Author: Jaimie Admans
Category: Humorous
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‘Oh, holy night,’ I mutter as I get the slightly chargrilled cinnamon rolls out and Tav gets up to calm the smoke alarm down.
‘At least if Santa runs out of coal for the naughty list’s stockings, we can use these instead and no one will know the difference.’
I thwack at him with a tea towel and he laughs as he sits back down, and I can’t help giggling too as I move around the kitchen, teasing, laughing, and joking, and it feels good. This weird little makeshift family, a home at the top of the world that I never expected to find.
***
‘This is perfect.’ I peer around the door of the Nutcracker Cabin and Tav leans around me to switch on a light, which flickers once and makes a pinging sound as the bulb dies and plunges the room back into darkness.
Tav brushes aside a cobweb and goes to poke at the hearth. We both stand and watch, my shoulder pressing against his arm, as the firelighter crumples and the flames take hold, filling the room with the scent of burning logs and the crackle of wood, and giving just enough light for Tav to find a bulb in a cupboard and replace the main light.
‘Right.’ I put down the bucket full of cleaning products I’m carrying and pull my sleeves up. ‘Let’s get to work.’
I’ve never minded jobs like cleaning, and I get on with it happily while Tav surveys the building for structural damage and construction needs. He swears when he finds a broken window at the back.
Freya comes up to say she’s left today’s mail delivery in the post office, and that Santa’s grotto looked busy. When we left, Dad was at the living room mirror, perfecting his beard curls with tongs, but he insisted I come up here instead of helping him, despite my protestations that he can’t manage the grotto on his own.
‘I’ve always thought these cabins were so romantic,’ Freya muses when Tav has gone down to check on him. She picks up one of the wooden nutcracker soldiers that decorate the mantelpiece above the crackling fire.
‘I’m told you had a moment of romance …’
She sighs. ‘It’s silly really. Just a foolish old woman trying to convince myself I’m still young enough for there to be someone out there for me. Tav indulged me too much. I should’ve forgotten about the mystery man.’
‘It’s so romantic. Eyes meeting across a busy road. Chance encounters. Things like that happen for a reason. He could come back. He could be looking for you too.’
‘No.’ She strokes the long blonde ponytail hanging over her shoulder. ‘It was a fairy tale. My husband of two decades left me for a younger woman a few years ago, and since then, I’ve been alone and better off that way, but that moment, it … I don’t know … made me think there was a chance that love could happen for me again. It was a nudge from the universe. After my husband left, I thought that was it for me, that I’d grow old and die alone, but feeling that little flutter, butterflies like I was a teenager with my first crush again … It gave me hope.’
‘He must’ve felt it too. Maybe he’ll be back this year. He could’ve been a day visitor and not a staying guest. We’ll keep an eye out,’ I say, even though no one but Freya has any idea what he looked like.
‘I keep looking. It’s why I always bring the bags up to the house, just in case.’
‘You’ll see him again. Christmas is the time of year for magic, after all. If we can’t believe in the impossible then, when can we?’
‘I see Tav’s rubbing off on you.’
‘It’s not just Tav. It’s everything. The whole world feels different since I got here.’
‘The magic of the North Pole Forest.’ She gives me a knowing nod before she leaves.
‘He’s busy but managing.’ Tav ducks as he comes back in the door with two mugs of hot chocolate. ‘I passed Freya on her way out and she’s going to come back after her round, don an elf hat, and help for a bit.’
‘That’s really good of her.’ I take the mug gratefully and sip it before I run back down the hill to Santa’s House to find the linen closet and collect the spare nutcracker-themed soft furnishings.
When I get back, Tav’s started rehanging the misaligned bathroom door, and for the first time, he’s taken his jumper off and is only wearing a hunter green T-shirt and I have to stop in the doorway and adjust to the sight of all that muscle on display. Even though it’s a thick, thermal T-shirt, his rugged back muscles and solid shoulders go on forever, and I might be drooling as my fingers twitch with the urge to find an excuse to touch him.
