No Elfing Way, page 1
NO ELFING WAY
CHRISTMAS FALLS
BOOK SEVEN
HAYDEN HALL
Copyright © 2023 by Hayden Hall
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-8-8665-9284-5
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Morningstar Ashley
Edited by Sabrina Hutchinson
Written by Hayden Hall
www.haydenhallwrites.com
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
1. James
2. Ezra
3. James
4. Ezra
5. James
6. Ezra
7. Ezra
8. James
9. Ezra
10. James
11. Ezra
12. James
13. Ezra
Afterword & Acknowledgments
Christmas Falls
Also by Hayden Hall
About Hayden Hall
JAMES
I gripped the wheel tighter. My palms were slick with cold sweat. Ever since getting off the highway, anticipation had been twisting my guts and hollowing my chest.
“…was a trip that could have been a phone call.” Kinsleigh’s bewildered voice came through the speaker. He was scribbling with a pen against the paper while we spoke, his phone annoyingly nearby, so each scratch came through.
I sighed. My eyelids weighed ten pounds and the fluttering snowflakes reflecting my headlights weren’t helping me focus on the road. “I told you already. This is a vacation. The first one in three years.”
Kinsleigh’s voice was as skeptical as ever. “James, dear, if this were a vacation, I wouldn’t spend my evening running these numbers. I just don’t understand why you must spend two weeks in that godforsaken place.”
“Isn’t there such a thing as privacy?” I asked lazily. And when Kinsleigh snorted with contempt, I sorted through my thoughts. “I’m thirty-three. I’ve been on a partner track for…how many years? Too many. And what do I have to show for it? I need this deal or Don will keep me in acquisitions for the rest of my life. And I know my grandfather. A phone call won’t do.” I shuddered at the thought. It was going to be challenging to make him see things my way no matter what. To imagine doing it over the phone with a man as resolutely opposed to new technologies as Gramps would result in a total disaster.
Kinsleigh’s source of irritation wasn’t just the fact that he had to run the projections and determine a fair sum for Gramps on his night off. This was his sport, his hobby, and his career. He loved it. And so, when he spoke again, I knew full well he wasn’t talking about business. “But two weeks seems rather excessive, James. I’ve seen you close a deal in three days.”
“Like I said, it’s PTO for a change.” My voice left little room for discussion. This thing was making me roll my eyes and I was already risking my life driving when I was this tired. “And do I need to remind you not to say a word to Don? I want this to be a surprise, alright? He’ll fall off his chair when I show him the folder.” And he won’t have a way to deny me the promotion I had been promised. I didn’t say the last part aloud, but Kinsleigh knew it as well as I did.
“You are a weird man, James,” Kinsleigh said.
I laughed softly, then wished him goodnight. I could already see how his evening would turn out. Desperate Housewives would run in the background while he ate ice cream and ran the projections of what my grandfather’s shop was worth paying for. By morning, I would have a clear offer to give Gramps and finally help him retire.
The congestion of traffic coming into Christmas Falls irritated me as much as it surprised me. I had forgotten how wild the festive craze could get around here. The drive from the outskirts of town took me ages and the warm car seat became an inviting place for a nap.
I gritted my teeth and muttered to myself whenever I saw an overly decorated front lawn or a Joe-next-door wearing antlers. The mass hysteria was getting on my nerves and I wasn’t even out of the car yet.
When I drove into the heart of the town, I discovered my grandfather’s shop full of visitors. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of Gramps from the moving car and I dreaded moving through the crowd. They all wore oversized red, green, and gold sweaters like someone had planned it. My gray pants, white shirt, and dark gray coat would stick out in that jolly crowd. I passed Santa’s Workshop and turned the next corner to park in front of The White Elephant. It, too, was crowded, but I imagined there would be room enough for one guy to have a drink. I squeezed my rented car into a free spot, then stepped out into the winter night. Snow was falling all the same.
My skin prickled, although I was sure it was more my physical aversion to the Christmas songs coming from the speakers inside The White Elephant than to any snowflakes sneaking under my collar.
At the entrance, I stomped my shoes lightly to shake the wet snow off, then made my way through the crowd until I found an empty spot at the bar. Too many smiling faces, flashing Christmas lights, and cinnamon and orange scents attacked my senses. I longed to return to New York to lock myself up in my apartment overlooking the Hudson River.
I ordered a dealer’s choice beer and got it, tipped the server wordlessly, and stared at my phone. I wasn’t looking at anything particular. I feigned business so no strangers at the bar would strike up a conversation. I wished everyone all the best, I just didn’t want them talking to me.
Back home, I could almost cut all of this crap out of my life. Sure, that one song played over and over in every store I had to enter, but I could always choose to order my groceries and prepare my meals so I wouldn’t encounter people wearing Santa hats all the goddamn time.
I drew a long sip of my beer and pursed my lips. Goddamn orange-scented everything. I pushed my beer away and took my leave. There was no room for the last sane man in this town.
