The Boss Who Stole Christmas: Reindeer Falls #1 Page 4

  And unsettling.

  "What did you do with her until Honey Jam opened for breakfast?" I ask, still trying to wrap my head around this previously unknown side of my boss. It's like finding out there's a spinoff to A Christmas Carol in which Ebenezer is the hot, fun uncle.

  "We watched Christmas Dogs. Again. Start to finish." Nick shakes his head ruefully, a small smile tugging at his lips. "She's fixated on that movie and she's on a one-toddler mission to spread the word because she knows the second you stop paying attention. I thought I could catch up on some emails on my phone while we watched it the second time but damn, she'd wave her tiny hand around yelling ‘pause it, pause it,’ as if I was going to miss out on some pivotal plot point during the second viewing. Then she'd stare at me like I was hiding cookies from her until I put the phone down and gave the movie my undivided attention."

  Well, crud.

  I think my heart just grew two sizes.

  For Nick.

  What is even happening right now?

  "Well," I finally manage, "that sounds like a nice sleepover."

  "It was," he agrees. "Not how I want to spend every weekend just yet, but it was nice."

  Just yet? So Nick thinks about spending weekends like that? Saturday nights with a movie at home, kids with footy pajamas, breakfasts at the Honey Jam Café? Since the first day he arrived to take over the Flying Reindeer Toy Company I've been making assumptions about his suitability for Reindeer Falls itself. He seems too big to be here. Too worldly to find it interesting. Reindeer Falls is the picture of Midwestern values, suburban to its core. Candy Cane Princess crownings are the heart of a city like ours. I pegged Nick as an urban loft kind of guy. I thought he was here begrudgingly, only because he had to be in order to run the company. I never once imagined that he wanted to be back in Michigan.

  "We'd have let you sit with us at breakfast," he adds, with a sideways glance at me, a sly grin playing at his mouth. "If we'd seen you there."

  I stare at his profile for a bit, a mile passing, then another. Nice Nick is a trap, I remind myself. Like waiting for the day after Thanksgiving sales to start your Christmas shopping. That's a rookie mistake.

  So is having feelings for your hot boss.

  I remind myself of all the reasons I dislike him. What were they again?

  He's grumpy.

  He's demanding.

  He's a perfectionist.

  He's broody and tall and more attractive than any man has a right to be.

  He's. My. Boss.

  These are all valid reasons.

  Valid enough that I shouldn't be thinking about doing things with him that would put me on top of Santa's naughty list.

  Yet I do. I think those things.

  I'm feeling suffocated in this car. Suffocated by all the different versions of Nick dancing in my head.

  Chapter 6

  When we land in Nuremberg I'm tired, but energized in the way that being in a new place brings. I slept on and off during the overnight flight to Frankfort, as best as one can on a plane. The layover allowed just enough time for a cup of mediocre airport coffee before our connection to Nuremberg.

  And I hate to admit it, but now that I'm in Germany I'm excited. I know I came on this trip under duress but I manage to conveniently block that out the moment they stamp my passport because I've never been to Germany. Heck, I've never been to Europe.

  I'm charmed before we get out of the airport.

  Nick seems to know what he's doing so I follow, doing my best to keep up with him as he navigates us through the airport, refraining from the urge to dive into a gift shop or take photos of random signs written in German.

  It's not until we're in a cab that I realize Nick speaks German. It makes sense, but I add it to the list of things that surprise me about Nick all the same. Begrudgingly I also have to add it to the list of things about Nick that are kind of sexy.

  Nuremberg is… magical. And the cab hasn't even pulled away from the curb yet. Light snowflakes are falling as the driver loads our bags into the trunk while I slide into the back seat, Nick right behind me. I feel a little grimy and worn from a day of travel. Nick doesn't. He looks as good as he always does, as if he's just had a great night’s sleep and strolled into the office refreshed and ready to demand a report or poke at me about something or other.

  I wonder if I've read too much into the poking? Maybe I've overreacted?

  Beside me Nick swipes at the screen of his phone with his thumb, ignoring me while he checks emails as the cab pulls away from the curb.

