Naughty or Nice, page 2
I watch as Rora narrows her eyes. “Ma’am, we don’t use Santa as a threat here.”
The mom turns to face Rora with a pout. Jesus. “I just want the pictures to be perfect.”
Rora takes a deep breath, as if she’s counting to three in her head, before replying. “Surely you’d rather Benji had fun meeting Santa and the pictures looked like your son than a catalog version of him?”
Benji’s mom begrudgingly nods.
“Great. Then perhaps you could trust me to do my job and make that happen.”
With a resigned sigh, the mom leaves her kid alone and steps back.
Rora turns her attention back to Benji, her energy transforming. She’s not smiley. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen her smile once since we met, but her energy is captivating, and the kids love it; she’s bright but deep, intense but fun. Like a song you find stuck in your head at all hours of the day, and you just can’t quite put your finger on why it consumes you so much.
She claps her hands together before holding her camera up. “Alright, Benji. You’re looking great! You know, faux hawks are all the rage in the North Pole right now. Isn’t that right, Santa?”
You’d never know she hated Christmas with how well she pretends for the kids.
“Absolutely. You’d fit right in with the elves,” I tell Benji.
His face lights up. “I want to be an elf when I grow up!”
“Benj—” his mom starts.
Rora stops her with one quick raised brow. “What are we thinking, Benji? A big smile?”
She never tells the kids what to do. She asks them. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about, but it makes the kids more comfortable and less awkward.
Benji nods, his mouth stretching in a toothy grin.
I smile at the camera, and Rora snaps away, crouching down and standing on her tiptoes, testing different angles.
It’s a far cry from the Santa pictures I’m used to. Back in Addie Creek, the parents just take their own pictures. My only experience with professional pictures was tagging along when Charlie and Kate took Felix and Noelle to a department store in Austin to get their pictures taken because they weren’t fooled by my dad in his Santa suit. Those pictures had been stuffy and formal.
Rora pauses and squints at the little screen on her camera. “Oh wow, you’re a natural. Great job!”
She gives me a small nod, a signal that she has what she needs, and I’m up.
“Are you excited for Christmas, Benji?” I ask, and he immediately starts talking a mile a minute, telling me about their Christmas plans.
One thing I already love about being Santa here is how unhurried it is. There’s no rush to get as many kids in and out as possible; every kid gets their moment to talk about whatever they want. Rora uses this time to check and quickly edit the pictures, and activities are set up outside the grotto for waiting families. It’s a perfect system.
“What would you like for Christmas?”
Benji’s mom leans in closer to listen to his answer.
He gives me a serious look. “I want a baby brother or sister.”
His mom’s face falls.
Shit. “I don’t think the elves can make you one of those since Christmas is just in a few weeks,” I reply gently, which seems to placate him. “Is there a toy you might like instead?”
“A Bubbles RV with the tent. The red one.”
I quickly glance over his shoulder, and his mom nods, looking relieved. “I’ll certainly see what we can do,” I promise, and help him down from my lap. I wish him a Merry Christmas, giving him one of the stockings we hand out to the kids, and Rora directs his mom to the register, where Noelle will help with the pictures.
Rora rolls her neck with a groan when they leave the grotto, glancing at the snowman clock above the entrance. “We should take a five-minute break before the next family. Stretch out, chug some coffee.” She grabs the travel coffee cups Noelle gave us this morning from below the desk and hands one to me as I stand up.
We’ve been stealing sips here and there between families, but this is the first time we’ve actually stopped to caffeinate. And I desperately need it.
I inhale the peppermint mocha with a happy sigh before stretching my arms above my head and easing some of the tension from my body. The throne isn’t uncomfortable, but balancing wriggly kids on my lap is almost as much work as a trip to the gym.
Rora drags her eyes up my form to the tips of my fingers, where they almost graze the ceiling. She looks away quickly when she realizes I’ve noticed her watching.
“I forget how tall you are until you stand up,” she says, focusing on her coffee. “Charlie always complained about his back hurting when he was Santa. It’s got to be worse for you.”
“I was going to ask if you’ve done this before, but that answers that,” I reply with a chuckle. “You’re great with the kids.”
“This was my job every Christmas in high school. I might hate Christmas, but I love working with kids.” She rubs the back of her neck like it’s aching underneath her camera strap.
“Why don’t you use a tripod?”
“I’ve never liked staying still while I work,” she explains. “I’ve always been on the move. My parents are photographers—”
“Wildlife, right?” Charlie and Kate have spoken about Rora and her parents over the years, and I vaguely remember Kate mentioning something about wildlife photography.
Rora looks surprised that I know. “Yeah. Well, my mom’s a wildlife photographer. My dad’s a landscape photographer. Both specialties require a lot of patience. When I was young, they placed a bet on which of them I would take after, but they very quickly realized I didn’t have the patience for either.”
One of the guys on my research base is a hobby photographer and once told me he spent six hours lying still trying to photograph a rare migrating bird. Just a couple of days of watching Rora work, and I can’t imagine her staying still for half of that.