I drove a couple of streets away from the pub, parked my car in front of the bed and breakfast my assistant had booked for me on Comet Street, and entered my modest apartment for the two weeks I had expected to remain here. I paced, unpacked, showered, and paced some more.
It had been well over four years since I’d last visited. Gramps didn’t like phone calls, so they were never lengthy, but I did check in on him often. Still, I had no idea what sort of welcome to expect. It felt awkward to just walk into his shop when it was crowded with customers. But dragging it out made me feel like I sat on a colony of fire ants.
The apartment was as cozy as anything in this Christmas-crazed place. Dark hardwood floors were covered with thick, fluffy carpets in the living room and the bedroom. The furniture was just as dark and suffocatingly warm, with the glow of endless Christmas lights all over the place. There were Christmas lights spread along the bed’s headboard, stuffed into jars in place of regular lamps, and around the mirror above the dresser in the bedroom. In the living room, it was more of the same. Dark tones lit by the dim yellow glow of festive lights. A plate of cookies, undoubtedly full of cinnamon, oranges, and chocolate chips, was on the table in the middle of the room.
“The bottom line is this,” I told the mirror above the dresser, pretending it was Gramps. “You’ve worked your whole life. You’ve earned this, Gramps.” A warm smile spilled over my face. It wasn’t my dealmaking smile. Not this time. I’d climbed the ladder at Sinclair Emporium for years. I’d given Donovan Sinclair my weekends, vacations, and afternoons since I first moved to New York. I’d worked hard and I had the very top in sight.
Gramps had spent his life in Christmas Falls, loyal to the town as if he really was Santa and this was his North Pole. He had never traveled, never paused for breath, and never carved some time out for himself.
And now, in a single swing of the bat, I could achieve the crescendo of all this work. I was about to close the deal of a lifetime. By Christmas, I would have the final argument for Donovan Sinclair to make me a partner and my grandfather would have the retirement he deserved.
I was on goddamn fire.
With one last grin at the mirror, I was ready. A wave of determination washed over me and flutters in my stomach threatened to put me in the jolly mood that had infected the rest of the town. Oh, but I was good. I was so damn good and the world was about to know it.
Fixing my dusty blond hair and checking that my teeth were clean, I nodded to myself, straightened the lapels of my suit jacket, threw my coat over it, and headed out.
The wind bit my face at once, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I’d told Gramps I would come to help with the seasonal rush, but I had already failed him in that regard. I had forgotten that around here, Christmas lasted from mid-November until New Year’s.
Snow crunched under my shoes and my teeth ground in reply. I’d never liked it; all this cold, white deadness. When I was a kid, snowmen scared me. These days, they made me roll my eyes. What was all the fuss about? Three big balls of solid water piled one on top of the other, a wasted scarf, and a perfectly edible carrot gone to rot.
I got my head out of my ass by the time I reached Santa’s Workshop. I paused at the big window. The yellow light glowed brightly, falling onto the cleared sidewalk. Gramps must have shoveled the snow when the traffic of customers waned. In the window, every child’s wonder was displayed. Whether he knew it or not, Gramps had pulled the oldest trick out of the marketing book. His windows were cluttered with all
I noted this for myself. Gramps deserved a generous payout for a store with such authenticity. It was a trait one couldn’t find in Sinclair Emporium and was back in fashion. For whatever reason, people were willing to give more money to this small-town, family-owned business than they ever would to Emporium. We weren’t just buying a store. We were buying a story.
I licked my cracking, cold lips and pushed the door in. An annoying doorbell rang to announce my entrance. I disliked the noise, but I gathered that people found such a thing charming. There was only one woman with a young boy at her heels looking through the clutter my grandfather left everywhere. But Gramps wasn’t behind the counter like I had expected him to be.
The woman seemed to be waiting for Gramps while the boy tugged the edge of her jacket and pointed to an immense teddy bear in the right window.
I descended the three brown wooden steps to the hardwood floor. A deep red carpet was in the middle of the store, directly beneath a huge elaborate chandelier that radiated a warm yellow light. I glanced around the place I hadn’t visited in four and a half years. The last time I had been here, I had intentionally picked summer for my visit. Even then, people of the town spoke of the festive season.
Directly in front of me was a big counter. An old-fashioned cash register was on top of it, although I wasn’t sure if it was a toy for sale or a purely decorative piece. The counter’s dark brown wood matched that of the floor, but the dark pastel yellow of its front matched the walls I could see. Behind the counter was a hall with a thick red drape separating it. Everywhere around me, toys lay on top of toys. A Jack-in-a-box was next to a pink dollhouse, next to a stuffed animal. Wooden cars were indiscriminately placed next to dolls. I liked my grandfather’s carelessness in targeting his customers, but there was a proven logic in separating traditionally boy toys from girl toys that Sinclair Emporium employed. I had never been sure about it myself, but I hadn’t meddled in departments that had nothing to do with me. It would be a loss, I thought, to split the store in half. There was a charm to this mess and charm meant cash flow.