  Nuremberg is positively huge in comparison to Reindeer Falls, with over half a million residents within the city and over three million in the metropolitan area. Seeing it before me, it makes me feel as though Reindeer Falls is a tiny dollhouse-sized replica, which pleases me greatly. I've heard Nuremberg has been dubbed the most German of German cities and while this is all I've seen of Germany, I'm inclined to agree. I've very nearly pressed my nose against the car window in an effort to drink it all in. We pass modern gas stations sandwiched between classic gothic architecture. We pass signs, some of which I can make out and some of which I can't. As we enter the old city I'm enchanted with the quaint medieval walkways, asphalt merging seamlessly with brick pavers.

  We pass stores I want to explore and churches that look as though they've been standing a century or more. I know much of the old city was destroyed during World War II, but the rebuild is astounding in its authenticity.

  We're staying in the old city. I was slightly disappointed to find out we were booked in a large American hotel chain instead of some charming local hotel, but I reminded myself I wasn't in Europe to have a romantic rendezvous with my boss. Any residual disappointment vanishes when the cab stops in front of the Sheraton. It's lovely and I'm officially excited.

  Cab paid and bags in hand, we head inside. Nick checks us both in, me standing a bit uselessly off to the side while he chats with the desk clerk in German. I busy myself looking at a stand of glossy brochures touting various things to do in Nuremberg. Museums, walking tours, day trips and Christmas markets. My fingers are just brushing the edges of the Christmas market flyer when I feel Nick beside me. I snatch my fingers back from the flyer as if he's caught me reading a personal email on company time. It's nearly the same—we're here for work, I remind myself for the third time since the plane landed.

  Nick hands me one of those tiny cardboard folders hotels slide room keys into, his fingers brushing mine with the transaction. I know we have two rooms, but suddenly the idea of sleeping at the same GPS coordinates as Nick feels like too much. The brush of his fingers against mine is too much. He's too much. My eyes drop to his lips and I swallow, quickly averting my gaze to the handle of my rolling suitcase. Sweet heavenly Yule log, why does he have to look so good? Everything about him is delicious and I'm so exhausted by it.

  "See something you're interested in?" His voice is low, his tone as warm and seductive as those Christmas markets are to my mistletoe-encrusted heart. His voice sounds like sex. The good kind.

  My gaze flies back to his. I’m blinking rapidly as I wonder if my expression gave me away. If I was so obvious in my appreciation of his stupid perfect face. If he knows that beneath my clothing I broke out into goosebumps when his finger brushed mine.

  "No, nothing interesting," I finally manage. He glances between me and the rack of advertisements and back again.

  "You look tired," he says after a long pause. And then, I'm not sure what happens, but I swear on Santa's life he nearly touches me, his hand lifting to within a few inches of my cheek before I flinch in surprise and he stops himself. "If you're not up for the meeting this afternoon I can attend without you."

  "I'm fine!" I object immediately. If he's able to make the meeting, I'm able to make the meeting. Besides which, I don't know what to do with him when he's not being Scrooge-ish.

  He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "Of course you are." He gestures toward the elevators, guiding me in that d
irection. "We'll meet back in the lobby at two o'clock." His tone is back to the brisk coldness I'm used to and I find myself relaxing. Grinch Nick I know how to deal with.

  Chapter 7

  On day three of the trip, Nick surprises me.

  "Change into something comfortable and meet me in the lobby in thirty," he says once we've returned to the hotel after a day spent with the Bavarian Bear company—an incredible experience and I have to admit Nick was correct in insisting I come. I was able to meet with the production staff and tweak the design for a new Bavarian Reindeer in development as well as see their bear café first hand and learn about the takeaway business. The manager was very forthcoming with information and ideas and I learned that pretzels are referred to as bretzels in Nuremberg, which gave me the idea to add a bretzel window to our takeaway storefront because it'll be an adorable nod to our German roots. Adorable and profitable. We'll capitalize on the foot traffic on Main Street looking for a quick snack in late afternoon or evening while using the same ovens from the café.

