Page 29 of Home to Christmas Island
She’s fully grinning now. Take a guess.
The two of us burst out cackling at the same time and I can hear Rose giggling from the back seat.
Tell me it’s not, I beg her in between rasping laughs.
But true to her word, she says nothing. I use the rest of the car ride to make a plan. I was bumbling like an idiot at the parade last night, flustered and barely able to hold a conversation. Knowing ahead of time that he’ll be here this morning means I can prepare myself.
And I want to have some fun today.
Fifteen minutes later I’m grinning like a fiend, as I scan my eyes across the fire hall.
And there he is.
Alistair is sitting in a red velvet suit, the fake white beard doing little to distract from how delicious he looks. His arms are stretching the fabric of the sleeves and it makes everything in me tighten.
A young girl, probably five or so, is climbing down from his lap when I feel his gaze snap to mine. He always seems to find me, even in crowded places. He looks incredibly irritated and slightly embarrassed, as if he doesn’t want me seeing him giving literal toys to children. But I can understand he might feel a little silly in the Santa suit, so I don’t take any offence to his annoyance. I’m sure my feral grin isn’t helping matters, either.
Eyes blazing, he mouths a single word in my direction.
Don’t.
I feel the smile pull so tight across my cheeks that it almost hurts, as he looks away. In an instant, our dynamic from the parade has shifted. Finally, after all this taunting from him, it’s my turn to make him struggle to string a sentence together.
Another kid—a little boy this time—moves to stand in front of where Alistair is sitting, too shy to engage with him directly.
Even behind the white fuzz of the fake beard, I can see the blush creep up Alistair’s neck, which is turning pink. He knows I’m still watching him, but I think he’s trying to ignore me. I let my gaze freely roam over him. He speaks quietly to the boy and his mother. If I’m being honest, it’s a lovely, pure moment.
My thoughts are anything but.
In my sea of churning thoughts last night, I couldn’t stop myself from acknowledging certain things. That, along with his pine-green eyes, his dark beard and his freckled skin all make him insanely handsome. He has nice hands. I’m not even sure when I noticed his hands, but I noticed. And that voice? Yum. I wondered how that accent would sound in low, sultry tones and actually gave myself goosebumps.
I could barely let myself think about the other things: that he’s always bopping around the island helping people, that he seems genuinely curious about everyone and everything, and how well-liked he is here. And that is not an easy feat for a come-from-away in Cape Breton.
The lightness in me today makes me feel impish. I want to tease him back, to find a way to really rile him, especially now that I can tell he feels rattled to see me here, seeing him in his red Santa suit.
I scan the crowd to find Alba. She’s sipping on what I would guess is a mimosa and staring right at me, her eyes mischievous. When I walk over, she says, Cousin, you are in so much shit.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, I quip, but I’m unable to keep the giggle from my voice.
See, I told you he was hot, she adds, as Rose appears to her left and nods excitedly in agreement.
I never said he wasn’t. But he’s been teasing me since I got here and now it’s time for revenge. I waggle my eyebrows at her.
Something passes across Alba’s face that I can’t quite put my finger on, that look again of something like relief. She swallows another sip of her drink before motioning in Alistair’s direction, Well then, go and get him back.
I know that what I’m about to do is insane. This is something only twenty-year-old Florence would have attempted, with her confidence that bordered on arrogance. I’m not sure at thirty-two if I can pull it off, but I’m going to try.
I wait for the line of children to slow down. Many of them, having already made their pleas to Santa, are now slathering their waffles and pancakes in sticky maple syrup. A thought bubbles up: volunteering to bake here next year would be fun. I’m not sure where it comes from, so I shove it aside, and turn my mind back to what I’m about to do.
Alistair looks like he might be getting up from his seat, so I make a beeline for him. Before he can register what’s happening—and before I can feel embarrassed about it—I sit down in his lap.
Hi Santa, I say, grinning like an idiot and trying to use my most innocent voice. Or is it Father Christmas since you’re Scottish? Or wait, is that just what the English call him?
What the fuck are you doing? He growls in my ear, though he sounds more like he’s caught off guard than actually angry at me settling into his lap. And probably also trying to keep his voice low, so as not to attract the eyes of everyone in here.
I can’t help the cackle that erupts out of me. My insides feel neon, like they’re radiating from within me and illuminating that glow right onto my face.
I’m coming to tell you what I want for Christmas. I look right at him when I say it and I can see the wheels in his head turning, wondering what the hell I’m up to, no doubt.
