Right...
Her eyes twinkled as she raised her brows. “The secret of Christmas? I’d like that. Perhaps we could set up time outside this venue to talk further. Soon. That very question is integral to my plot, and I only have a few weeks here to write this story.” She tapped the pen against her notebook again. “I really don’t have the time to stand in these queues.”
Mila stretched, releasing a long groan. She glanced up at Niklas through lowered eyes, and he patted her. “You want to go home, girl. Yes. It’s been a long day, I know.” He turned back to his interviewer. “I hate to be rude, but I do need to take them home. She’s pregnant and looking for the warmth of her own bed.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take up this much of your time. Would you mind if I asked you one last question?”
“Not at all.”
She smiled, clearly satisfied with how this was going. “You’re reported to be a very popular man. How many letters do you receive in a year?”
“Around five to seven hundred thousand from about one hundred and sixty countries.”
The look on her face as she jotted down the figure and some notes told Niklas she was suitably impressed. She closed her journal.
Niklas rose as she did.
Bending down in front of Mila and Risto, she gave them each a good scratch. “Nice dogs.” She pushed herself up and stared at Niklas. “Does Santa have a cell phone, so I can call to make arrangements for us to continue this conversation? Out of office hours, of course.”
He’d have to give her his personal number. For the next few weeks his usual ‘Niklas Toivonen’ wouldn’t do. Maybe just a long ‘Helloooo’?
He slid the pen from her grasp and lifted her hand. “Do you mind?”
“No.”
He wrote on top, +36703112599 Nick, and then handed back the pen, unable to pull his gaze from hers.
The first to look away, she slipped her hand from his fingers. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Claus.”
Niklas raised his hands. “No Christmas wish on Santa’s knee before you leave?”
For a moment her eyes narrowed. “I’ll pass on the knee. As for the wish, how about a completed novel by New Year’s Day?”
“I can do that. Books are one of the top requests Santa receives. But, I am disappointed—most requests come to me when the person’s on my knee. What about a hug, then? Santa always gets lots and lots of hugs.” Was he really resorting to shameless begging?
A smile touched her lips. “Good night, Mr. Claus.” Shaking her head, she exited his office leaving him alone and at the mercy of a number penned on her skin.
“Remember to be good,” he called after her before sinking back into the large chair. The urge to see this woman again overwhelmed him. However, unless she called, he’d never know who she was or where she came from.
Perhaps he needed to make a Christmas wish of his own. But although he was the son of the man the world knew as Santa Claus, Niklas rather put his faith in prayer.
Dear Lord...
Chapter 4
Interesting. Sarah could’ve sworn Santa had flirted with her. Maybe that was just his way—probably meant nothing by it. Then again, the man behind all that fluff and fur wasn’t old by any means. Wonder if there’s a Mrs. Claus?
As Sarah turned her little rental onto the snowy road, her stomach growled. She’d barely eaten lunch. Not much to like about airplane food. Should’ve asked Santa where to buy groceries. Perhaps there’d be an all-night convenience store at the gas station where she had to collect her cabin keys. She’d planned on doing a little shopping this afternoon, not spending her time waiting to see the man in red. And if her muse played along as Sarah suspected it might, she’d not see the light of day for a while. She chuckled. With only an hour or two’s daylight in Lapland now, she wouldn’t see the light of day anyway.
Contending once again with the snow and concentrating hard to stay on the opposite side of the road, Sarah inched the Micra toward the hazy glow of the gas station’s neon lights beckoning up ahead.
Sarah slowed the car and veered to the right. She’d barely made the turn when a black Range Rover whizzed past her left. She started, not expecting anyone that side. Or so close. Such a maniac, and on these icy roads. Impatient imbecile. It’s not as if she drove like an old lady. Not really. He could’ve waited until she’d fully turned before scaring the last touch of color from her. Now she’d really blend into her surroundings.