  I can't wait to update the revenue forecasts and show them to Nick. I spent the entire cab ride back to the hotel filling him in on the idea, my mouth moving a mile a minute as the concept poured from my brain to my lips. I hadn't seen him most of the day as he'd had meetings separate from mine and I was more excited than I care to admit to run it past him.

  This trip hasn't been what I expected, and in truth, maybe Nick isn't quite what I thought either. I actually felt guilty when I ate yesterday's Dickmas chocolate. I mean Advent chocolate. I mean—never mind. The point is, Nick's been decidedly un-Grinch-like on this trip. He hasn't baited me about anything or even mentioned Santana again. Outside of the office he's far more relaxed than I'm used to. Or maybe I'm the one who's more relaxed?

  Either way, my guard is down.

  Changing quickly into a pair of jeans and a cozy sweater, I pull my hair into a low pony before grabbing my scarf and jacket and heading back to the lobby. I'm zipping my jacket when Nick steps off the elevator. He's changed into a pair of jeans as well, a light down jacket zipped over his chest and a navy scarf looped perfectly around his neck. He's on his cell, gesturing toward the front door with a nod of his head. He's questioning the warehouse manager over a delay in processing a shipment that's put us two days behind schedule in shipping to retailers.

  Nick is silent while he listens to whatever he's being told before he finally interrupts with, "Santa doesn't deliver on December twenty-sixth and neither do we. Fix it." Then he hangs up, dropping the phone into his pocket with one hand while hailing a cab with the other.

  "Hauptmarkt," he tells the driver after we've both slid into the backseat.

  Then there are several minutes of silence in which Nick tugs the phone out of his pocket to tap out an email with rapid, aggressive keystrokes and I watch the scenery pass, still unsure where we're headed.

  "Everything okay?" I finally venture when the flurry of typing has stopped and a brief, irritated exhale leaves his lungs. Outside it’s dark, but the city is beyond romantic with its abundance of Christmas lighting. Strands of sparkly lights strung across the road. Lengths of evergreen strung over doors. Snow has settled into the valleys of the peaked roofs and magic is heavy in the air.

  "It will be. The warehouse is over capacity and behind schedule. We're going to have to make some changes."

  Before I can ask what that means the cab comes to a stop and Nick is passing Euro notes to the driver, door already open. By the time I slide out from the cab behind him my eyes are as round as two sugar cookies. Spread before us is the most magical Christmas market I've ever seen in my life. Actually, it's the only one I've ever seen in my life because we don't have a Christmas market in Reindeer Falls.

  We're in the central square of Nuremberg's old town, a centuries-old church anchoring the space on one end and rows upon rows of stalls spread out ahead of us, each topped by red and white striped awnings. Light-wrapped garlands dangle between windows on the surrounding buildings. Mini-sparkle lights seem to drip from every available surface and the smell of everything wonderful hangs in the air. Roasting nuts, smoked sausages, and joy. It smells like Christmas.

  But we can't possibly be here for this. I keep my feet firmly attached to the pavement as I glance around for whichever restaurant we must be headed to, thinking there must have been a business dinner added to tonight’s agenda. I bite my lip and tear my wistful expression away from the market, looking toward Nick as he takes my hand.

  "I can't let you leave Nuremberg without experiencing the Christmas market."

  "Yessss," I breathe out in one happy word. Nick laughs and the sound makes me warm all over. There's a brief moment in which I think he's going to continue holding my hand, until he looks down at my hand in his and shakes his head briefly, dropping my hand.

  "Come on." He nods toward the market, a smile still tugging at his lips. "We'll eat Nuremberg sausages for dinner and drink mulled wine like locals."

  I refrain from doing a childish twirl and head for the closest row of brightly lit stalls. I can't stop the giant smile from covering my face and I don't even try. There's so much to see I can hardly focus. Christmas tree ornaments and funny little figurines made from prunes. Nick tells me it's a market tradition and as we browse I see there are an endless variety of them. Prune scarecrows and prune bakers, prune couples kissing and prune doctors, even a prune Santa.

  "The legend is, if you keep a prune man in your house money and happiness stay too."