‘Okay?’ Tav asks over his shoulder, and I’m grateful to have an armful of bedding to hide my red face behind, embarrassed at being caught ogling him.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him without heavy layers on, and I swallow hard because my mouth has gone dry. ‘I didn’t run into any nisse.’
He laughs. ‘I don’t think you need to now, Sash. You’ve been singing along with me all morning.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ I think for a moment. ‘Have I?’
He makes an affirmative noise around the screw he’s holding between his teeth and starts humming again, loudly over the whirr of the electric screwdriver he’s using, and it takes me a few moments to realise I’m still staring at him, appreciating the way every little movement makes strong shoulder muscles flex under his T-shirt, and I need to have a strict word with myself and get on with the task at hand. I start putting on the fresh bedding with an enthusiasm usually reserved for when someone offers me chocolate.
It’s been a while since I found someone physically attractive. At thirty-six, you’re past the age of crushes and most men you meet are married or otherwise taken, and on the rare occasions I have dated, it’s more about making a connection with someone than what they look like, but oh, holy night, Tav is gorgeous.
Within a few minutes, I’ve realised why he took his heavy-knit zip cardigan off. It’s roasting in the cabin with both the fire and an electric heater going and the added aspect of doing physical work. By the time I’ve got the bottom sheet on the mattress, sweat is prickling at my forehead. It’s the first time in the two weeks I’ve been here that I’ve wanted to take clothes off.
I feel Tav’s eyes on me as I dump my outer layers on the sofa, and when I glance at him, he averts his eyes so quickly that he hits his thumb with the hammer he was using to flatten the hinge. It’s been a long while since I felt physically attractive to someone else. All my relationships in recent years have been lacklustre and never progressed past a few disappointing dates, but I can’t help sneaking glances at him as I squeeze pillows into nutcracker pillowcases and wrestle plump cushions into nutcracker covers, and every time our eyes meet across the cabin, it makes the butterflies in my stomach feel so big that they could be reindeer flying inside me.
And that’s when I notice the scar. A thick white line in otherwise smooth skin. It runs from under the sleeve of his T-shirt, around his elbow and down the top of his forearm before disappearing underneath. Most men have hairy forearms, but his are smooth and muscular and I can imagine them with a tan in the summer.
I don’t realise I’m staring until he notices me noticing. He looks between me and his elbow, and quickly moves, turning around so the scarred arm is on the other side and his body blocks my view.
Within two minutes, he’s mentioned being cold and put his cardigan back on, even though with the fire and the heater going, sauna designers could use our current room temperature as a blueprint.
I feel like I’ve done something wrong by noticing it, and I want to apologise and explain that I was looking at his forearms rather than the scar, but I get the feeling that even bringing it up will cross a line that’s not mine to cross. His clear hiding of it intrigues me, and I want to ask about it, but scars are personal and usually the result of something traumatic, and someone who so obviously hides one isn’t going to want to talk about it.
He’s visibly too hot, and I want to tell him to take his jumper off again, but I can’t say it without drawing attention to the scar I’m pretending I haven’t noticed. Instead, I unplug
the heater and walk across to wedge the door open with a nutcracker doorstop, and when I turn back, Tav’s resting his head against the frame of the door he’s fixing and his eyes are on me.
I give him a smile. ‘Hot work.’
He holds my gaze for a long few minutes, and a couple of times I think he’s going to speak but he stops himself. Eventually he mouths a “thank you” and goes back to work on the door hinge, and I go back to changing the bedding, when what I really want to do is go over and hug him, because I don’t know what causes scars like that, but like the ones on his neck the other night, I know he didn’t intend me to see them, and I know he dropped his guard long enough to let me, and that makes me feel warmer than the crackling fire.
***
It’s the end of a long day but the cabin is finally looking presentable. I fiddle with the garland on the mantelpiece while Tav lines the gift basket with tissue paper and starts piling nutcracker-themed goodies in. I smooth out the red nutcracker-patterned throw folded at the end of the bed and stand back to survey our work. ‘Looks good.’
