at Christmas,” she said, laughing, and putting out her hand to shake his. “And not anymore.”
He took her palm with his own, feeling her warm skin against his own and decided that there was nothing cold at all about this woman. “What do you mean, not anymore?”
“I am officially hanging up my Mrs. Claus suit this year. But if you need a stuffed bear or a jack-in-the-box or—”
“No. I need you.” C.J. looked around the shop and realized a toy—hell, a whole truckload of toys—wasn’t going to do it. To win Sarah over, he needed something big. Really big. And according to LuAnn, there was nothing bigger than Mrs. Claus, at least in Riverbend.
She dropped his hand and moved back. Wariness filled her features, dimmed the friendly light in her eyes. He might as well have stamped his forehead with Serial Killer. “You need me?”
“In a purely professional sense. As Mrs. Claus.”
“Sorry, but I can’t—”
“You have to. I’ve got a reindeer on order and everything.” Okay, now he really was sounding crazy. C.J. drew in a breath. “Let me start over. My name is Christopher Hamilton. Also known as C.J. the Set Construction Wizard.” He turned and pointed out the window at the bright-red script written across the door of his pickup truck, saying the same thing along with a California address.
“And what does a set construction wizard want with a Mrs. Claus? Because I don’t do movies, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, I’m not here for work. I’m here for my daughter. I need to give her an incredible Christmas.”
“So take her to a mall, put her on Santa’s lap. Listen to her tell him what she wants, then put whatever that item is under the tree.” Jessica turned away and busied herself with straightening a shelf of board games.
C.J. didn’t have time for her to get the Scrabbles sorted out from the Monopolys. “I’ve heard you are the person to see for Christmas. And, lady, believe me, I need a Christmas.” Right now, because he had a short time frame, an impossible daughter to win over and a major life change to deal with. He didn’t want to wait on a board game.
“You can find that anywhere, Mr…. What did you say your name was?”
“Hamilton.”
She paused, a checkers game halfway to its proper place on the shelf. “You’re Sarah’s father? But I thought…”
She didn’t finish the sentence and he didn’t blame her. Most people he’d run into since arriving in town—from the gas station attendant who’d given him directions to the building super who had let him into Kiki’s apartment—had looked at him, added two and two and automatically labeled him as a bad paternal figure. “I’m here for Sarah now, and that’s what counts. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“The only thing she wants—and what she deserves this year more than anything—is a good Christmas.” He didn’t mention that he had zero parenting experience, had yet to get his daughter to talk to him, that LuAnn had told him the girl’s melancholy increased every day, or that he was counting on Christmas to help him build a bridge to a six-year-old stranger. A miracle on so many fronts, even he had lost count. “She never really had one. Will you help me give her one or not?”
The woman before him hesitated, smoothing a hand over the game’s black-and-red cover, avoiding his gaze. But most of all, the question.
Jessica Patterson was right. He could take Sarah to a mall. To another town. He could, indeed, find his Christmas anywhere. But he wanted to create those happy memories here, in the town where his daughter had had so many unhappy ones. He wanted to turn the tide for her, to show her that there was, indeed, a rainbow behind all those clouds.
And if he could pull off that miracle, then maybe, just maybe, there was hope that he could be the dad he needed to be for the years ahead.
Because he hadn’t been much of one up until now. And he had a lot of ground to cover between here and December twenty-fifth.
For that, C.J. suspected, he was going to need a lot more than a reluctant blonde in a red suit.
CHAPTER TWO
JESSICA TUCKED the striped one-piece bathing suit into her bag, did a final visual check, then shut the suitcase with a click. Her clothes were ready to go, albeit two days early. Mentally she’d been ready to leave for weeks.
In a little more than forty-eight hours, she’d be on a beach in Florida soaking up the sun. Far from the cold and snow, she could forget about Dennis, the town that had started to take her for granted and the time of year that had lost its meaning somewhere between the stocking stuffers and the bargain hunters.
Her doorbell rang, and Bandit, her German short-haired pointer, scrambled to his feet, bounding down the stairs at Greyhound speed, his tail a friendly whip against his hindquarters. To hedge his bets, he let out a few ferocious barks, but everyone in Riverbend knew Bandit had less guard dog in him than a stuffed frog.
She opened the door, expecting Mindy. “You can’t talk me out—” The sentence died in her throat when she saw the tall, lean figure of C. J. Hamilton on her front porch. “It’s you. Again.”
“I’m not a man who gives up easily.”
He had the kind of voice that sent a woman’s pulse racing. Deep and thorough, he seemed to coat every syllable with a smoky accent.
Regardless of his voice or the way his dark hair swept one stubborn lock across his brow or how his jeans hugged his hips, she couldn’t give him what he wanted. Christmas and Jessica Patterson were no longer operating hand in hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton, but I thought I made this clear earlier. I will not be participating in any Christmas activities this year. Maybe I could refer you to one of my colleagues. There’s even a network of Santa performers that are available for malls and private parties, if you—”
“It has to be here. And that means it has to be you.”
“I’m leaving in two days. I won’t even be here for Christmas, or even the Winterfest. I can’t help you.” She started to shut the door.
He was already digging in his back pocket, pulling out a leather billfold, flipping it open. His foot wedged in the door, preventing her from shutting him out. “I’ll pay you. Name your price, Mrs. Patterson.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Name a charity you want me to support. A home for retired Santas you want me to build. Anything.”
The laughter burst out of Jessica before she could stop it. “There’s no such thing.”
He answered her with a grin that took over his face, lighting his blue eyes, taking them from the color of a sluggish river to a sparkling ocean on a sunny day.
Oh, damn. She always had been a sucker for eyes like that. And especially a pair surrounded by deep lines of worry, shoulders hunched with the heaviness of sorrow and responsibility. Sarah Hamilton had, indeed, been through a lot, and so had her father, Jessica was sure.
She