It also meant that customers wanted to stick around for longer. They wanted a slow and personal experience of shopping here. Like this woman who lifted a carved airplane and turned it around in her hands, showing the boy with the Santa hat how planes worked.
I pretended to be looking at the products for the sake of their comfort. Nobody wanted a brooding man in a suit to overlook their private moment while shopping. Slowly, I turned on my heels and looked at the window again. A giant hammock was hooked to either side of it. Below, on top of Christmas-wrapped boxes, were standard board games every toy shop sold. Next to those, I spotted a carved wooden box that was my grandfather’s handiwork. In the mess of handmade toys, there were the usual suspects every toyshop on the planet had. Branded dolls and nicely packaged puzzles, dollhouses that couldn’t compete with Gramps’ artisan crafts, but which were the cash cow of Don Sinclair’s entire company.
Before I knew it, I was reaching toward it. And just then, the approaching footsteps and the soft folding of the red curtain made my heart leap. Four years. I was sure he would be delighted to see me arrive a day earlier than I’d told him I would.
“Gramps,” I said as I spun around, but the smile froze on my face when I saw the man on the other side of the counter. A dark, curly-haired Timotheé Chalamet lookalike with an afternoon stubble frowned at me. He wore a white T-shirt and my grandfather’s ridiculous brown faux-leather apron with carving tools inside its many pockets. I hadn’t expected a Vogue cover model to be minding my grandfather’s cash register in this god-forsaken town. His angular features and lithe physique made my heart trip and my tongue tie.
“Unlikely.” He said the word carefully as if he was leaving some room for such a possibility. The man was at least five years my junior. I would have laughed, but my attention was on the fact that my palms grew slick with cool sweat. You are a cutie, I thought, then guarded myself from the instant pull I felt deep in my chest.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked. I focused my annoyance on his low-effort sarcasm.
“He said ‘hell,’” whispered the boy, tugging at his mother’s jacket, his eyes like saucers.
The hot twink, who was also wearing antlers, glared at me, then gave a bright smile to the boy and his mother. “I’m so sorry about that. You’re right. This man just used a bad word. And he’ll put a dollar in the swear jar, won’t he?” As he said that last part, he glared at me again. Something tickled me deep in my stomach. His murderous look was almost convincing, but the touch of pink on the top of his ears and the way he kept his eyes on me two moments too long left me curious.
I reached for my wallet, muttering to myself while Santa’s elf produced a jar from under the counter. A tip jar, I suspected, but a jar nonetheless.
I flapped my wallet open and stepped up to the counter. “Sorry,” I whispered to the woman who had no patience for me. I sighed and looked at the young man who crossed his arms over his chest. “I only have a five.” I made the horrible mistake of lifting the bill out of my wallet.
“That’ll do,” he said as he plucked it from my grip and placed it into the jar. “We don’t use bad words around here.” That was to the little boy who found the whole show amusing. “Ah, I almost forgot, here’s the blue music box. I knew I had it somewhere in the back.” The young man was bubbling with joy as he presented the woman with a pastel blue music box. He opened it and a delicate little ballerina rose to the familiar Swan Lake tune, swirling around before a small mirror that made up the underside of the lid.
“I knew I would find it here,” the woman said. She beamed at the box. “I saw it last year and it’s been on my mind ever since. I should have gotten it right away. They don’t make them like this anymore.” She picked up the box and examined it.
“You’ve been here before, then?” the young man asked. His brown eyes twinkled when they caught the lights of the chandelier. I wanted to tear my gaze away from him. I wanted to remain cool, but he licked his lips and they shone. I bet he smelled like chocolate. And in an instant, I found myself wanting to bury my nose in his rich, wild hair and check for myself.
The woman blinked softly and laughed even softer. “Many times. But I haven’t seen you before. Is Nicholas still around?”
My heart jittered and I slowly pulled away, pretending I was interested in a shelf full of vintage books that doubled as safeboxes for spy toys. Gramps knew how to retain a customer. Then again, this was the only shop of its kind in town.
“Oh yes, but he left early today for a change.” The young man’s conversational tone was annoyingly friendly. I wondered why he felt the need to fake such interest in this conversation. But my second thought was the envy at the fact he hadn’t been more pleasant to me. Not that I couldn’t handle a bossy twink.
“Give him my love, then,” the woman said while setting the box on the counter. She pulled out her wallet to pay.
“I’ll leave him a note on the counter to find in the morning,” the young man stated and picked up a fountain pen and a small cream card of quality stock paper. “Who should I say the admirer of his work is?” His smile was too bright and too dazzling for this late in the evening. I wanted to see my grandfather, but instead I gazed at this man’s pearly teeth and wondered just how silky his hair would be between my fingers.
“Ninnie,” the woman said. “He’ll know.” She was smiling as brightly as the man behind the counter. It seemed to me that this transaction was taking ages. Were I a customer needing help, I probably would have walked out by now. Then again, I wasn’t your typical small-town shopper. Ninnie was. And she was enjoying herself immensely. Maybe this kid knew what he was doing.
