man that stoked the tiny pilot light of hope that refused to be put out—and he was the embodiment of everything I’d lost?
Saint was no Santa. Santa came one night out of the year to fulfill someone’s wishes.
The look in Saint’s eyes promised to grant every wish. Every hope. Every night. The way he kissed me promised to fulfill every want, every long-forgotten desire. And the way he held me promised he’d never let me go.
And that was what scared me the most.
Had I kissed Santa Claus, it would’ve been less shocking—and unnerving—than kissing Saint Nicholsen.
But I hadn’t.
Instead, I’d lost myself in the simple task of stringing lights on a tree, and revealing things better left buried, to a man I felt I knew far better than time nor proximity suggested was possible.
At least I hadn’t told him about Adam.
That would be the icing on my proverbial craptastic Christmas cake.
To say I’d given Saint the cold shoulder since Friday night... practically avoiding him all weekend by hiding out in the kitchen and preparing for the week ahead... was being generous. My general demeanor toward him, while still professional and cordial when necessary, was better likened to the climate of the North Pole.
And the irony of that was obvious. Santa lived happily at the North Pole all year long—and Saint... well, Saint was all kindness and beaming smiles, willing and able to stick out my frosty façade that was far more easily thawed than I wanted to admit. And he knew it.
“Morning, Holly!”
I looked up from my clipboard. “Hey, Noelle.” My smile faltered when I saw the cart she was pulling behind her, laid out with a breakfast feast.
“Saint had this made up for you.” She told me like I didn’t already know.
My eyes skirted around the busy and bustling lobby, searching for the man who was never around when my frustration at his kindness peaked but always there when I was most vulnerable to his temptation.
“Thanks,” I said, looking over the array of waffles and Christmas tree-shaped pancakes.
“He likes you,” Noelle said as she sidled up next to me with an eager grin. “I’m pretty sure he saved your ornament from last week, too.”
I groaned. “No, he doesn’t,” I protested, my lips burning with the lie and the hot brand-like memory his kiss had left on them. “He’s just being nice. And trying to win me over to Christmas.”
“Oh, c’mon, Holl.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “You’re building a giant gingerbread house. I think you’ve already won yourself over.”
I balked. “It’s just a job, Noelle.”
She hummed and nodded, agreeing but not believing me.
“And he doesn’t like me.”
“Now, there, we are going to have to disagree.” Her arm dropped, and she grabbed a plate from the second shelf on the cart. “But we’re going to do it over pancakes.”
Traitorously, my stomach grumbled. The rest of my protests died down when I felt it—the warm invasion of anticipation on my skin. Saint was here. I looked again and caught him standing over by the concierge desk, his attention already on me.
“Fine,” I told her.
At least if she was here, there was less chance I’d have to face him—or worse, face him alone.
“So, what are you doing today?” she asked but continued to speak excitedly and without a pause for my answer. “I can’t believe this house. It’s just so incredible—the most incredible one I’ve seen.”
“Thank you.” My chest swelled.
I was proud of my work, of course I was. But after hearing Saint’s reason for the houses... the meaning behind them... the compliment settled deeper, and I realized there was a driving force behind my level of perfection that had intensified over the last few days.
Everything always had to be perfect and aligned and precise, as though it were a real architectural structure. But now, everything also had to be more.
“Wait until you see my pièce de résistance.” I winked at her, watching her eyes turn to saucers. “Roberto is adding the chimney with mechanical Santa legs.” I pointed to the left slope of the roof. “The chimney will be there, and it will have Santa’s legs coming out of it like he’s going down the chimney.”
Her head shook in delighted disbelief, her comments of awe stifled by her mouthful of food.
“How do you come up with these ideas?” She wandered over to the taped line on the floor where the candy cane fence would be going once the rest of the house was fitted with its candy façade.
I covered my