21. The North Pole’s Newest Residents

21

THE NORTH POLE'S NEWEST RESIDENTS

QUINN

At the front door to a majestic chalet built into the North Pole mountainside, Hobart extracts a key from the bottomless pocket of wonder in the front of his overalls. With a flick of the wrist and a click of the lock, he lets us inside.

My mouth is agape as soon as we cross the threshold.

Patrick would be able to tell you about the type of wood that's been used, the era and style the chalet was modeled after, and which architects it was likely inspired by, but the only way I can describe this place with my limited knowledge and tired brain is absolutely amazing .

It's the kind of exquisite lodge that would make a perfect, scenic backdrop for a date on The Bachelor . Already, I'm blanketed with a sense that we can start fresh here.

The ceilings are tall, and the rooms are airy. The décor could be described as rustic chic but lavish in a way we could never afford on our own. A chandelier of antlers hangs over the sitting room where a ruby-red ornate carpet lies between geometrically interesting sofas made with luxurious upholstery.

The whole place smells like Thanksgiving: cinnamon, caramel, clove, and honey. It's like walking along the waxy surface of a pumpkin pie.

An aged, thick-trunked tree forms the chalet's centerpiece. Strand lights wrap around its bark, and a spiral staircase coils around its circumference. Steps lead to floors both above and below.

There are ginormous picture windows lining the back alongside glass doors that lead out onto tiered, wraparound decks.

Patrick isn't far behind when I push outside and stop, awestruck by the unobstructed view of the aurora borealis. Greens and purples ripple and dance across the pitch-black night sky, their sensations taking up inside my chest, undulating life into me.

And there are stars. So many stars .

There's even a golden telescope built into the deck boards to see them better with.

For a second, I wish my students were here so I could line them up one by one and show them the constellations. Tell them their names and watch as their eyes widen with wonder over the expansiveness of our universe.

I cut off that thought. They're not my students anymore.

I've chosen this. For the next calendar year, I'm not Mr. Muller. I'm the Merriest Mister.

Not quite sure what that means yet, but if this house is any indication, then it will be stellar.

Patrick ambles up behind me, wrapping me in an embrace that quiets any uncertain voices still chattering inside my head. We're here now, and it's beautiful. I lean back into his chest, which, even through the layers of our clothing, feels broader and more defined than it did before he bonded with the enchanted cloak. Maybe it's magic or maybe he's just standing taller, his shoulders slung back and down now that we've left our hardships in the garage alongside all those unpacked boxes.

Back inside the chalet, Hobart gives us the full tour, citing wondrous features and amenities before bringing us up to the third floor, where there is a huge bedroom.

"A king-sized bed in the middle of the room? This is the height of luxury," I say to Pat, running a hand along the freestanding headboard. "Or at least that's what I think I heard once on HGTV."

French doors to my left lead out onto a Juliet balcony. The en suite bathroom has a massive Jacuzzi tub with more jets than I can count in a single look. The lighting in here is soft-hued, forgiving. Perfect for masking the sleep-deprived puffiness I feel beneath my eyes.

Hobart hangs tight in the doorway. "I'll leave now so you can get ready for bed. I'm sure you're both exhausted. You'll find toiletries in the bathrooms, sleep clothes in the walk-ins, and different pillows and linens in the hallway closet if you need them. The council is meeting tomorrow morning. You're both expected to be there, but I will meet you here beforehand to escort you."

"Oh, you don't need to do that. Just leave the address. We'll figure out our own way there," Patrick says.

Hobart frowns. "No can do. I'm head elf. I'm required to escort you there. See you at seven A.M. !" He dips out.

I groan a little. "Seven A.M .? I was hoping to sleep until noon. On the twenty-seventh."

Patrick chuckles warmly. "Guess we should get ourselves to bed then."

I make my way into the left-hand walk-in closet that says MRS. C on the door. It is impeccably organized and has golden lights lining every shelf. Carrie Bradshaw would be green with envy.

Shoes are on the back wall, outerwear is on the right, and sleep clothes are on the left.

Only issue? They're all designed for the little, old, white-haired woman we all know from the greeting cards. While most of it appears one-size-fits-all, I'm uncertain what I'm supposed to do here.

"Uh, Pat?" I ask, realizing only after the fact that he can't hear me. This closet is deep, and I've ventured in farther than I thought. "Pat!" I cry when I'm near the door again. He pops his head out of his own walk-in. His hair is all mussed from the hat he was wearing earlier, winging out at the ends. He's always been his cutest when he's rumpled.

"Yeah?"

"Is your closet also full of velvet dresses, bonnets, and black patent-leather heels with decorative buckles on them?" I ask.

He furrows his brow. "No, why is your— Oh." He starts laughing when the reality registers for him.

I roll my eyes, but laugh a little, too, pushing the door open farther so he can see what I changed into—a holly-patterned nightgown that goes all the way down to my ankles with a high, frilly neckline. All I need is a lit candle on a carrier to complete the Dickensian look. "What's so funny? You're not wildly attracted to me in this?" I ask playfully, cocking an eyebrow and putting my hands on my hips.

"What gave you that impression? Haven't I ever told you about my interest in Victorian-era role-play?" he asks, coming out of his closet in a matching set of red flannel pajamas, fuzzy sleep socks, and holding a ridiculously long, pointed nightcap. It's a winning, cozy look for him.

"Then, Mr. Claus, it's your lucky day," I say, dropping the collar to reveal one shoulder, shimmying it a little. "There are plenty more where this came from."

"Good." He shakes his head, smiling. "Hold on. I'll grab you a pair of pajamas from my closet."

"Don't bother," I say, moving toward the bed, enjoying the sway of the loose-fitting fabric. My body is beyond tired. Socializing with your in-laws and making a move halfway across the globe can wear you out. "I kind of like it. It's got good airflow."

"Are you… wearing anything under that?" Patrick asks, eyes hooded.

Some of my heated attraction from the couch at our house comes roaring back. "Want to check? I'll even let you do it twice ." I sit on the edge of the bed, hands sliding across the softest comforter imaginable.

Our sex life could use a magical resurrection.

He opens, then closes his mouth, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "As much fun as that sounds, I'm pretty beat now."

My heart-fire sizzles out. "Yeah, of course. Me, too." I try not to sound too disappointed, even if rejection clunks low in my stomach. I could've rallied, but better to be practical about this, I guess.

Baby steps.

Once we've brushed our teeth and washed our faces at the Jack and Jill (or, in our case, Jack and Jack ?) sinks, we claim our usual sides of the bed and get comfortable under the covers. The mattress is the perfect firmness, and the pillows are cushy.

I'm lying down on my side when, after about ten minutes, I hear: "Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm excited we're doing this." He sounds childlike, nearly buoyant.

I smile into the darkness caused by the blackout blinds. "Me, too."

After a pause, he wiggles up behind me and spoons me, something he hasn't done in a while. His warmth is welcome as we grow accustomed to this new bed, these new roles. Maybe we'll be new, too.