Chapter 18
The B&B living room had been transformed into a festive battlefield. Twinkle lights framed the mantel, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and the Santa suit lay sprawled over the armchair like it had collapsed from exhaustion. The fake beard sat on the coffee table next to the velvet hat, boots, and a belt so oversized it could double as a lifebuoy.
Graham stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest and an expression of pure dread plastered on his face. “Are you absolutely sure there’s not another guy in this town more qualified for this?”
“More qualified?” Mayor Evelyn scoffed, clutching her clipboard like it was a holy text. “You’re tall, you’re good with kids, and you’ve got the kind of smile that’ll make everyone forget you’re not actually Santa.”
“That sounds suspiciously like flattery,” Graham muttered, eyeing the red velvet suit like it might try to eat him.
“You’re stalling,” I added, perched on the arm of the couch and trying not to grin. “Just get dressed, Fletcher. Santa has a schedule to keep.”
Graham shot me a flat look. “I’m still only doing this for the cookies.”
“And the kids,” Evelyn chimed in.
“Right.” He sighed dramatically, grabbing the Santa suit off the chair. “The kids.”
As he trudged off toward the hallway, I called after him, “You’re going to do great!”
When Graham reappeared ten minutes later, I had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from laughing outright.
The suit mostly fit him. The coat looked decent enough, though the belt was cinched so tight it made the red velvet bunch in odd places. The pants stopped just above his ankles, revealing white Nike socks that did absolutely nothing to complete the illusion. The Santa hat sat slightly askew, and the fake beard dangled from his hand as he stared at me like this was all my fault.
“Well?” he asked, spreading his arms. “Does this scream ‘Christmas cheer’ or ‘Santa needs a personal tailor?’”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, choking back laughter. “You look... festive.”
“Festive,” he echoed dryly. “That’s generous.”
Evelyn swooped in with purpose, brandishing the fake beard like a weapon. “The beard’s the final touch. Once we get this on you, you’ll be unrecognizable.”
“That’s the goal,” Graham muttered as Evelyn fussed with the straps. He squirmed as she tugged it into place, muttering about itchy fluff and his dignity taking a permanent vacation.
When Evelyn finally stepped back, her critical gaze sweeping over him, she nodded in approval. “Now. Time for the ‘ho-ho-ho’ test.”
Graham froze, eyes peeking out from behind the fluffy beard. “The…what?”
“You heard me,” Evelyn said sternly, like she was leading a boot camp for Santas. “Say it. With spirit.”
He turned to me, looking both betrayed and pleading. “Help me.”
I grinned, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Nope. You’re on your own, Santa.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Graham straightened, pulling the hat lower on his head before trying, “Ho, ho, ho.”
It was flat. Like Santa after a long, disappointing day at the North Pole.
Evelyn stared at him, horrified. “That was the saddest ‘ho-ho-ho’ I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not an actor, Ma’am,” he said defensively.
“Santa doesn’t act,” she shot back. “Santa simple is.”
Before Graham could deliver a sarcastic comeback, a small voice piped up from the doorway.
“That’s not how Santa sounds.”
We turned in unison to see Noah standing there in his socks and pyjamas in the doorway. He gave Graham a look that only a nine-year-old could—a perfect mix of skepticism and disappointment.
Graham froze like he’d been caught mid-crime. “Uh…”
Noah tilted his head. “Santa’s s'posed to sound happy. Like he means it.”
Graham stared at him, then let out a quiet breath. Something about Noah’s serious little face must have struck a chord, because when he straightened, there was a spark of something different in his expression.
“You think you can help me out?” Graham asked, crouching down to Noah’s level.
Noah’s brow furrowed as he considered it, then he nodded gravely. “You just have to smile when you say it. Like you’re laughing for real.”
Graham adjusted the hat, glanced at me (like I was grading him), and then fixed his gaze on Noah. His voice dropped into something deeper—warmer. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Noah!”
Noah’s face lit up like the tree we’d spent an hour decorating last week. He clapped his hands, bouncing slightly on his socked feet. “See? That’s how Santa does it!”
Graham’s shoulders relaxed as he gave Noah a small, almost bashful smile. “Thanks, buddy. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Noah nodded proudly, then turned to me. “He’s pretty good, Isla.”
“I’ll give him that,” I said softly, watching Graham pull the fake beard off with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Now can I take this thing off?” he muttered, hanging the beard over one of the chairs.
Evelyn finally relented, waving him off with her clipboard. “Fine. But don’t lose it. We’ll need you at your Santa best tomorrow.”
As Evelyn bustled out of the room, already onto her next mission, Noah scampered back up the stairs, leaving just me and Graham by the fire.
He leaned against the back of the armchair, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you talked me into this.”
“It’s for the kids,” I teased, mimicking his earlier words.
He grinned faintly, his gaze lingering on me for just a beat longer than it should have. “Yeah. For the kids.”
For a second, I didn’t know what to say. It was strange, seeing him like this—so far removed from the sarcastic hockey player who’d smirked his way through our first conversation when he had arrived just a few days ago. I pushed the thought away, reaching for the tray of cookies on the coffee table.
“You’ve earned one of these,” I said, holding it out to him.
“Only one?” he teased, grabbing two.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile that crept across my face as he took a bite, his expression softening like the day’s weight had finally slipped off his shoulders.
