The Christmas Concierge, page 10
Chapter Thirteen
Holiday racked her brain for a moment before replying. “We’d love to, of course, but we’re not licensed caterers.”
“You don’t need to be a professional chef to sling some frosting.” Crispin chuckled at the thought. “You can put on a uniform and blend right in.”
“Even if that’s true, we really have to get going before the weather gets any worse. It’s a long drive back to Maine and I have a bad track record with snowstorms.” She ran her hand through her hair. “But have no fear, I’m very good at logistics. I can scrounge up some replacements in the next hour or so.”
“No.” The old man’s expression was serene and utterly certain. “I’d like you to do it.”
“But . . .” Holiday started.
“Why?” Alex finished.
“Because Christmas is a time for reflection and giving.” Crispin smiled kindly at Alex. “Writing a check isn’t a sacrifice for you. I can relate to that—giving you a piece of my great-grandfather’s glasswork isn’t any sacrifice to me. So I’ve made a point of giving something more treasured than money—time and effort.”
Holiday wanted to point out that she was not obscenely rich and should therefore be excluded from this narrative, but she couldn’t abandon her teammate. Not when the finish line was so close.
She glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. “What time does this shindig start?”
“Crafts and games begin promptly at six,” Crispin said.
She turned to Alex. “What do you think? Will we be able to drive all the way back to Alemos tonight?”
“I don’t see that we have a choice.”
Crispin clapped his hands together. “Now you’re in the spirit!”
She turned to Crispin with schoolmarm sternness. “We will give you two hours of cookie decorating. But that’s it. We have miles to go before we sleep.”
“The children will be thrilled,” he said.
“I promise you that we’ll be the best cookie-decorating assistants that ever assisted.” She leveled her index finger at him. “But we’re out of here at the stroke of eight o’clock and we’re taking your great-grandfather’s star with us.”
“Eight thirty?” he countered.
“One hundred and twenty minutes. No more, no less.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Eight sharp. Take it or leave it.”
He relented with a laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Smith. Let me go share the good news with the catering team.”
When they were alone, Alex turned to her. “I can’t believe this.”
“What else could I do?” she demanded. “We have no other options and he knows it. Besides, what kind of monster says no to helping children at Christmas?”
Alex waved this away. “No, I can’t believe you forgot to ask the most important question.”
She frowned. “Which is?”
“What are the uniforms like?”
*
“Don’t say one word,” Alex warned as he stepped out of the powder room.
“Well, well, well.” Holiday tried and failed to hide her grin as she beheld Alex Sappier—titan of tech, mountain man of Maine, coffee connoisseur—rocking a Santa hat, green turtleneck and pants, and red-and-green-striped elf shoes with jingle bells dangling from the curly toes. “It’s a lot of look, but you’re pulling it off.”
“It’s all fun and games until you have to suit up.” He held the powder room door for her, where her version of the elf outfit awaited.
“I’m looking forward to it.” She squared her shoulders as she prepared to face her sartorial fate. “It’s for the kids.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
And she did, repeating the words over and over as she wriggled her stocking feet into ill-fitting elf shoes and tried to arrange the Santa hat at the most alluring angle on her head.
But after a few moments, she had to admit the truth—there was no alluring way to wear a Santa hat. Santa hats didn’t lend themselves to coy flirtation or sultry glances. So she rummaged through her purse, dug out the red lipstick she hardly ever used, and decided to lean into the “jolly old elf” side of her persona.
“I make this look good.” She threw open the powder room door with aplomb. “Rustle up the flying reindeer and let’s get going.”
Alex’s gaze fixed on her mouth.
“What?” She pressed her lips together, suddenly self-conscious. “Too much? Does it clash with the hat?”
He snapped out of it and shook his head. “No, it looks good. I just . . . Let me go warm up the car.”
“The caterers have the cookies, right?” she called after him.
“Cris said they’re already there setting everything up. All we have to do is show up and starting doling out icing and sprinkles.”
She leveled her gaze at Alex. “You call him Cris now?”
“I’m on a first-name basis with all people who force me to dress up like Father Christmas.” He strode out the front door and into the gusting night wind.
Cris himself strode into the foyer, now attired in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, featuring a bowtie with blinking red and green lights. “Miss Smith, you look splendid!”
She struck a pose under the massive, sparkling chandelier. “Thanks. It’s straight off the runway from the North Pole. Elf couture.”
“I want you to know that I truly appreciate this.” He straightened his bedazzled bow tie. “I know that you and your boyfriend probably had plans tonight, but it means the world to me to do this for the children every year.”
“It’s our pleasure,” she assured him. “You’ve been incredibly kind and generous.” She cleared her throat. “And, um, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh no?” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other.”
Her entire face felt as though it were spontaneously combusting. “No, no. We’re just coworkers. Kind of.”
“Far be it from me to argue with a lovely lady doing me a favor,” he said. “It’s nearly time to leave. You’re not driving, are you?”
She glanced out at the darkening sky and icy pavement. “I think I’ll leave that to my coworker.”
