38. The Gingerbread Ball

38

THE GINGERbrEAD BALL

PATRICK

At first glance of Quinn at the gingerbread competition, I'm bowled over by how stunning he looks. Confidence reverberates with every step he takes.

His sparkly red nails dazzle in the light as he inspects a mega gingerbread house modeled after the redesigned workshop.

While I can't wait to see that specific entry up close, I can't tear my eyes away from Quinn. When we first met, back in college, he dressed like this. In bold colors and with a camp sensibility. Over the years, though, that impulse slowly seeped out of his closet. Out of him.

Or so I thought.

Maybe he was repressing those impulses.

For whom, though?

For his job? For me ?

I couldn't live with that last one. Especially since he looks goddamn enticing. Sexy and adorable and good enough to eat.

I mean, literally. He's a walking gingerbread cookie judging gingerbread cookies.

My stomach rumbles. Though that could be more nerves than sexual hunger.

"We're all set for you!" Hobart says. He comes up behind me and scares me half to death. I've been crouching in a doorframe. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your spying."

"Oh, I—" I stop myself. There's no sense denying it. "It's okay."

"The display is all set on the rolling cart, and I know my lines. I practiced all night," he says.

Over the past months, I've been tied up with the workshop redesign. I'm sure, to some degree, Quinn assumes I won't remember our anniversary. Which is something failing-architect Patrick might've done. It's not something Santa Patrick would ever dream of.

I've been working on a separate project for weeks. I'm ready to surprise the pants—er, um, skirt —off him.

Before Quinn announces the winner of the contest, Hobart bursts through the doors as planned. "We have a last-minute submission."

The elves in the room gasp, even though most of them have been prepped about what is going to happen.

I scratch at my hands. The last time I made a grand gesture like this one I was proposing. In a way, this feels like a proposal of a different sort.

Hobart clears a path through the crowd. I pop up behind a cart with a gilded handle. I roll it forward toward Quinn, who does a double take. His skirt waves with the motion.

"Quinn," I say, once I'm at the center of the room beneath a blazing spotlight. "Happy anniversary!"

I gesture at my creation. It took weeks. Using gingerbread, icing, and a little ingenuity, I built a replica of the dream home I envisioned for Quinn and me before we settled on our place in New Jersey. I couldn't make that architectural wonder a reality there. But with the right combination of cookies and candies, I could make this.

Immediately, Quinn's eyes are swimming with unshed tears. His hand sits at the base of his throat. "Pat, it's beautiful."

"It's incredible!" comes a shout from the crowd.

"Elaborate!"

"Too good for an amateur competition!" Everyone laughs at that one.

"Don't worry," I say to the crowd. "This isn't an official entry. It's a gift." I did, perhaps, get too into it. But ever since the completion of the workshop, I've had all this mismanaged energy coursing through me. This gingerbread model is just the tip of the iceberg. Since year one is the paper anniversary, I plan on giving Quinn the blueprints. I'm going to submit them to our special building elf task force.

I'm going to get our dream home built. Here. In the North Pole. A small (okay, huge ) gesture to introduce the idea of us staying on as Santa and the Merriest Mister beyond this single year. Professionally, I've never felt more rewarded. Romantically, we've never been more united. Going home at the end of this year no longer feels right to me.

Because everything I could ever want is right here.

Quinn leans in closer to take in all the details. His smile nearly expands off the edges of his face. "I love it," he says when he returns to my side. "I love you . This is such a special surprise." He kisses me. "Good thing I have a surprise for you, too."

I cock my head. "You do?"

He nods excitedly. A procession of elves follows us out of the competition room and down the hall of the main building.

Those enigmatic, luxurious doors that hid the council behind them on that first night are propped open. Beyond, you can see the room has been transformed for a ball. Tables are scattered about. Trays of food are lining the far walls. Candles are lit, and a string quartet is playing music. The air sizzles with anticipation.

"You did all this?" I ask. My throat grows thick.

"Some," he says humbly. "Hobart and the elves all pitched in, too."

Hobart pokes his head around. "The village really loves you both. We wanted to do this to show you how much we appreciate your work and your spirits. Congratulations on your anniversary."

"After you," Quinn says so I'm the first to enter.

An elf in a bespoke tuxedo comes by with a tray of champagne flutes. We each take one. And then another. We end up drinking until we're appropriately buzzed and dance until our feet are pleasantly sore.

The council members come by and wish us light and love for the years ahead. We thank them, one by one, with hugs. Even Nicholas, wearing a classic suit and reindeer-shaped cuff links, opens his arms to us. Surprisingly, he softens in my embrace.

"What's the secret to a lasting, happy marriage?" Quinn asks right as he intercepts an hors d'oeuvre from a passing platter.

Emmanuella and Jorge share a quizzical look. She whispers to him. He laughs then says, "Knowing when to speak your mind—"

"And when to shut up," Emmanuella interrupts by slapping him playfully in the stomach. We all laugh.

Quinn pivots his attention to Yvonne, who grabs Chris from a side conversation with one of the elves. "Oh, that's a good one," he says. He's gazing deep into Yvonne's starry eyes. She speaks for the pair: "The secret is to slow down and enjoy the small things."

"I still remember a joke Yvonne told me on our first date, but I don't remember the name of the couple we made our last vacation property sale to and that wasn't even all that long ago." Chris shrugs. "I think that says a lot about what's important."

"I love that. What about you two?"

Ashley seems surprised Quinn would want her advice. "Oh, I don't know. Good communication? Is that too cliché?"

"Not at all, babe," Samson says. He wraps an arm around Ashley's waist. She wears a drapey, Grecian-style green dress. His hand disappears into the folds of the fabric. "I agree. Good communication. And good sex never hurts, either." Ashley rolls her eyes, but even I can tell it's a loving eye roll.

"Last but not least." Quinn sidles up beside Colleen. She's wearing a floral perfume that reminds me of one Nan Hargrave would wear or might've worn in my childhood. A slight pang of missing my family hits me.

"Trust and faith have served us well in our many years," Colleen says, reaching out for Nicholas's hand. "What would you say, hun?"

"I'd say understanding." We all nod before we realize he's not finished. He clears his throat into a cocktail napkin. "Even on our worst days, even during the lowest lows, if you can find it in yourself to see things from her—erm, his —perspective, you'll be a-okay."

"Damn, this got real sappy real fast," Samson says, letting all the air out of the moment.

"He's right," Colleen says. She claps her hands together. "Who wants to dance some more?"