He might’ve started this whole thing reluctantly, but for a moment tonight, Graham Fletcher looked a little bit like he belonged here. Like maybe this wasn’t just about cookies, or even the kids.
And that thought was a little harder to ignore.
Graham stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest and an expression of pure dread plastered on his face. “Are you absolutely sure there’s not another guy in this town more qualified for this?”
“More qualified?” Mayor Evelyn scoffed, clutching her clipboard like it was a holy text. “You’re tall, you’re good with kids, and you’ve got the kind of smile that’ll make everyone forget you’re not actually Santa.”
“That sounds suspiciously like flattery,” Graham muttered, eyeing the red velvet suit like it might try to eat him.
“You’re stalling,” I added, perched on the arm of the couch and trying not to grin. “Just get dressed, Fletcher. Santa has a schedule to keep.”
Graham shot me a flat look. “I’m still only doing this for the cookies.”
“And the kids,” Evelyn chimed in.
“Right.” He sighed dramatically, grabbing the Santa suit off the chair. “The kids.”
As he trudged off toward the hallway, I called after him, “You’re going to do great!”
When Graham reappeared ten minutes later, I had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from laughing outright.
The suit mostly fit him. The coat looked decent enough, though the belt was cinched so tight it made the red velvet bunch in odd places. The pants stopped just above his ankles, revealing white Nike socks that did absolutely nothing to complete the illusion. The Santa hat sat slightly askew, and the fake beard dangled from his hand as he stared at me like this was all my fault.
“Well?” he asked, spreading his arms. “Does this scream ‘Christmas cheer’ or ‘Santa needs a personal tailor?’”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, choking back laughter. “You look... festive.”
“Festive,” he echoed dryly. “That’s generous.”
Evelyn swooped in with purpose, brandishing the fake beard like a weapon. “The beard’s the final touch. Once we get this on you, you’ll be unrecognizable.”
“That’s the goal,” Graham muttered as Evelyn fussed with the straps. He squirmed as she tugged it into place, muttering about itchy fluff and his dignity taking a permanent vacation.
When Evelyn finally stepped back, her critical gaze sweeping over him, she nodded in approval. “Now. Time for the ‘ho-ho-ho’ test.”
Graham froze, eyes peeking out from behind the fluffy beard. “The…what?”
“You heard me,” Evelyn said sternly, like she was leading a boot camp for Santas. “Say it. With spirit.”
He turned to me, looking both betrayed and pleading. “Help me.”
I grinned, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Nope. You’re on your own, Santa.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Graham straightened, pulling the hat lower on his head before trying, “Ho, ho, ho.”
It was flat. Like Santa after a long, disappointing day at the North Pole.
Evelyn stared at him, horrified. “That was the saddest ‘ho-ho-ho’ I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not an actor, Ma’am,” he said defensively.
“Santa doesn’t act,” she shot back. “Santa simple is.”
Before Graham could deliver a sarcastic comeback, a small voice piped up from the doorway.
“That’s not how Santa sounds.”
We turned in unison to see Noah standing there in his socks and pyjamas in the doorway. He gave Graham a look that only a nine-year-old could—a perfect mix of skepticism and disappointment.
Graham froze like he’d been caught mid-crime. “Uh…”
Noah tilted his head. “Santa’s s'posed to sound happy. Like he means it.”
Graham stared at him, then let out a quiet breath. Something about Noah’s serious little face must have struck a chord, because when he straightened, there was a spark of something different in his expression.
“You think you can help me out?” Graham asked, crouching down to Noah’s level.
Noah’s brow furrowed as he considered it, then he nodded gravely. “You just have to smile when you say it. Like you’re laughing for real.”
Graham adjusted the hat, glanced at me (like I was grading him), and then fixed his gaze on Noah. His voice dropped into something deeper—warmer. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Noah!”
Noah’s face lit up like the tree we’d spent an hour decorating last week. He clapped his hands, bouncing slightly on his socked feet. “See? That’s how Santa does it!”
Graham’s shoulders relaxed as he gave Noah a small, almost bashful smile. “Thanks, buddy. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Noah nodded proudly, then turned to me. “He’s pretty good, Isla.”
“I’ll give him that,” I said softly, watching Graham pull the fake beard off with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Now can I take this thing off?” he muttered, hanging the beard over one of the chairs.
Evelyn finally relented, waving him off with her clipboard. “Fine. But don’t lose it. We’ll need you at your Santa best tomorrow.”
As Evelyn bustled out of the room, already onto her next mission, Noah scampered back up the stairs, leaving just me and Graham by the fire.
He leaned against the back of the armchair, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you talked me into this.”
“It’s for the kids,” I teased, mimicking his earlier words.
He grinned faintly, his gaze lingering on me for just a beat longer than it should have. “Yeah. For the kids.”
For a second, I didn’t know what to say. It was strange, seeing him like this—so far removed from the sarcastic hockey player who’d smirked his way through our first conversation when he had arrived just a few days ago. I pushed the thought away, reaching for the tray of cookies on the coffee table.
“You’ve earned one of these,” I said, holding it out to him.
“Only one?” he teased, grabbing two.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile that crept across my face as he took a bite, his expression softening like the day’s weight had finally slipped off his shoulders.
He might’ve started this whole thing reluctantly, but for a moment tonight, Graham Fletcher looked a little bit like he belonged here. Like maybe this wasn’t just about cookies, or even the kids.
And that thought was a little harder to ignore.
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