All He Wants for Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  He reached his own little corner of the manipulative retail sales world and stood outside for a minute, studying the Kismet Moosby’s toy store with a critical eye. This was what he’d worked for, sacrificed for, changed himself for. This was it.

  It didn’t look like a man’s life’s work. It looked like a small redbrick building, fronted by two picture windows that gave it a friendly appearance, frosted by snow and decorated with multiple strings of old-fashioned multicolored C9 lights. It looked popular, full of shoppers of all ages. Jason found that weirdly heartening. Most of all, it looked like a drawing of a toy store in a children’s book come magically to life—as though it might, at any second, blink its windowpane eyes and use its awning-covered stoop to somehow crack a big smile.

  At that fanciful thought, Jason scoffed to himself. What the hell was he thinking? Moosby’s was enchanting because it had been designed that way. He’d employed teams of architects and designers, builders and decorators, all with the express intent of repurposing the old buildings they transformed into new sites and creating an ambiance that would feel welcoming and homey.

  Of course Moosby’s felt good. It was engineered to feel good. Even its location, on a corner fronted by a small, bench-filled open space, beckoned shoppers to come in and stay awhile.

  He ought to feel proud, Jason knew.

  Instead, he felt like a massive fraud.

  Once upon a time, he used to love being at his toy stores. He remembered being the first one to arrive in the morning and the last one to leave at night. He remembered being always ready to chat with customers and to show off the unique merchandise he’d featured as one-of-a-kind More More Moosby’s! exclusives. Now, Jason delegated those responsibilities and took on others.

  Now he took on responsibilities like getting his ass in there and being publicly impeccable, corporately unimpeachable, and 100 percent family friendly, Jason reminded himself.

  If he didn’t—and if Chip Larsen won—Jason stood a good chance of losing everything. So he drew in another breath, put on his game face, and opened the door.

  Chapter Four

  “. . . and go!” Danielle instructed the people around her as the toy store’s front door opened. Numbers one through eight on her to-do list had already been accomplished. Now all that remained was launching a proper welcome for the man who was here to reward her store and its employees for all their hard work.

  Jason Hamilton. He’d been circling the lakefront for a while, Danielle had learned. He’d finally made his way downtown.

  Her hometown spies had been reporting in all morning via cell phone as Moosby’s meandering bigwig had progressed through the neighborhoods surrounding the iced-over lake, through the south side of town, and up to Main Street. She’d spotted him herself just moments ago. But she hadn’t had time to do much more than stash her cache of meter-feeding quarters, clutch her leftover parking meter cards, and hurry back to the store.

  She was surprised he’d driven himself. She’d expected a limousine. An entourage. A phalanx of roving reporters complete with popping flashbulbs and whirring cameras like something out of an old ’80s movie. Instead, Jason Hamilton had made the trip from Gerald R. Ford International Airport in Grand Rapids on his own. Just like a regular guy. That sort of . . . impressed her.

  It worried her a little, too.

  If Jason Hamilton wasn’t a clueless Richie Rich type, it would be a lot trickier to hide her unorthodox store inventory methods from him. Not to mention her intentional non-adherence to the official apron, hat, ambient music, and yodeling policies. Because while Danielle had briefly considered reforming to bring her store in line with Moosby’s official corporate guidelines, in the end, she’d decided it was better to be herself.

  She was the one who’d excelled well enough to be named manager of Moosby’s first-ever model toy store, wasn’t she?

  That meant she knew what she was doing. Even if what she was doing was technically against the rules.

  The only thing Danielle intended to hide during Jason Hamilton’s visit was her inventory wrangling. Because it involved other regional stores, and she didn’t want to get her fellow Moosby’s managers in trouble. Other than that . . .

  Well, the way she saw it, if Jason Hamilton was a guy who cared about rules, he’d be so distracted with cracking down on the lack of Marky Mark uniforms and the proliferation of homegrown holiday music that he wouldn’t have time to be on the lookout for any coinciding inventory shenanigans. It was all part of her newly created get-a-promotion strategy.

  So was this welcome. Drawing in a deep breath, Danielle nodded to the conductor of the Kismet Klangers.

