Page 41 of No Room in the Inn

Font Size:

Page 41 of No Room in the Inn

I cock one eyebrow at him. “Glass houses, my friend. Want to have a chat aboutyourcoping mechanisms?”

Something shutters closed behind Nixon’s eyes, and I regret speaking. But he just shakes his head.

“So,” I say, suddenly eager to change the subject. “Tell me about these little old ladies we’re singing to tonight.”

Chapter 19

Willow

Sarah hangs out with me at the inn for the rest of the day, and at six, she leaves to go pick up Flora. While she’s gone, I prepare to get ready.

I’m just leaving the kitchen to get dressed when Nixon says, “Don’t forget your Santa suit.”

I turn to him, and I’d be lying if I said my expression isn’t very suspicious. “My…what?”

Nixon grins at me from where he sits on the countertop. “Your Santa suit,” he repeats. “I’m wearing mine.”

I snort, folding my arms across my chest. “And you said you didn’t have a Santa fetish.”

“Hey,” he says, frowning. “Leave my sexuality out of it. There’s no Santa fetish. The ladies just get a kick out of it.” His face softens almost imperceptibly—how do I notice it? But I do—as his frown morphs into a little smile. And for a second he’s far away. “They’re cute,” he says, still gazing off into the distance. Then his gaze comes back to mine. “The same way little kids get so excited about tiny things, you know? Little old ladies get excited the same way.”

I smile, remembering Granny, who always loved anything that I loved. “I could see that,” I say. I tilt my head. Then I say, “You say this like you frequently hang out with old women while wearing your Santa outfit.”

Nixon gives a bark of laughter. “No. Just remembering last year. And Granny,” he adds, shrugging.

“Huh,” I say, thinking. I hesitate to ask the question that’s on my mind, but I finally just do it anyway. “So is that why you came to Woodfield in the first place? To be Santa?”

Nixon nods slowly. “Someone saw me at the St. Albans’ Santa’s Workshop and asked if I could come be Santa in the December Parade here. I came to Woodfield the night before the parade to stay at the inn…” He trails off, but he doesn’t need to say the rest. I already know what happened.

He clears his throat. “I’ve been here ever since. Sold my place in St. Albans a few weeks after the fire so I didn’t have to keep paying rent on a place I wasn’t living.”

I nod, looking at him. His words and voice are relaxed, but his hands are tense on the edges of the counter, his knuckles white.

“Well,” I say, because I can tell it’s time to change the subject. “I don’t have a Santa suit exactly. But if you’ve got a spare Santa hat, I’ve got something that will work perfectly.”

Nixon clasps his hands in front of him in a show of mock pleading. “Please be the green dress, please be the green dress…”

I give a little snort of laughter, shaking my head. Then, on a whim, I move further into the kitchen, approaching Nixon slowly.

“Oh, Mr. Nixon,” I all but purr. “This will besomuch better.”

Nixon’s eyes widen. “Holy crap.” He points at me. “That was sexy.”

I just laugh before leaving the room.

The Santa dress I pull out of my closet is short, hitting me mid-thigh. It’s made of a red, velvety fabric, and the v-neck and skirt hem are both lined with a fluffy white trim. There’s a black faux-leather belt that cinches around the waist. It looks incredible on me, if I’m allowed to say that about myself, and it will look even better once I can get the zipper all the way up. Someone else might have to do that part, since it’s a little stuck and I don’t currently possess the ability to dislocate my shoulder. As soon as I get that taken care of, I’ll be good to go.

I ponder for a second, then decide to add my black knee-high boots. They match, but more importantly, they’ll also provide a layer of warmth to my legs.

Now I just need Nixon’s hat.

“All right,” I say as I enter the kitchen and spot him sitting on the counter. He’s wearing the Santa suit now, though with no pillow under the shirt, no wig, and no beard. He takes a big drink of water just as I say, “Can you help me with this zip—”

But I break off as Nixon apparently chokes and then starts coughing—like his drink has just gone down the wrong pipe.

I frown at him, stepping closer. “Are you okay?” I say, debating whether to pound him on the back or something. Does that actually work? For food lodged in the throat, maybe. Would it work with water?

Nixon holds up one hand and waves my question away, so I just wait. It’s only another second before he’s clearing his throat. “I’m fine,” he rasps out. He stares at me, then gestures at my dress. “What isthat?”