Her stomach gave a loud cheer when she spotted the small convenience store at the gas station. Open. She’d have food tonight, and for the next few days. She didn’t need much—she rarely ate when on a writing roll. Being indoors all day, she wouldn’t expend much energy either. Sarah couldn’t see herself venturing outside for more than a few minutes in these temperatures. And if the excitement buzzing inside her head for this story would continue for the next eighty thousand words, she’d be in front of her laptop for most of her time in Lapland. Already she had a hero—Nick, with the gorgeous blue eyes—which is a whole lot more than she’d left home with two days ago.
Title: Blue Eyed Santa. Meh. Not sure. Maybe.
A half hour later, Toivonen No. 1 keys in hand and stocked with supplies—some instant meals, cereal, tinned food, and the all-important coffee for writers and milestone treats—she ventured back onto the road and headed for her log house in the woods. She hoped.
Sarah had no problem finding the cabins. One turn to her left and straight down the road. Leaving her luggage and groceries in the car, she slipped the laptop bag over her shoulder and trudged toward the postcard perfect cabin, sinking knee-deep with each labored step. The porch light bathed the surrounds in a soft glow.
Standing on the porch, she looked back at the trail she’d left in the snow. The distance had seemed farther from the car to the cabin while she’d pushed her way through the snow.
She tried the key in the front door, only to find the cabin unlocked. Frowning, she mumbled, “And I had to fetch the keys, why?” The owner could’ve left them inside for her.
Pushing open the door, Sarah stepped inside.
Warmth filled the single room. How thoughtful, someone had started a fire. Good. She knew nothing about making fires, and the notion that she’d have to do that for the next three weeks or possibly freeze never entered her mind when she’d clicked ‘book’. Then again, not much had entered her mind on Thursday afternoon. She may just need to live in her onesie, socks, slippers, jacket, beanie and any other thick, thermal, or bulky item of clothing.
The cabin appeared smaller than the photos on the website, but it offered all she needed. The table standing in front of the large window would suffice as a desk. Would the view be as awesome as her Table Mountain muse?
Sarah set the laptop bag down on the table, unzipped her jacket and pulled off her hat, scarf and gloves, placing the woolen trio beside the bag. Removing her laptop, she pushed the power cable into her European adaptor. Thank heavens the guy at the AA asked if she had an adaptor when she’d gone for her international driver’s license. She would’ve been stuck here with a dead computer. Guess there’s always the old fashioned way of writing—with pen and paper. She shivered. Heaven forbid.
Sliding into a chair, Sarah powered up the laptop. It eased to life.
“Hey, baby, I’ve missed you.” Somewhere over the middle of Africa the battery had died. In Paris and Helsinki, she’d barely had enough time to make it to her next flight, let alone charge her laptop.
She stretched out a yawn before opening her untitled manuscript. It still held nothing except ‘Untitled by Sarah Jones. Chapter 1.’ Sarah backspaced the first word and typed in ‘Falling for Santa.’ Yay, she had a title, and it seemed perfect. Especially when she thought of those piercing blue eyes hiding behind thin spectacles. As much as she’d love to start writing tonight, sleep beckoned. Over thirty hours had passed since she’d waved goodbye to Hannah, Grant, and her nephews at Cape Town International Airport.
Sarah glanced around, taking in the cozy couch on the other side of the room for the first time, the ladder leading upstairs to what she assumed was the bedroom, and the little kitchenette to the right of the fireplace.
Wonder where they’ve put the Wi-Fi login details and password. Hope I don’t need to contact the owner. If she couldn’t find it, she’d email him from her smartphone, but only after she’d gone to the bathroom and collected her suitcase and groceries from the car. She didn’t relish the thought of lugging all that through the snow. Times like these she wished she had a man at her side. But she’d coped through far worse on her own. And survived.
Steering her thoughts away from tough times and back to her tasks at hand, Sarah stepped into the kitchen. Could she even call it that? One-spot-cooking for sure. While she was on that spot, she might as well heat water for a hot drink. Too late to make a pot of filter coffee—she’d settle for instant. By the time she fetched her groceries, the water would at least have boiled.
