I'll Be Your Santa Tonight - Rebecca Sharp Page 0,1

cared to pay—to have food crafted with the precision of a building and as though it weren’t made to be eaten. But those that could and did vied for my talents, and their requests took me all over the world.

And I absolutely loved my job. The people I met. The places it took me. The freedom it provided.

But this… my stomach tightened. This job made me feel something I hadn’t felt before.

Conflicted.

“So, you’re going to be a chef at the restaurant?”

“Not exactly.” My face scrunched. “I’m designing the gingerbread house for the Fairmont.”

And it was an opportunity to showcase my skills that I couldn’t turn down. There was only one place in the world where a pastry was not only iconic but also a massive tourist attraction, and I was beyond excited to tackle the challenge. I was beyond excited for my skills to be advertised on such a large scale.

I was less-than-thrilled at the thought that the opportunity came stuffed, wrapped, and lit with all the Christmas trappings. I was about to be immersed in the holiday I despised, and I could only hope that the hurt wouldn’t affect the result.

I gripped the door handle and braced myself.

“What?” The woman bounced in the front seat. While driving. Good god. “You are making the holiday gingerbread house? I cannot believe it! I take my kids every year.”

I nodded slowly, refraining from saying more to excite the woman who already appeared to forget she was still driving.

“That is amazing! Wonderful! What a wonderful job!”

“It’s a great opportunity,” I replied, clearing my throat and sinking farther into the seat.

She let out a sigh.

“You must love Christmas, to have the imagination to take on such a project and bring the magic to life.”

And there it was.

If I had to pick one thing I disliked about the holiday season the most, it was this—the conviction with which the general population believed everyone must love Christmas like they did.

And anyone who didn’t… Well, let’s just say it was more acceptable to love Nickelback than it was to be an official Grinch.

There were many reasons I tried to sever myself from the holiday, the very least of which was that for the first eighteen years of my life, Christmas wasn’t part of my family’s culture. The teasing made me ambivalent, but it was what came later that made the season actually hurt.

“Something like that,” was all I could offer as we crested on top of Nob Hill, the venerable white edifice of the iconic hotel rising proudly against the street, flags of nations above the ornate entry fluttering in the wind.

My heart skipped a beat.

This was it. My home for the next three weeks.

I barely heard what the driver said as she slowed to a stop out front. I hopped out of the car, a cold gust of California wind blowing right through the black leggings and long sweater I wore on the plane. It wasn’t that cold out—maybe mid-fifties—but being right on the water with the sun behind the clouds, it felt much cooler.

Grabbing all my bags from the back seat, I quickly mumbled my thanks, and she promised in return to visit my creation once it opened to the public.

I rose and slung my tote over my shoulder, spinning on my heel, eager to get up to my room and take a nap.

“What the—” I broke off, slapping my hand on my chest—a threat to my heart to keep beating.

I almost walked straight into a reindeer.

Not a real one. Worse. An inflatable reindeer.

Many of them. An army—a cavalry of floating reindeer loosely tethered to a sleigh with that fat man sitting in the driver’s seat, his jolly smile mocking me. I stood frozen as the giant festive display was dragged along the sidewalk by a group of several men who impressively corralled it through the front door of the hotel.

I made sure to leave several feet of distance open in front of me before I followed the holiday hazard inside. I didn’t have luck with Christmas—at all.

Inside the lobby, my practical black flats slowed with silent awe.

I’d done my research. I’d seen the gingerbread houses built in the hotel’s lobby over the last decade. Even the grand exterior of the building should’ve prepared me for what was inside, yet my mouth fell open and my eyes grew wide at the exquisite and ornate craftmanship of the interior architecture.

The two-storied ceiling was held up by massive pink-marbled columns rising up in impressive numbers throughout the