Page 11 of The Santa Situation
Suffice it to say, I wasnota vision.
I tilted my head, eyeing the makeshift costume and terrible makeup, wondering—for one absurd second—what Charliewould think when he saw me. I immediately rolled my eyes at myself.
“You’re a grown-ass woman,” I reprimanded my reflection. “Not a lovesick teen. Get a grip.
From downstairs, Eli’s voice drifted up the stairs. “You almost ready, Mrs. Claus? Your sleigh awaits.”
“Coming,” I called out, grabbing my gloves and purse with one last shake of my head in the mirror.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, Eli was standing by the door, his hair sticking up in a way that reminded me of when he was small and I used to try to tame it with spit.
“You look…” He paused, his grin spreading wide. “Adorable. Terrible. Terribly adorable. The makeup is a nice touch.”
“Too much?”
“I mean …” He made a see-saw motion with his hand, lips pursed like he was biting back what he really wanted to say.
Message received.
I pivoted for the stairs. “What was I thinking?”
Eli dashed past me and grabbed my hand, tugging me the rest of the way up the stairs, through my bedroom, and into the small bathroom I’d carved out of a walk-in closet a couple of years ago. He pointed at the toilet. “Sit. Let me fix it.”
I did as I was told. My kid had an eye for color and detail—years of sketching, painting, and watching more makeup tutorials than I’d ever admit to knowing about.
He pulled open the top drawer, took one look inside, and recoiled. “Mom.” His voice was flat, horrified. “Half of this stuff expired before I was born. Stay put. I’ll grab my kit. Yours is clearly from the Reagan administration.”
As he sprinted away, I called out after him, “I was only a year old when Reagan was elected!”
“Bush, then!” came the muffled reply from down the hall.
A minute later, he returned with a large eyeshadow palette, a set of brushes, and mysterious tubes that looked more like art supplies than makeup. He set them all out on the counter with an exaggerated sigh and turned on the faucet, testing the temperature with his fingertips before wetting a washcloth. “Tilt your chin up,” he instructed.
I lifted my face, my lashes lowering instinctively as the warm cloth brushed against my skin. His touch was gentle as he cleared away my mistakes with soft, careful strokes.
“I should’ve asked you to do my makeup in the first place,” I said. “I just didn’t know if that’d be weird.”
I opened my eyes to see him turning to rinse the cloth, wringing it out before glancing at me over his shoulder, one perfectly sculpted brow lifting. “Why would it be weird?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Because I’m the mom. I’m supposed to be the one teaching you these things, not the other way around.”
He smirked faintly, tossing the washcloth into the hamper and reaching for a brush and tube.“Yeah, well. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mrs. Claus.”
For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the quiet tap of brushes against the palette and the soft rhythm of his voice as he directed me: “Close your eyes. Relax your forehead. Okay, look up—no, not that much.”
When he finally stepped back, he folded his arms over his chest, assessing his work. “Okay,” he said with a slight lifting of his lips. “You’re done.”
I turned toward the mirror and blinked.
Somehow, he’d transformed me. My skin looked luminous instead of tired, my eyes softer and brighter. There was just enough shimmer to make me look festive, but not so much that I resembled one of the ornaments on the tree downstairs.
“Wow,” I murmured. “Eli, this is…”
“An improvement?” he teased.
I laughed, shaking my head. “A miracle.”
He grinned fully then, clearly pleased with my assessment of his skill, and began gathering up his supplies. “Now go be the hottest Mrs. Claus Mistletoe Bay’s ever seen,” he said, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Maybe Mr. Mayor will finally make his move.”