‘One more thing.’ He pulls a bunch of mistletoe out of the box he’s using. ‘Finishing touch.’
He winds a red ribbon around the stems and into a loop to hang it, then gets out a tiny plastic nutcracker and clips it onto the middle of the bow.
The fresh green scent of the mistletoe combines with the cinnamon sticks I’ve tied to the tree, and there’s a scent warmer on the edge of the hearth, ready to be plugged in with a cube of sugarplum-scented wax in it to fill the room with fragrance before the guests arrive.
‘If it’s a couple staying, I always put a sprig of mistletoe up for an extra touch of romance. It reminds people to stop and take a moment for each other.’
‘That’s very romantic for someone who doesn’t strike me as the romantic type at all.’
‘It’s for good luck more than romance.’ He grins when he catches my confused look. ‘We have this story in Norway about the origin of a kiss under the mistletoe. It starts with Frigga, the goddess of love. Her son was killed by an arrow made from the mistletoe plant, and as she sat underneath the tree where the mistletoe grew and cried over his body, the tears dropped onto the arrow and turned into little white berries that took away the poison and brought him back to life. She was so happy that she started kissing everyone who passed, and she declared that from then on, no one who stood under a mistletoe branch would come to any harm, and would instead receive a token of love – a kiss.’
In one swift move, he’s hooked his foot around one of the chairs at the dining table and pulled it over, and he’s holding the bunch of mistletoe out towards me. ‘You do the honours.’
Despite the fact Tav could reach it easily, it feels special that he wants me to do it. He keeps the chair steady with his foot and holds his hand out, his arm as rigid as granite, letting me use it to push myself up until I’m standing on the chair. One of his hands is curled around my hip to steady me, and when I take the mistletoe bunch, his other hand closes on my other hip, keeping me secure as I reach up and slip the red ribbon over the unobtrusive hook in the wooden ceiling.
Even though I’m quite capable of standing on a chair without assistance, the atmosphere is charged between us. I love the feeling of his hands on my body, and I get the sense it’s nothing to do with keeping me steady and, in fact, is probably having the exact opposite effect, because my whole body is running with tingles. His fingers press into my back, and I slide my hands over his where they’re on my hips. I let them drift down his arms, running the length of them from his wrists up to his shoulders, and further, giving in to the urge to skim across his neck and upwards to brush his hair back. His eyes drift closed and his head drops into my hands.
I’m leaning on him as his hands slide up and tighten around my waist, lifting me down with ease.
I barely register that I’m standing on the wooden floor again because with Tav this close, the whole world feels as unsteady as a boat on a stormy sea.
‘Sash,’ he murmurs, his tongue wetting his lips. He’s blinking slowly and his eyes are on my mouth.
I let my gaze shift upwards to the mistletoe and have to swallow a few times before words will work. ‘We can’t disappoint the goddess of love.’
He laughs, easing some of the tension. ‘No, we can’t.’
His head lowers and my eyes drift shut as his lips press against my cheek. I hadn’t realised how cold my skin was until I feel the burning imprint of his lips against it. It’s soft, gentle and lingering, right on the edge of my cheekbone. His nose is cold where it presses against my skin, and someone lets out a whimper, and to be fair, it was probably me.
His hands are still on my ribs and they tighten as my hand curls into his hair and my body presses against his. The few days’ worth of stubble peppering his jaw is tactile against my skin, and I float on his almond and gingery cologne. My other hand curls into his arm, and I’m glad he’s got a thick jumper on because my nails would’ve definitely made crescent shapes in his muscle.
He stays there, his lips against my cheekbone, breathing against my skin. His nose rubs the side of my face, and then he presses another kiss and stands back up to full height, although he doesn’t move away, which is definitely good because he’s the only thing holding me upright.
I don’t open my eyes for a few long seconds because I don’t want to lose the moment yet. My only experience of mistletoe until now has been ugly plastic branches hung in doorways at office parties, nothing more than an excuse for married drunk men to attempt a pervy kiss. But that is how you do mistletoe.