Grabbing a pot on the shelf above the sink, Sarah filled it half with water and fired up the gas stove. She turned and eyed the smoked glass door on the left side of the kitchenette. What could be in there?
As she opened the door, dry heat rushed to greet her. She ventured inside the small room with its raised wooden seating—a single seat on either side of the steps. Somewhere she’d read that Finns had this strange love of the sauna. Who could blame them? If she lived in this frozen world, she’d also look to escape to a hot climate—even if that could only be found in a tiny wooden room.
A showerhead peeked out from the wall on her right. At least she’d found where to bathe. But where was the toilet? No way would it be upstairs. That only left one place.
Outside.
Groan.
Perhaps she’d better rethink that coffee.
As she walked past the stove, Sarah turned off the gas. Grabbing her hat, gloves and scarf, she pulled them on, thankful she hadn’t removed her jacket and boots. She zipped up the jacket and headed for the door, retrieving her car key from the table on the way. She slipped the key ring around her finger. If she dropped this in the snow, she’d never find it until summer.
Already toasty from the fire and the scant time in the sauna, she didn’t relish the thought of stepping outside into the cold. Taking a deep breath, she whipped open the door, the action shadowed by a loud scream as she staggered backward. The snowy surrounds dampened her echo. She’d heard the stories about Bigfoot, Yeti, The Abominable Snowman—whatever you want to call him—but she never knew he wore blue snow pants and a red jacket.
Sarah reached out and grabbed the closest thing she could to protect herself, raising the log above her head. “W—who are you? Wh—what do you want?”
He held up his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa. Take it easy.”
Even in the dim light, she couldn’t miss the Yeti’s gorgeous smile.
“Put that down.” He thrust out a gloved hand, then pulled it back and yanked the glove off. He tried the handshake again. “Niklas Toivonen. The owner.”
Sarah blinked then eased the log back onto the woodpile. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be standing there.” Especially not filling the entire doorway. Nicely.
Taking his hand, she greeted him with a laugh. “Sarah Jones.”
He chuckled. “I know. Your booking... I wanted to welcome you, see if you need anything.” He glanced at her hand and the key dangling from her gloved finger. “I’m interrupting? You’re going somewhere?”
“Only to the car to get my suitcase and groceries.”
Niklas reached for the key and slid it from her finger. “Let me help you. Stay here. It’s cold out.”
“But—”
He’d already disappeared around the corner. How did he move so fast?
Sarah shut the door, keeping the cold outside where it belonged. She slipped out of her protective clothing and hung everything on the coat hook beside the door. Her gloves landed on the wooden staircase, while her boots claimed the corner of the floor beneath her jacket and snow pants. No sense in keeping all that on for now. She’d ask her landlord where the little room was and save herself floundering in the dark to find it later.
Kneeling beside the fireplace, she stared through the glass door of the cast-iron box containing the glowing coals. She’d need to stoke that fire, get more logs onto those coals. Reaching for the latch, Sarah wrapped her fingers around it. Hot metal seared her skin. With a loud yell, she pulled back her hand, her fingers instantly seeking the coolness of her mouth.
Cold water. She’d seen Hannah shove Matthew’s hand under cold water when he’d burned his fingers playing with a candle at dinner last week.
Inside the kitchen, Sarah filled the sink and plunged her hand beneath the cool liquid to soothe the throbbing. She fought back her tears. Some escaped. Ones of frustration, exhaustion, and pain. By morning her thumb and index finger would be blistered for sure. That was all she needed. Typing would be difficult.
The front door banged open.
“Hellooo.”
“I—I’m in here.” How long did she need to keep her fingers under? Hannah had kept Matthew’s hand dunked for several minutes.
Niklas and the grocery bags blocked the entire doorway into the kitchen. Were the openings narrow and low, or was he really that broad-shouldered and tall?
His gaze held hers for a moment before breaking away to her submerged hand. “What happened?” Setting the packets down in the corner, he scurried to her side.