  Nick leans in to murmur the words close to my ear and I laugh, but a shiver runs down my spine and beneath my coat my skin prickles in awareness. Which is ridiculous, he's not even whispering words of seduction for crying out loud. The words ‘prune’ and ‘man’ in the same sentence are surely not a seduction.

  I step back half a foot, but I buy a prune Santa Claus all the same. I'll find a place for him with my collection of Santas because of course I have a collection of Santas. It's got nothing to do with wanting a souvenir of this evening.

  "You'll probably want to meet the Christkind," Nick mentions when we wander into a section of the market geared towards children. There's a merry-go-round that would melt the heart of the worst holiday skeptic along with a tiny train set on an oval track surrounding a cluster of Christmas trees and a four-foot-tall gingerbread house. I take a picture for Ginger.

  "What's a Christkind?"

  "She's the original Candy Cane Princess."

  "Stop it." I elbow him in the ribs, sure he's goading me but for once not minding it.

  "I'm serious." He dodges my elbow with ease, nodding toward a blonde teenager behind a velvet rope with a line of children waiting to take photos with her. She's got long curly locks, a foot-tall crown on her head and a matching gold gown. I observe the scene for a few seconds, realizing Nick is telling the truth. Clearly Reindeer Falls adapted this tradition from Nuremberg.

  "Wow," I finally manage. "Her crown is so much bigger than the one I got."

  We cover more ground, passing a gothic spire-shaped structure that must rise twenty feet in the air. Nick tells me it's a fountain, the Schöner Brunnen, dating back to the fourteenth century. Colorful figures adorn the fountain which is lit from below at night. Nick tells me they represent liberal arts and that two brass rings embedded into the wrought-iron fence surrounding the fountain are meant to bring good luck if you spin them.

  He's the consummate tour guide.

  And beyond patient as I stop to look at everything. Nothing is too small or odd to capture my interest. The market has so much to choose from my head is nearly spinning with Yuletide joy. Nick helps me pick out traditional gifts for my family: for Noel, an ornament handmade by a local craftsman; for my parents, an angel called a Rauschgoldengel. Her wings are coated in gold foil and Nick regales me with her legendary history.

  Nick tells me that Nuremberg is famous for their gingerbread, which they call lebkuchen and have been baking for hundreds of years. It comes in every size and
shape imaginable and with a variety of coatings. I purchase a wide variety for Ginger, knowing it will thrill her to sample and attempt to reconstruct the recipes.

  "If you could have anything you wanted for Christmas, what would you ask for?" I question while we're waiting for the shopkeeper to bag up my collection of gingerbread. He's silent and I'm not sure he heard me so I turn, one eyebrow raised in question.

  "Nothing I can have," he answers, and he seems uncomfortable, not looking directly at me. While I'm trying to decipher that he reaches past me to take the bag from the shopkeeper.

  "I can carry that," I insist, trying to take it from him. Our fingers brush and that brief touch is enough to make my stomach drop and my breath catch.

  It must be the Christmas market.

  That's all.

  I'm turned on by Christmas markets. Which makes sense, anyone would be. I bet the birthrate of Nuremberg skyrockets each September. They must pump pheromones into the air along with the scent of cinnamon. Get everyone all hot and bothered and drunk on mulled wine to ensure the continuity of the local population.

  "Do you miss living in Europe?" I ask, suddenly curious. Curious about him in a way that has nothing to do with him being run over by a sleigh or hog-tied by a rogue tribe of elves.

  "Of course," he replies. "But not as much as I missed Reindeer Falls."

  My heart nearly stops. "You missed Reindeer Falls? As in, you always intended to come back?"

  "I was always coming back." He looks at me strangely. "How could anyone not return to Reindeer Falls?"

  "Right," I agree, except I'm nearly breathless. Because the air between us feels charged. Because his eyes softened when he said it. Because some people do leave, as quick as they can with no intention of returning.

  I swear Nick is looking at my lips, but then I blink and I'm sure I imagined the entire thing. Perhaps they're chapped? I dig around in my handbag for a chapstick and smooth it across my lips as Nick looks over my shoulder at something or other.