“Splendid.” He crossed the living room to the limestone-topped wet bar. “Then have a cocktail with me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“You can. You must!” he insisted. “What’s your poison? Bourbon? A Manhattan?” Upon seeing her expression, he switched tactics. “May I tempt you with a Mistletoe Martini?”
She felt her resolve weakening. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds good.”
“It is,” he assured her. “Vodka, elderflower liqueur, fresh cranberries, mint leaves . . .”
“Hang on.” Holiday entered the ingredient list into her phone to access later. “That sounds heavenly, but I can’t handle these shoes, a bunch of kids, and dozens of cookies if I’m tipsy.”
“A workaholic, I see.” He sighed as he gave the wet bar one last, longing look.
Holiday nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“All right then, an Irish coffee for the road.” He held up his hand to stave off any protests. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on the whisky.”
“Just the tiniest splash.” She watched as he prepared the drink in a high-end, stainless steel, double-walled travel mug. “Make sure I give that back to you at the end of the evening.”
He waved this away. “Keep it. A token of my appreciation.”
“But you already gave us the tree topper,” she protested. “We can never repay you.”
He pressed the mug into her hand. “See you at the country club. Do you need directions?”
The front door opened and Alex stepped back into the foyer. “I thought we were in a hurry to get going?” He blinked when he noticed Crispin’s tux and tie.
“We’re getting some coffee for the road,” Holiday told Alex. “Mine is spiked, but you should have some plain old caffeine.”
Alex regarded the travel mug suspiciously. “No offense, but I’m kind of a coffee snob.”
Holiday turned to Crispin. “You can take the ‘kind of’ out of that sentence.”
Crispin looked delighted to hear this. “A fellow java enthusiast! You’ve come to the right place. You must try this roast from Panama. It’s got opening notes of jasmine and white grape and finishes with a rich cocoa flavor.”
Holiday furrowed her brow. “Are we talking about coffee or fine wine?”
Both men ignored her and launched into an intense conversation about the merits of African versus South American blends. After the term “dynamic complexity” was bandied about, Holiday felt compelled to remind them:
“Gentlemen. The children await. Shall we?” She put a hand on each man’s shoulder and ushered them to the door.
“All right, all right.” Crispin nodded at Alex over Holiday’s head. “I have a rare blend from Costa Rica that you simply must try. Let me give you a few beans to take with you.”
“Boys.” Holiday dragged them both by the sleeve and shoved them out the front door. “We are leaving now.” She abandoned her insulated mug and turned to Alex as she mentally revised the driving plans. “Give me your keys. I’ll take your truck, and you can ride with Crispin and talk coffee, and meet me there.”
Alex handed them over and headed toward Crispin’s garage, talking and gesticulating wildly about the marvels of Costa Rica’s acidic soil and north-facing slopes.
Holiday hurried into the truck, turned on the ignition, and cranked up the heat. She entered the country club into her GPS system and put her foot on the brake, whereupon she realized that driving in jingly elf shoes was going to be even harder than driving in stiletto heels.
Never one to back down from a challenge, she flipped back the white puffball atop her Santa hat and eased the truck into reverse.
“If I can handle this truck in these shoes, I can handle anything.”
*
“Don’t freak out,” Alex said as he settled into the wooden folding chair next to Holiday’s. “We can handle this.”
“How did you know I was freaking out?” Holiday surveyed the spread of culinary delights displayed on the table before them—naked cut-out sugar cookies, pastry bags filled with colored icing, nonpareils, crystal sugar, sprinkles, and gold and silver sugar pearls. “I love cookies. I love kids. But I don’t actually know anything about cookies or kids.”
He patted her back. And left his hand resting between her shoulder blades. She tried not to notice it, but it was all she could feel.
“What’s to know?” he scoffed. “All we have to do is keep the cookies and icing coming.”
She glanced toward the massive double doors that were about to swing open and unleash a throng of children who were already amped on sugar and seasonal anticipation. “But what if they want to talk to us? I don’t know how to talk to children.”
“Neither do I, but I guarantee they won’t want to talk.” His hand was still on her back. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her shirt. “They just want to glonk some frosting on a cookie, shove it in their mouths, and go on their way.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I think you seriously underestimate the sophistication of today’s youths.”
“I’m confident in my prediction. And I say that as someone who’s made a lot of money from making predictions.”
The doors flew open and there was no more time to freak out—the youths were upon them. Dozens of chubby-cheeked cherubs decked out in sweater vests and velvet dresses swarmed the cookie-decorating station. Most of them snatched up cookies and frosting and ignored the adults entirely. But others . . .
“What’s your name?” a little girl with ringlets and a plaid hair bow demanded.
Holiday smiled. “Holiday.”
The little girl shook her head. “No, I mean your real name.”
Holiday could see Alex stifling a laugh. “That is my real name.”
“No, it’s not,” the girl insisted. “What’s your name when you’re not pretending to be an elf?”