Sarah swiped away another stray tear. “St—stupid me. I tried to open the fireplace without a cloth. Didn’t realize how hot the handle would be.”
Taking her hand, he examined her red fingers.
The phone number penned on her skin beckoned. She should call Santa, use a Christmas wish. How many did she get, or was it only the genie in the lamp who limited his wishes? Don’t let me get blisters, please.
Sarah’s gaze drifted from her injuries to the hands examining hers. They looked...familiar? She stared at his profile. If he’d only turn and look at her.
“Have we met before?”
He glanced up, and then returned his attention to her hand. “Niklas Toivonen and Sarah Jones? No.”
Lapland men probably had similar features. After all, striking blue eyes are common amongst Scandinavians. Still, those hands, those eyes...
What about Sarah Jones and Santa? Have they met? Are you my secret Santa, Niklas Toivonen?
Couldn’t be. If he was, what reason would he have to pretend not to have met earlier?
He grabbed a dishtowel and dried Sarah’s hand. “I don’t suppose you packed a first aid kit?”
She shook her head then clung to his arm. “I don’t feel so good.”
He helped her to the couch before returning to the kitchen. Sarah curled up on the soft cushions and closed her eyes to the pain.
“Here, keep your hand submerged.” Niklas moved her hand into the bowl of water he’d filled and placed on the floor beside her. “I’ll fetch some salve from my house, but first, let me revive the fire before it dies.” He disappeared into the kitchen again, emerging armed with an oven glove. Why hadn’t she done that?
Sarah peered over her arm that dangled off the edge of the couch. “You live close by?”
Niklas glanced back and smiled. “Right next door.” Returning his attention to the logs, he shoved three inside the fireplace, sending sparks flying upward as they fell. He pushed to his feet and in two steps was at the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Sinking lower into the couch as she waited, hand throbbing, Sarah steered her thoughts to her writing—it would take the edge off the pain. Alternative title: Secret Santa. Whoever Niklas Toivonen and Santa Claus were, Sarah would use them both to fuel her muse that had finally come to life.
Niklas trudged toward his home, his thoughts as lost as his feet beneath the powder. Ninety minutes ago, he’d thought he might never see this woman again,
never know who she was. Now she’d be living next door for three weeks as his tenant. A pleasant and unexpected answer to his prayers.
Thank you, Lord, for your speedy reply.
But South Africa? A long way from Lapland. Literally poles apart.
Mila raised her head as he stepped inside. Risto let out a bark causing Niklas to press his finger to his lips. “Risto. Ole hiljaa.”
With a whimper, Risto sank his head between his front paws as he obeyed. Niklas stooped to pat him then stepped past and headed down the short passage to the bathroom. Opening the cabinet above the basin, he reached for the tube of aloe vera gel. This would sort out Sarah’s injury.
The dogs eyed Niklas as he closed the front door and slipped into the night again.
Back at Sarah’s cabin, he tapped on the wooden door and waited. Getting no response, he tried again, with the same silent result. He eased the door open and cast his gaze toward the couch.
Asleep.
Niklas tiptoed over to Sarah and knelt beside her. Taking her hand out of the water, he dried her fingers with the dishtowel he’d discarded on the floor earlier. His thumb brushed over the number penned on her skin. Would she call?
Taking care not to waken her, Niklas massaged the gel into her burned fingers. She didn’t stir. She must be exhausted. Just how far was the journey from South Africa?
He swept away the long, silky shock of hair covering her face—the color of the strands totally opposite to the local norm. Dark, like the shaded parts of an open pine cone, flecks of lighter brown skimming the tips.
Niklas pushed to his feet. Leaning over Sarah, he turned up the heat on the wall panel beside the couch then hurried up the step ladder and grabbed a blanket from the mattress in the loft bedroom. He covered Sarah, unable to resist the urge to plant a good night kiss on her forehead. Why had God brought this woman from the other side of the world across his path? What’s your purpose, Lord?
He had to find out.
Poles Apart Page 4