“How did you land on photojournalism?” I ask, clinging to the little pieces of her I’m getting to know. I’ve picked things up here and there through my family, but I like hearing her talk.
“I’ve had a camera in my hand since I could walk, and I just kind of fell into it naturally,” she answers with a shrug. “I was always looking for interesting stories through the lens. My parents recognized what I was doing and guided me in the right direction. How did you get into climatology?”
I’m not sure anyone’s asked me that since college, when my fellow students and I were still full of hope that we were going to make a difference.
“There was a heat wave in ’88. It was all over the news, and I was fascinated, but trying to get any information on why it was happening was nearly impossible in Texas. I got my fair share of lectures on ‘questioning God’s will’ when I asked. My parents weren’t religious and found a few books for me. I had nightmares about climate change for a month, then woke up one morning and told anyone who would listen that I was going to fix it.”
“That’s adorable,” Rora replies, her eyes twinkling. “How is fixing it going?”
I snort. “Not well.”
“I figured. Do you at least still like your job?”
I sit back down on the throne to finish my coffee, and Rora perches on the stool that’s off to the side for families. “It’s complicated. I like my job, yeah, but I’ve also been doing the same thing for a decade now and I’m a little bored. I’m in the highest role at the station. There’s no way of moving up unless I’m willing to travel.”
“You don’t want to travel? It’s the best,” Rora says, and I can see on her face how much she loves it. There’s a hunger there, like she can’t wait to get back out on the road.
“I like traveling. It’s just… I got a job offer, actually, just before I came here. It’s a more senior position where I’d be traveling to different stations and visiting various research labs, liaising between research teams, auditing setups and research, overseeing training… That kind of thing. But I haven’t decided if I’m taking it yet.”
Rora stares at me, open-mouthed. “Why wouldn’t you take it? That sounds amazing and exactly what you need if you’re bored.” She’s the first person, aside from my boss, to see it that way.
My team in Greenland doesn’t want me to leave, and my family would rather I found something closer to Wyoming than accept a job that will take me all over the world.
“It does sound amazing,” I agree. “But I don’t know. I think I might be too old to start over like that.” Not to mention the niggling worry that it’s not my current job role that’s boring me but my entire career.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on. You’re not old.” Her gaze snags on something, and she leans forward, reaching toward my hat. “Stay still a sec.”
I do as she says, holding my breath as I feel the heat of her skin near my face. Her fingers are gentle, tugging something from the edge of my hat.
She pulls back a little, showing me the shiny purple piece of foil. “Tinsel.” Her voice is hushed, her eyes wide like she’s just realized how close we are. She swallows, sitting back, a soft flush on her face. “So, how old are you?” The question feels weighted, like it has less to do with our previous conversation than it would have a second ago.
“Forty-seven.”
She breathes out deeply, surprise flickering in her eyes. “That’s not old.”
Did she expect me to be younger? Older?
She takes my empty coffee cup from the floor beside the throne and stashes it with hers below the desk before heading for the entrance to the grotto to let the next family in.
“How old are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
She looks over her shoulder at me, running her tongue along her lower lip before answering. “I’m twenty-eight.” She steps out of the grotto, and I lean my head back against the throne with a heavy sigh.
She’s twenty-eight.
Fuck.
3
RORA
DECEMBER 5
Someone’s in my house. I rub my face and open my eyes, squinting at the daylight and groaning at the soft sounds of banging and jingling coming from downstairs.
That better be Noelle. I refuse to be murdered in Wintermore at Christmas.
Forcing myself out of bed, I pull a blanket around my shoulders and shove my feet in slippers before trudging downstairs.
Technically, this is my parents’ house, but I’m not in Wintermore enough to get my own place. Hell, my parents aren’t in Wintermore enough to hang on to such a big house, but apartments in town hardly ever come up. Noelle and Felix still live at home because it’s easier than fighting for one of the few apartments. And this house is just across the street, so they can get away if they ever need a little space.
I yawn as I walk into the living room. Sure enough, my best friend is standing in the center of the room, with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. It’s a medium-warm brown these days, as close to her natural color as I’ve seen in a while, but the ends are still slightly blue-tinged from her last color experiment.
She’s holding something behind her back with a guilty expression, as if I can’t see the boxes of Christmas decorations dotted around the room.
“It’s too early for this.”
“It’s December fifth,” she protests, brandishing a silver moon ornament from behind her back. “We’ve had our tree up for weeks.”
“I meant too early in the morning.”
“Ah. I can help with that.” Noelle spins around, and she has a takeout coffee cup in hand when she turns back.
I can smell the caffeine from across the room. Heavenly. “Gimme.” I grab the cup and fall ungracefully onto the couch, breathing in the sweet vanilla syrup and coconut milk—my favorite. “This is good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, my parents want you to come over for brunch when we’re finished decorating, by the way.”
“That sounds perfect.” The brunch, not the decorating. “Why are you decorating my living room before dawn?” I ask once I’ve had a few sips of the latte.
Monday is the only day the store is closed; you’d think she’d want to sleep in.
