Naughty or Nice

2. Henry

2

HENRY

DECEMBER 4

T his ain’t my first Santa rodeo.

Charlie and I grew up in a small town about halfway between Austin and San Antonio, and Addie Creek Santa was a hereditary position. It started with Gramps, then Dad took over when he started having trouble remembering what the kids wanted for Christmas.

Charlie moved to Wintermore before he got the chance to take over from Dad, but I carried on the tradition, going home to Addie Creek every Christmas until Mom passed a couple of years ago. My old high school gym teacher wears the hat now.

Charlie moving here and opening the store meant I hadn’t had a Christmas with him, Kate, or the kids in twenty years—long enough that the kids aren’t kids anymore. But Mom and Dad had no interest in leaving Texas, and Charlie couldn’t leave town at their busiest time of year, so I spent Christmas with them.

Until Mom passed, I didn’t even get the chance to visit Wintermore. Which explains why I’ve never met any of the people I’ve heard them talking about over the years. One person in particular: Rora.

It’s just as well. If she’d been any younger when we met, it would make the way I momentarily forget how to speak every time she looks at me even more problematic. I don’t know how old she is, but she has to be a similar age to Noelle or Felix.

I’ve been watching her behind the lens of her camera all morning. She’s dazzling. Her hair is golden blonde and falls past her shoulders, in a messy way that looks intentional. Her green eyes are framed with smudged brown shadow, her cheeks rosy pink and covered in gold shimmer.

She’s small. Like, really small. I’d be surprised if she were taller than five feet, but she commands the room like the tallest person here. She’s wearing that distracting-as-fuck elf costume, but I swear I hardly notice it. I don’t want to be creepy and stare at her, but it’s hard to look anywhere but at her face when she’s so focused on her craft. And on the kids. I’d put money on this not being her first Santa rodeo either because Rora is incredible with them. And clearly not a fan of pushy parents.

She crosses her arms, not bothering to hide her glare at the mom fussing with the kid sitting on my lap. He has a spiky faux hawk—the result of bubblegum gone wrong, according to his mom, who’s trying desperately to smooth his hair down and button the kid’s shirt right up to his neck, even though he’s squirming uncomfortably.

“Sit still , Benji,” she scolds. “Do as you’re told, or Santa won’t bring you any presents.”

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 .