, I’d say he didn’t fare well tonight. That much is confirmed when he walks to my desk, wearing striped candy cane PJs, and knocks on the wooden top to garner my attention.

“Do you know how much I tossed and turned last night because you didn’t sleep?” he grouses before yawning again and waving it away with his hand. When he’s through, an even deeper glare is set on yours truly.

Whoever told you all elves are jolly… lied. Kind of. Since I’ve taken my father’s position and was appointed Pepper as my head elf, his usual jolliness and pep have nearly diminished. It’s my fault. I know this. Elves are some of the ha ppiest beings you could ever meet, but I test Pepper’s patience far too often for it not to affect him.

Like all Elven kind, their pointed ears, rosy cheeks, and upturned noses make you smile. They are smaller than humans, but not by much. The men hit an average of five feet six inches, whereas the women are lucky to reach five feet. Thanks to the magic that powers the North Pole, most live long lives serving Santa’s Village before retiring around their five hundredth birthday, if they choose. Our oldest, Sticks, is twelve hundred years old, yet doesn’t look a human day over sixty.

Pepper’s a baby by comparison—at three hundred and sixteen years old. Though, if you met him on the street, you’d think he was fresh out of college. I wish I could say I aged that well, but my time in the human world, where magic doesn’t flow like it does here, has given me a distinguished salt-and-pepper, mid-forties appearance. The standard Santa belly and beard will make its yearly appearance on Christmas Eve, and I’ll be back to my normal fit self by the end of Christmas Day. It's pretty neat how that all works, huh?

Setting my magic pen down, I relax and steeple my fingers under my chin to give Pepper the audience he seeks. “How may I help you?”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, then cards fingers through his hair to fix the wayward strands. “You haven’t slept, and you’re stressing too much again.”

I nod along with his assessment. He should know how I feel better than anyone. It’s part of our bond as Santa and head elf. When I took the magic of this world into myself, he did so as well when he took his oath to be my second. A golden spun inscription glows around his right wrist. It’s tethered to me somehow, giving Pepper a one-way connection to every emotion I experience when I experience it. I’m still not sure how I feel about that. Though, I suppose, I have little choice in the matter.

“Yes, and yes,” I agree.

“You know what that does to me.”

“I wish I could fix that, but I can’t.” As I'm sure you can tell, he has difficulty sleeping when I can’t. You’d think his body would adjust to our mismatched schedules after a few months of this, but it hasn’t. We have this same conversation at least once a week. Except it’s typically done during the day, not before sunrise. I guess we’ve upgraded to nightly visits.

“You could sleep,” Pepper unhelpfully offers before he picks up the pens and pencils scattered across my desk and drops them into their reindeer holder. Not sure why he bothers. They’ll be back by the end of the day, littering the bureau once more.

“I will when my brain shuts off,” I counter.

His golden-green eyes seek mine. “Nick, please. You and I can’t keep doing this.”

“If I knew how to fix this for both of us, I would. Don’t you think I would?”

“Did you call your dad?” Pepper’s brow arches in question as he continues to tidy my mess.

I stiffen at the thought of speaking to my father about anything. “No. Why would I call him?” I will never call him. Not ever. He may have been Santa, but he wasn’t much of a dad. I spent most of my childhood in an Elven school, raised by people who weren’t my parents. He was always busy at the workshop. Too busy for anyone in our household besides my mother, who also went to work with him every day. She was his second. An elf. Though you wouldn’t know my lineage by looking at me. I have no pointed ears and am well over six feet tall. My sister, on the other hand, got Mom’s genes. She’s tiny, with reddish hair and small features. She even has a hint of pointed ears.

Ignoring the tension in my voice and the emotional wave he must sense coming from me, Pepper carries on as if we don’t share a connection. “Because he might know how to handle this problem.”

I snort.

Not likely.

Paperclips are placed into their magnetic cube as Pepper rounds another side of the desk to reach more of the disaster. I let him because I’m suddenly tired. Thinking about my father and his legacy I must live up to does that to a person.

Rubbing my temple and watching him work, I yawn. “I’ll sleep when I need to sleep.”

“You haven’t slept in four days.”

This is true. I stare wistfully at the antique hot cocoa bar laden with goodies that have helped me through the toughest days. If it wouldn’t piss him off, I’d get up and grab another cup. I could use another shot of caffeine before the workshop opens in a couple of hours.

“Then there’s always tomorrow, right?” I force a snicker because what else am I supposed to say? Sorry, I suck as Santa? Sorry, you got stuck with a dud? Sorry, I’m not my father?