Holiday had to stifle a laugh herself. “Listen, kid, I’ll level with you. I’m not a real elf. You’ve got me dead to rights there. I’m a North Pole imposter. But Holiday is my real name. I swear on this sugar cookie.”
A boy who looked to be eleven or twelve jumped into the conversation. “Are you named after the Madonna song?”
“My parents would die if they heard you ask that,” Holiday told him. “They weren’t big Madonna fans.”
Alex leaned over. “Aren’t you too young to know who Madonna is?”
The kid straightened his pocket square. “I can use the internet.”
“I’m named after a jazz singer,” Holiday continued. “Named Billie Holiday.”
“They named their baby girl after a boy?” The little ringleted girl was aghast.
Before Holiday could explain, another child sidled up and pointed first at Alex, then at Holiday. “Are you guys married?”
“No, you dum-dum,” a freckled redhead piped up. “Look, they don’t have any rings on.”
“You can be married without rings,” the first child shot back.
“No, you can’t.”
“Yeah, you can.” The first kid looked ready to push up his sleeves and start a brawl.
“We’re not married,” Holiday said. “Now. Who would like to decorate this snowman cookie?”
The children glanced at the cookie for half a second before resuming their interrogation. The redhead rounded on Alex. “What’s your name?”
“Your real name, not your elf name,” Ringlets hastened to add.
“Alexander Sappier.” He kept a completely straight face. “Executive assistant for Kris Kringle and Associates since approximately four p.m. today. Would you care to review my CV?”
The dapper young gentleman with the pocket square ignored all this and tilted his head toward Holiday. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Alex managed to hang on to his poker face. “No.”
The kids leaned in. “But do you like her?”
“Like, like her like her?”
Holiday busied herself with piping yellow spindles onto a star-shaped cookie.
Alex cleared his throat. “I have the right to remain silent.”
“No, you don’t.” The little girl stuck out her bottom lip.
“I have the right to an attorney.”
“You guys!” Holiday physically put cookies into the children’s hands. “Look at all this frosting. Come on, let’s see who can make the most awesome cookie.”
The children glanced down at the cookies, but made no move to start decorating.
“Winner gets to wear these elf shoes,” she threw in. This elicited some half-hearted mumbling.
She looked at Alex. He looked back at her.
“Decorate cookies with the kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.” She laughed.
“I haven’t seen a cross-examination like that since I sat in on an FDA drug review meeting.” He actually had a bead of sweat on his forehead.
“You said you’d do anything to get that star for your mom,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, but that was intense. I had no idea kids were so inquisitive these days.”
Holiday nibbled on a bell-shaped cookie. “Oh, I’d bet you were a pretty inquisitive little kid yourself.”
Neither of them mentioned all the talk about girlfriends and liking liking each other, but the topic remained between them, as massive and awkward as a moose hunkered down at the table.
“Here.” Holiday intervened before the girl with the ringlets squirted green icing all over her dress. “Let me help.”
“Thanks.” The girl screwed up her face in concentration as she attempted to pipe a perfectly formed wreath. “I really want to wear those shoes.”
Holiday beckoned her in and whispered, “Check in with me when this is over and we’ll make it happen.”
The girl smiled. “You’re nice.” She lifted her chin toward Alex. “He should marry you.”
Holiday smiled back and swallowed a sigh. “We’ll take that under advisement.”
Thankfully, the conversation progressed to less emotionally loaded topics, such as TikTok, video games, and Pokemon. Alex and Holiday decided to display a tray of cookies so that guests could vote for their favorites, but orderly voting proved difficult as the kids kept eating their masterpieces before they could be displayed for more than a few minutes.
“You’re getting really good at this,” Holiday complimented Alex as he advised a kindergartener on the best technique for creating spindles on a snowflake.
“Right back at you.” He studied the tinsel she’d created on a cookie tree with red icing and silver sugar pearls. “By the time this is over, we’ll be ready to go on one of those holiday baking shows.”
“Two overachieving workaholics, ten dozen cookies, and five hundred pounds of frosting,” she said.
“That show sells itself.” He handed the cookie back to the kindergartener. “What do you think?”
The five-year-old scrutinized the zillionaire tech guru’s handiwork. “Eh. It’s okay. Needs more sprinkles.”
Alex passed the sugar crystals. “Can’t argue with that.”
“You must be relieved to have that tree topper in hand,” she said. “Christmas is saved.”
“You did it.” He sat back and gazed at the sugar-fueled chaos all around them. “In the weirdest way possible.”
“Not to brag, but that’s kind of my specialty.” She reached over and flicked the white puffball attached to his Santa hat. “Never a dull moment.”
“Paul wants me to pass along his gratitude.” Alex pulled out his phone and read Paul’s text verbatim: “‘Tell H she is a miracle worker.’ Happy crying emoji. ‘Mom will let us live to see another Christmas. Now you do your part and sweep the hot girl from high school off her feet.’”
“That’s sweet.” But the enthusiasm faded from Holiday’s voice. They had indeed arrived at the “sweep the hot girl from high school off her feet” portion of this bargain. The portion where she had to turn Alex over to a stranger.
