Holding my breath, heart pummeling the insides of my ribs. I wait for Sexton’s reply.
Yet another glance.
The boss goes on and on and freaking on at the front of the room.
Tansy bounces on the balls of her feet.
I die a little inside.
“Um,” I say, “Sexton?”
Finally, he looks at me straight on.
The clouds part.
The heavens open.
Glorious sunshine cascades down upon me. Or maybe that’s just the fluorescent lighting.
Regardless, damn, he’s pretty.
“What?” he says dully.
The heavens slam closed. “Staff party,” I blurt in a whisper. “Need your number.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, turning back to the front of the room. “It’s in the staff directory.”
“Okay, cool,” I reply, feeling anything but cool but deciding to count this as a victory. A step in the right direction, at least.
He waves a hand at me like I’m dismissed. I take my cue and, poking Tansy in the ribs, scoot away from him.
“So?” she hisses. “Did you get it?”
“He said to get his number out of the staff directory.” I frown. “I didn’t know we had a staff directory.”
“We do,” offers a rich, resonant, familiar voice.
I turn and find myself looking into blue eyes that, just as their owner’s voice did, strike a chord of familiarity I can’t quite place. I take in the man’s curly blonde hair, lean but muscled form, and the same rouged cheeks that practically everyone in this place sports. Part of the gig.
“Uh?” I reply, continuing my track record of brilliant oration.
He smiles like I’ve just told him his sick puppy is going to make it after all. “They keep a copy of the staff directory in the office.” He juts his chin in the direction of the smaller room off this one where the park’s administrative folks work. “Just ask the executive administrator, she’ll be able to give it to you.”
“I had no idea,” I say. “Thanks.”
He sticks out his hand. “Jasper King.” He winks. “The photo shop’s Santa.”
I wince, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Shit. We work in the same building and I didn’t recognize you. I’m so sorry.” I realize his hand is still waiting. I seize it, kind of scratching him as I do. Even better. This guy probably hates me. “Bethany Nave, elf.”
But Jasper doesn’t act like he hates me. Quite the opposite, in fact. His grin grows wider and for some reason the sight of it fills my chest with warmth.
I don’t know why, but I like making him smile. He’s got a great one. That’s probably why he got cast as Santa.
On my other side, Tansy clears her throat.
“Oh, and this is Tansy Lee, the—“
“Photographer,” he finishes. When my mouth opens in astonishment, he gives me a one-shoulder shrug. “You’re a lot easier to recognize out of costume than I am. No beard.”
I snort. “Not even a little.” I scan his chin. “I see that you’re not one of those Santas that grows your actual beard out for the part.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I just got back to North Pole. I don’t think I’m quite ready to go all-in yet.”
I open my mouth to ask where he came from, but the boss adjourns the meeting. The room erupts into movement and sound as the staff head for the exits, chatting all the way.
Forget Jasper’s origin story. I need to get to the executive administrator before she heads out for the day.
“Come on,” I say to Tansy. “Let’s go.”
“To the staff directory!” she cries, waving a pointed finger in the air like she’s urging a sled team of reindeer to take off in flight.
Hesitating, I turn back to Jasper. “Thanks,” I say again.
Again with that smile. The man actually has dimples and it’s perfection. I mean, not as perfect as the paragon of a man that is Sexton Kail. But it’s really damn nice.
“See you tomorrow, Bethany Nave.” He utters the words like they’re a promise. And just like when he was helping me up from my spill, I find myself curious to learn more about this Santa.
But first, I’ve got to get my hands on that directory.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly breathless at the thought of keying Sexton’s number into my cell. “See you.”
Jasper
After work, I drive to the gym, scarfing a granola bar on the way. But the whole way there . . . and while I change in the locker rooms . . . and when I start warming up on the treadmill, all I can think about is Bethany Nave.
She looked at me that way again. The way where I felt so seen. And she’s got those eyes. Blue and beautiful and so inquisitive.
I want those eyes on me every damn day of my life.
It’d be a hilarious story for our kids and grandkids — meeting at a holiday theme park, Santa falling for one of his elves.
Through sheer force of will, I halt the direction my thoughts are taking. Because I’ve barely talked to the woman. This is no time to be imagining our future grandchildren — hell, our future anything.
Except for when I’m going to talk to her next, and how I’m going to try to win her heart.
I crank up the speed and incline on the treadmill to get my mind off my fantasies. My quads burn and my breath comes harder, sweat starting to slick the back of my neck. I try to settle into the rhythm blasting from my ear pods.
Then my breath comes fast for an entirely different reason.
Because the phone I have set on the dash of the treadmill lights up. It’s a text from a number I don’t have saved in my contacts.
Hey, sexy, I read.
My brain is still struggling to comprehend the first text when a second comes through.
(This is Bethany, by the way. From work.)
I hit the pause button on the treadmill. Because sweet baby Jesus in the manger, my dreams are coming true.
Bethany’s texting me.
She called me sexy.
That must be why she was looking at me in such a curious manner. She’s as into me as I am into her.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. Like, in a good way. Not in an I-ran-myself-to-death-on-a-treadmill kind of way.
I resist the urge to launch a victory punch into the air. Even though it’s totally warranted. Because Bethany fucking Nave, adorable elf, thinks I’m sexy and is texting me right now.
Texts.
The phone.
She’s waiting for my reply.
Right.
I grab my device and, unlocking it, hurriedly write back. Hey there. I’m so glad to hear from you after hours.
Well, it’s all thanks to the staff directory. ;) Bethany fires back.
Glad to be of service, I write, then hit send.
I fight the urge to keep typing, to tell her how attractive she is, how different from the people I encountered in New York City, how drawn I feel to her. Because that would be a bit much. Right? Maybe?
To be honest, I have no idea.
I need help.
I close Bethany’s chat window and open up a new window. Entering my buddy Frank’s name in the recipient field, I message him. How soon is too soon to tell a girl that you’re into her?
A few moments later, his reply appears. Never.