“It’s 10:30. You must have been having some pretty sweet dreams to sleep this long. Anything good?”
“Oh, I don’t remember.” I do, but it’s probably best not to mention who I was dreaming about. I clear my throat. “The ‘why are you decorating’ part still stands.”
“You know the rules,” she says, turning her attention back to the boxes and pulling out an artificial Christmas tree.
Great.
“You mean the rule that all houses in Wintermore need to be decorated outside? I already have lights outside. You put them up years ago, and they’re on a timer.” I’m pretty sure the town couldn’t actually do anything if I didn’t have the lights up, but I’m never usually here for Christmas, so it doesn’t affect me either way. Most houses here leave lights up year-round.
“Felix put them up, actually. That’s why they’re crooked,” Noelle says, and I think it’s safe to assume I’m not getting an answer to why she’s decorating inside.
She loves decorating, so if it makes her happy, she can turn this place into the North Pole. I grew up with the Whittens; I’m used to blocking out Christmas decorations.
I jump as Noelle tosses a crinkly paper bag at me. “That’s for you.”
Green velvet greets me as I peek inside, and I pull out a new skirt for my elf costume. It looks at least a couple of inches longer, and it has pockets.
“For your candy,” Noelle says when I excitedly point them out. “There’s some in the bag.”
I’m already tearing into the bag before she’s finished talking, tossing a blue raspberry-flavored sour candy into my tongue and sighing happily. Better than caffeine. “You want one?”
“No, thanks. I value my tastebuds too much.”
My obsession with sour candy started when I was nine. I had the worst case of strep I’d ever had and almost completely lost my taste. The only things I enjoyed were sour: candy, pickles, straight lemons, and limes. Have I fucked up my tastebuds over the years so I find most foods bland now? Maybe, but I travel enough that I can always find something extra flavorful.
“So,” Noelle begins, sounding entirely too nonchalant for my liking. “You going to tell me yet why you got fired?”
“There’s really not much to tell. I had a press pass for a political gala in London, but they took it back last minute. Apparently, the politician who was the guest of honor disagrees with the concept of female journalists. I snuck in, and I got caught. That’s it.”
I made it in and out without an issue, so sure I’d gotten away with it. My boss loved the pictures and was happy to print them anonymously, but it turned out her boss was friendly with the politician and didn’t want to risk burning bridges by printing them. Or by keeping me on staff, apparently.
“Assholes,” Noelle growls. “You worked there for six years, and they fired you for one mistake? After all the incredible work you did for them? It’s their loss.”
“I was tired of working on soulless assignments, anyway. There was no art in it anymore. I’ve been thinking about leaving and going freelance for a while. This is just the push I needed.” I grab another blanket from the back of the couch and toss it over myself as I tell Noelle about my plans to take a month or so off before picking up freelance work.
Getting fired isn’t great for my reputation, but I have enough friends in the industry to vouch for me. And thanks to them, I had multiple freelance agencies in my email inbox within days of losing my job. It’s going to take time to build up a maintainable freelance career, but it’s doable. I just need a break first.
“What about you? Any further along with the bakery plans?”
“No,” Noelle replies, sounding more dejected than she looks, angrily stringing lights on the tree branches. “Hard to make plans to leave the store when I can’t trust Felix to do his job. And now that everyone in town is obsessed with Shay Harland’s place, there’s probably no point in me opening a bakery.”
Noelle has dreamed of owning a year-round Christmas-themed bakery since the Whittens moved to Wintermore. There’s only one other bakery in town, a fancy patisserie-style café run by Shay Harland—Noelle’s mortal enemy, even though she doesn’t know it. I like Shay—not that I’d ever admit it—and she’s an incredible baker, but Noelle makes magic in the kitchen, and I know a Christmas-themed bakery would go down a treat in Wintermore.
“Épices et Sucré. What does that even mean?” she scoffs.
“It means Spicy and Sweet,” I reply automatically, and Noelle glares at me. “There’s space for two bakeries in a town that likes treats so much. And everyone here loves you. They’ll support you. Do you want me to talk to Felix about getting his shit together?”
Noelle shakes her head, grabbing ornaments from a box and hanging them on the tree. “There’s no point.” She adds a silver star to the top of the tree and crouches down to plug the lights in before stepping back to admire her work. “What do you think?”
It is a Christmas tree, so it’s never going to be my dream decor, but Noelle has done a beautiful job. The lights are a pretty gradient of aurora colors, and there are just a few stars and moons dangling from the tree. By Whitten tree standards, it’s practically bare, but I appreciate her not going overboard.
“It’s gorgeous, as always.”
Noelle drops onto the couch beside me with a satisfied smile. “Thanks for letting me put it up. I owe you—more than I already owed you for saving my ass with the Santa pictures, anyway.”
“You don’t owe me,” I reply, rolling my eyes and nudging her with my shoulder.
She yawns and turns to face me, purple smudges below her gray-blue eyes. We’re only a few days into December, and the hoards of holiday tourists are already taking their toll. I know Noelle wouldn’t change it, though; she lives for this time of year.
