Page 3 of Of Magic and Reindeer
That was apparently all the motivation he needed. Mike bolted through the patio, accidentally clotheslining himself on a strand of garland before breaking free. He disappeared into the restaurant, no doubt leaving a trail of melting snow in his wake.
Movement from the corner caught my eye. Two of the men from the mystery table stood up in eerie synchronization. The larger one, a wall of a human with a presence that made the air feel thicker, nodded almost imperceptibly to his companion before they both followed Mike’s escape route.
What the actual hell was happening? First, my body decided to do some weird Elsa-level shit, and now strange men were... what? Going after my date? Warning bells clanged in my head like a five-alarm fire.
I was having some kind of medical emergency. Yes, that was it. Christmas was causing a trauma response that made my core body temperature drop.
Closing my eyes, I tried to calm the electricity still dancing beneath my skin. When I opened my eyes again, the frost had retreated, and the surrounding temperature had normalized. Small victories. Now I just had to pay the bill, slink home in humiliation, and have a good cry in the privacy of my home, where I conveniently kept a bottle of tequila specifically for emergencies.
As I was fishing my wallet from my purse, the two men reappeared, looking suspiciously casual as they returned to their table. The larger one caught my eye for a split second, and I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile cross his face.
I broke eye contact first, focusing instead on paying the bill that Mike had so graciously abandoned in his mad dash toescape the ice witch. Of course he’d ordered the most expensive cocktails on the menu. Dickhead.
I signaled for the server, who headed to the table like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Miss? Is everything okay?”
Nice.
The voice in my head made me jump. The server was nowhere near my type and appeared to be college-aged with a Santa hat perched on top of his head.
Maybe instead of going home, I should head to the hospital.
“Yes, I’ll need our food boxed up and the bill, please.”
He tilted his head, confusion flitting across his features. “Oh, no need. Your bill was paid.”
My brain stuttered to a halt. “What? By who?” Maybe Mike had stopped at the hostess stand to pay?
“The men over there.” He gestured toward the corner.
I turned to look at the table of nine, only to find it completely empty. It looked as if it had never been occupied at all. No glasses, no plates, not even a chair out of place. They had literally been eating and drinking the last time I’d looked a few minutes before.
I twisted back to the server, who now looked as confused as I felt.
“Huh.” He scratched his head, dislodging the Santa hat. “That’s weird. I could have sworn... Well, anyway, someone paid for you.” He shrugged, clearly already mentally moving on to his next table.
“Right, thanks.” I gathered my purse with trembling hands, suddenly desperate to leave this Christmas hellscape.
The server hesitated, looking at me with renewed interest. “You look a little pale. And what happened to all this water?” He gestured to the puddles around our table, the only evidence remaining of the snow.
“Spilled drinks. Clumsy date.” I stood up, my legs shaking. “Have a good night.”
I walked a little too quickly through the restaurant, past couples enjoying their evenings, past the hostess who gave mea concerned look, and into the blessed anonymity of the Palm Springs night.
I couldn’t shake the persistent chill that had settled deep in my bones. I rubbed my arms, looking up and down the street. No sign of Mike. No signs of the mysterious men.
Just me, standing alone under the artificial glow of palm trees wrapped in Christmas lights.
Chapter 2
Lumps of Coal
Idragged my body through the glass doors of Bartlett & Moore twenty-four minutes later than my regular arrival time. The only thing more aggressive than my hangover was the lobby’s ceiling-to-floor Christmas decorations that had materialized overnight like a festive fungal infection.
I mean, it was barely the first week of November.
The lobby’s twelve-foot tree—because apparently, a regular-sized one wouldn’t sufficiently announce the firm’s dedication to overcompensation—twinkled with hundreds of silver and blue ornaments branded with the firm’s logo. Corporate Christmas spirit: where the holiday’s soul went to die in exchange for tax-deductible cheer.
“Good morning, Neve! Don’t you look...” Trinity from reception paused, scanning my appearance with the practiced diplomacy of someone who had mastered the art of lying professionally. “...professional today!”
