Tropical Holiday Tails - Zoe Chant

A Christmoose Story

I wrote this as a treat for my readers and put it on my site for a short time over Christmas in 2018. It occurs during the events of Tropical Panther’s Penance, but stands completely alone and spoils nothing.

She was only a few rows ahead of Lars on the small plane, but she may as well have been a hundred miles away.

Lars tried desperately not to stare at the edge of her face, just visible behind waves of mousy brown hair as she bent her head over the book she was holding. The oblique angle and her thick glasses made it impossible to tell what color her eyes were.

If only she would look up, glance back. If he could just catch her attention for a moment, maybe he could make sense of the way the sight of her made something deep inside him ache and awaken. Deep within him, his animal rumbled anxiously.

Whatever it was, it something that was affecting his moose as much as it was the rest of him.

The plane was crowded with people; every seat in the charter was filled. Most of them were chattering cheerfully, gazing out the windows where turquoise sea wrinkled away from the emerald jungle below. They were varied in nationality, but clearly all of them were well-to-do.

Lars glanced at the woman sitting next to him using a tablet. She gave the impression of stupendous wealth, from her perfect, frosty blonde hair to her glittering jewelry and designer clothing. Her tablet had a gold and leather case.

The young woman he was trying not to watch was a stark contrast, and Lars wondered if that was why she had caught his attention, because she was as poor as he was.

But he wasn’t poor anymore, he reminded himself. His tablet was as high-end as the one in the hand of the woman next to him, and his clothing was as well made as hers.

But the woman he was watching had simple clothing, and her luggage was a small, battered, secondhand carry-on. Lars hadn’t seen her with a phone or any technology, just…books.

Since he had first caught sight of her in the San Jose airport, she had done nothing but read. Book after book, as far as Lars could tell. Judging by the way she carried her bag, it was more books than clothing.

The scowling young man traveling with her had not offered to carry it, despite having an even smaller, more worn bag for himself.

Lars frowned at the man, trying to determine what kind of relationship they might have. They were basically ignoring each other; the man hadn’t even taken a seat next to her.

Lars wouldn’t have been sure they were traveling together, but there was something about their shared shabbiness, and the close-but-not-too-close way they were with each other that clinched his suspicion.

He was staring at her again, Lars realized, at the tantalizing line of her cheek, and the way her fingers flipped the pages of her book.

The plane gave a little hiccup of turbulence and he watched, hopeful, to see if she would look around. She glanced up only briefly, and then returned to the words on the page.

Even when they had landed, on a postage stamp of an island that didn’t even look large enough to put a plane down on, she didn’t glance back, only packed her latest book into her bag and slipped into the crush of people exiting the plane.

One of the last to leave the plane, Lars looked at once for her, and was glad to see that she hadn’t boarded the courtesy van to the resort yet.

“One last seat!” the driver called.

An old lady pushed forward and Lars let her go, eyes only for the brunette.

She was already taking a seat in the tiny covered shelter that appeared to be all that counted for an airport, pulling out a book. Her companion was glowering generally at everyone — he certainly wasn’t shy about meeting Lars’s eyes. He went to one end of the shelter, lit a cigarette, and silently dared anyone to complain.

Lars’s seatmate gave an exasperated sigh and minced in ridiculous high heels to sit beside the real object of Lars’s attention.

That left a seat free for Lars, and he darted forward with athletic reflexes to claim the place.

Up close, the young woman smelled like soap and, not surprising, books. Her brown hair, not dark, not exactly light, was soft-looking and inviting.

Sitting next to her was electric — exciting and tantalizing. But she still would