Page 12 of No Room in the Inn

“Got it!” I say.

“Can you get the earring by yourself?”

I nod before realizing he can’t see me. “Yes,” I say.

I hear him move away, and the pleasant scent of his cologne disappears. Now that I’ve got both hands, I make quick work of the earring. I’m tempted to stay in the dress a few seconds longer, because I’m not sure I want to meet my rescuer. Maybe I can just avoid looking at him?

Either way, I steel myself and push my head through the turtleneck, finally emerging after a good ten minutes being stuck. I take a deep breath of fresh dressing room air. Then I look around.

It takes me a second to fully grasp what I’m seeing. My savior’s back is to me, and he’s shirtless; that must be what he meant by half naked. He’s wearing the most absurd pair of pants I’ve ever seen—like the bottoms to a baggy velour tracksuit in a garish shade of red. When my eyes leave the pants and move up to his bare top half, my jaw drops a little.

People make a big deal about abs and pecs and all that. And don’t get me wrong; I too appreciate a good six pack. But until this very moment, I never realized how beautiful a human back could be.

His skin is a deep tan color, his shoulders broad, his back muscles flexing in ways I didn’t realize back muscles could flex as he lifts up a shirt and pulls it over his head.

Just like that, my view is gone, and I’m left giving myself a stern talking to about objectifying another human being. The red velour shirt with a fur-trimmed hood does shed some light on the situation, however, and before I can hold my tongue, I say,

“Oh, you’reSanta!”

The man turns around, and holywowdo I need to give myself another stern talking to.

Because it’s official. I’ve lost my mind. For the first time in my life, I am attracted to none other than Santa Claus.

Striking green eyes framed with dark lashes—eyes that brand me as they visibly take me in. A square jaw. Black, tightly coiled hair. And full lips that twitch with amusement as his gaze meets mine.

“You should take your earrings off before you put on anything with a turtleneck,” he says, and he points to his own ears. I’m surprised to see they’re pierced and that he’s wearing diamond studs just like mine.

I hate that they look better on him.

“How are you going to make yourself look fat?” I say, and I immediately want to clamp my hand over my mouth. They aren’t the words I intended, but…well, they’re out there now, and I am curious.

Without breaking my gaze—his eyes are like magnets, for goodness’ sake, and they’re a little unnerving—he reaches to the chair next to him and holds up a pillow I hadn’t noticed. Then he lifts his top, stuffs the pillow under, and tucks in the shirt.

All. Without. Looking. Away. This man wields eye contact like aweapon. A slightly snarky, slightly obnoxious weapon.

“Ah,” I say lamely. I clear my throat. “I see.”

But I don’t see. Because what kind of person is attractive even when he’s dressed up like Santa? How is that possible?

And now we’re just standing here, staring at each other, and my face is most likely as red as his Santa suit—so many different kinds of awkward all wrapped up in one moment. I’m suddenly very aware that he just saw me half naked, trapped inside a dress.

Someone needs to say something. Someone needs to look away. Someone needs to break this weird stalemate thing we have going on.

“Uh, thanks for helping with the dress. I’m Willow,” I finally say. My voice is doing this embarrassing breathless thing, but whatever. Speech is better than silence.

Santa nods slowly. “Willow,” he repeats. “What are you doing in Woodfield? You’re new here.”

“I’m old here, actually. I just haven’t been home in a few years.” I swallow. “My grandmother passed away recently; the funeral was earlier.”

Santa’s smile fades; he studies me with cautious eyes. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “The woman who ran the bed and breakfast.”

I nod. “That’s her.”

He nods too, still looking at me a little strangely. “Well, I’m running late,” he finally says. “I should really get going.” He stands there, watching me expectantly, until I realize I’m blocking the door.

“Oh, right,” I say quickly, stepping out of the way.

“Enjoy your stay in Woodfield. And fix your hair before you go out,” he murmurs as he passes me. “It’s static.”

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