Pepper rounds the desk and lays a hand on my shoulder. Sparks of magic crackle and pop between our connection so strong I have to catch my breath. Our eyes catch, and the sensation travels down my arm and into my gut as I force myself to breathe normally .

“Nick,” he whispers, and I swallow hard. “Please. I feel everything. I know how bad it is. Have you tried to lay down?” He looks at the sofa in the corner. Beside it lies a stack of neatly folded clothes he brings me every day. Pepper’s a good elf and an amazing second. I don’t deserve him.

“I can’t,” I confess when all I want is for him to leave… to quit touching me. The magic intensifies the more I speak, spreading throughout my body, lighting it on fire from the inside out. “It makes my brain race. Then I get antsy and have to get up again.”

Unable to help myself, my breathing accelerates. I grip the carved chair arms, ready to crawl out of my skin.

“What would you do when you had this problem before?” he asks, calm as a cucumber.

“I’ve never had this problem before,” I choke out, sweat dripping down the sides of my face. I refuse to look away. Those eyes, that nose, lips, flushed cheeks—this is my person. The one trying to help me when I know I can’t help myself.

“Did you talk to Doc?” His hand shifts. A fingertip brushes my neck, and my asshole clenches.

What. In. The. Holly Flippin’ Jolly. Is. Going. On?

“No,” I groan. It just slips out. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it sounded like a bedroom noise. Like the groans I used to make when I had sex with human women.

A second finger brushes, and I gasp out loud.

He pretends not to notice his effect on me. “Then you need to speak to him today. See what he thinks might be the problem.”

I nod. At least, I think I do. My heart is about to pound its way out of my chest and attack him for touching me. “Pepper…”

My head elf lifts his hand, and for one blissful moment, I can breathe easy again until he cups the side of my jaw, ignoring my scruff, and chews the corner of his lip as he stares down at me. The world around us ceases to exist. “Please don’t give me excuses. Santa or not, my wagon is hitched to yours, Nick. You might not feel what I feel, but I feel everything you do. When you don’t sleep, that restlessness makes it hard for me to work. Just as it makes it hard for you to work. You must talk to Doc. I need you to get better.” His words are pillowy soft—a mere caress on the night sky, yet their weight settles like a frost giant playing rodeo on my shoulders. If not for myself, I must fix everything for Pepper.

Afraid I’ll sound like a bumbling idiot, I nod.

Grateful for the compliance, Pepper shocks the hell out of me when he leans in and drops a single kiss on my forehead. “Thank you.” He breathes there, lingering.

My cock begins to thicken, wanting more of his… touch.

I…

What…

The…

Spiraling in an abyss of new emotions I don’t understand, I inhale deeply to center myself. Yet Pepper’s scent has other ideas as it invades my senses with an intoxicating dose of spicy vanilla. It’s provocative. Addictive. My eyes slide closed, and I lick my lips, relishing in the heat it evokes. In the raw, almost carnal passion, it tugs from places I didn’t know existed.

Pepper reads my…. whatever this is, and pulls back, severing our connection, but doesn’t step away. For a split se cond, I almost beg him to sit on my lap. To give me more of his smell. To get on his knees and touch… me.

I’m hard.

Harder than I’ve ever been.

It has been almost a year without sex. However, that doesn’t make sense why this is happening now, with him, of all beings.

I dust those thoughts to the side to sift through later and refocus on him.

Still disoriented, I blink, breathe, and blink some more before I can pluck words from the fog I’m battling.

Patient, as always, he stuffs his hands into his PJ pockets and waits.

“Pepper.” I clear my throat. “Why don’t you lie down on my sofa for a while? Then we’ll see Doc together once the village wakes up.”

He smiles—a tired one. It’s beautiful, nonetheless. White teeth and rosy cheeks. A slight kick at the corner of his lip. It’s a gift. One I don’t deserve but bask in anyhow. It fuels me to get up from my chair and discretely adjust myself before I walk with him over to the couch, where he lies down, and I tuck a plush blanket around his body.

Not wanting this to end on a topsy-turvy note, I kneel on the floor and kiss his cheek. “Sweet dreams, Pepper.”

He snuggles his face against the pillow, eyelids fluttering between sleepy and awake—like an angel with silken hair and the cutest nose. “Thank you, Nick.”

Another smile surfaces before he succumbs to exhaustion. I take it into myself, tie it up with a glittery bow, and store it beneath my inner Christmas tree to visit later when I deserve to open the present, when I’ve earned it.