Tav runs a hand through his hair and flicks his head like he’s trying to clear it. ‘Best mistletoe I’ve ever hung.’
I burst out laughing, possibly hysterical from the closeness to this man I barely know. I’ve had less intimate kisses than that with men I was actually dating.
One of his hands is still on my ribs and he squeezes gently. ‘Thank you for your help today.’ His voice sounds as shivery as mine undoubtedly will.
I let my other hand come up and slide over his forearm until I’m inadvertently gripping the elbow of his left arm, above the scar I saw this morning. ‘Thank you for letting me. I know it’s not something you accept easily.’
His cheeks redden and he tugs his sleeve down even though it was already down to his wrist, but he doesn’t move away.
‘What happened to you, Tav?’ I feel brave for asking. I think he might be starting to open up to me, but I’m unsure if asking so straightforwardly will push him away.
‘Why are you so sure something happened to me?’
‘I can see your scars.’ I gently squeeze his elbow. ‘Not the physical ones. There’s something in your eyes. A vulnerability. An absolute terror that someone’s going to suggest you can’t do something.’
‘I’m six-foot-seven. I’m not vulnerable.’
‘If you think it has anything to do with your height …’ I move my hand from his elbow, going to reach up and touch his face, but this time, he pulls away sharply.
I think he’s going to stalk out, but he backs across the room until his legs hit the sofa and he sits against the arm. His breathing has gone sharp and shallow, and I don’t dare to move because I’m sure he’s going to speak.
‘I was in a car accident,’ he says eventually, the words whispered to the floor instead of to me. ‘When I was twenty. Pretty bad one. At the scene, technically I was dead for longer than anyone should be dead. Then I was in a coma. In the ratio of bones in my body, I had more broken than unbroken. Every part of me was damaged. That’s where the scars come from – the physical ones and the emotional ones.’
He hasn’t looked up once and I haven’t taken a breath since he started speaking. I take a step towards him, desperate to hold him, touch him, hug him, but he puts both hands up to keep me away and vaults to his feet. ‘I need some fresh air.’
I need to know more, but he’s totally closed off now. I can hear the wood creaking under
his feet as he paces outside, and I have no doubt that if I went out there, he’d race off down the hill so he didn’t run the risk of me asking any more questions. I plump up a nutcracker cushion and force myself to leave him alone, because I don’t think he intended to tell me that, and I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised by this small start at letting his guard down.
All I know is that it takes a lot for Tav to open up, and I’m certainly not going to let him stop now.
Chapter 11
Dear Santa,
I tried really, really hard to be good this year, but it’s so difficult. I managed half an hour. I’m sorry. Will I still get a present?
From,
Penelope
Things are usually quieter on a Sunday, but today was the exception. It’s the 12th of December and bookings have steadily increased, and most of the day has been spent in my dad’s grotto, ferrying children in and out to visit Santa. Even Freya came by on her day off and donned her elf hat to help out again, and now it’s evening time and neither Tav nor I can tear ourselves away from the post office.
I stamp an envelope with our “North Pole Mail” stamp, go over to drop it into the outgoing bag, and then come back to look at a fraction of the 7882 letters that were delivered yesterday.
‘Did you ever write to Santa?’ Tav asks as I sit down opposite him with the bag between us.
‘I did when I was little. Mum used to do it with me every year until I was old enough to realise what she was actually doing was finding out what I wanted for Christmas so she and Dad could get it for me and put it under the tree “from Santa”.’ I look up at him, unsure if I want to tell him one of my childhood secrets, but his eyes find mine and he gives me an encouraging smile, like he knows I was going to say something else.
‘I did one other time too. After she died and Dad had been away for a few months. I was far too old to be writing to Santa, but I was still writing letters to Mum after that therapy session with the school, and writing to Santa somehow fitted with that. It felt like things would never be normal again. My nan hated Christmas and I so desperately wanted something to feel like it used to. I wished that Santa could make me believe in magic again.’