  Right on cue, the town’s adult hobbyist marching band launched into a raucous rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Ordinarily, the Klangers spent their December Saturdays at the Kismet town square, creating a festive atmosphere for downtown shoppers. As a special favor to Danielle, today they’d stopped in her store beforehand. Their music was unique. It was played with gusto, too, by musicians who all wore gaudy holiday sweaters embellished with rhinestones, appliqués, and more.

  For an instant, the visiting CEO who’d caused all the hullabaloo stopped on the threshold. Framed by the wintery light behind him, Jason Hamilton looked tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome . . . and endearingly taken aback by all the hoopla, too.

  For a heartbeat, he actually looked as though he wanted to bolt. But then he swept his dark-eyed gaze over the waiting customers, musicians, and Moosby’s employees, stamped the snow from his shoes, and seemed to regroup. He smiled at them all.

  A sigh actually rippled throughout the room. That was just how potent that smile of his was. It was one part confident retail genius, one part boyish surprise, and one part hubba-hubba manliness . . . and it was genuine, too. Danielle caught herself in midexhalation and couldn’t believe her own gullibility.

  She wasn’t going to fall for the manufactured legend of Moosby’s famously charismatic leader. She was smarter than that.

  Like a rock star, Jason Hamilton raised his arm. “Hello, Kismet!” his deep, raspy voice rang out. “How are you?”

  A chorus of squeals met his greeting. Danielle’s employees and customers all surged, en masse, toward the doorway. They nearly trampled each other in their haste to reach him.

  Once they had Jason Hamilton surrounded, they grew palpably expectant. Coquettish young mothers batted their eyelashes and played with their hair. Young fathers stood tall, inspired by Jason’s example, and gave him macho man-to-man nods. Grandmothers held out tins of homemade spritz cookies and hand-crocheted scarves. Midlife female shoppers eyed Jason and his citified appearance with lusty-eyed approval. Two rushed forward to collect his coat as he shucked it. Several others exclaimed over everything from his gray flannel pants to his pristine white shirt and his casual black wool scarf.

  Men didn’t look like that in Kismet. In Kismet, the closest anyone had ever gotten to GQ coolness had been years ago, when trucker caps were in vogue. Down-home Kismet men had suddenly found themselves unintentionally (and unknowingly) on trend. Not surprisingly, that coincidence had never been repeated.

  In the center of the mêlée, Jason Hamilton smiled again. He possessed both dimples and the kind of romantic, dark wavy hair that Danielle had glimpsed in Pre-Raphaelite paintings. His nose broke left, then right, ever so slightly. It was on the hawkish side, too. But that only made him appear even more real. He looked like a guy you’d want to approach—and everyone did.

  His unexpected rock-star appeal might have begun with his smile, but it ended with his sincerity. Where other men might have simply stood there, arms wide, and soaked up the sudden burst of admiration coming their way, Jason Hamilton delved into the crowd instead. He met the first customer head-on, looked straight at her, and gave her a husky, “Hi. I’m Jason.”

  As if there was anyone within fifty miles who didn’t already know that. Nonetheless, the woman turned cranberry red.

  She wobbled. H
er voice was a breathless squeak. “Hi!”

  Her giddy giggles carried to Danielle. Danielle wanted to roll her eyes at the whole spectacle. Somehow, she couldn’t.

  Jason took her hand. “You have a wonderful laugh.” He sounded absolutely sincere. Maybe he was. “What’s your name?”

  The woman gulped in a breath. “Jason!”

  His smile became charmingly teasing. “Me too!”

  “Oh! No! I mean—” Another titter. “I’m Amy. You’re Jason!” She clutched one of her friends. Both of them appeared on the verge of fainting. “He looks just like he did in People !”

  Aha. Belatedly, Danielle realized that she’d seen the magazine cover the woman was talking about. Jason Hamilton had been named People magazine’s first-ever CEO “Sexiest Man Alive.”

  “Ohmigod. He does!” The woman’s friend swiveled her gaze up and down Jason’s body. “I still have that magazine cover up in my locker at work,” she told him, one hand excitedly covering her beating heart. “I’m a waitress at the Galaxy Diner. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Our specialty is pie-in-a-jar.”

  “Mmm.” His contemplative rumble made several women nearby swoon. He seemed unaware of that fact. “Sounds delicious.”

  “You should come by sometime. Anytime! Anytime at all!”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to. I’ll be sure to ask for . . . ?”

  “Avery! Ask for Avery. That’s my name. I’m Avery.”

  “All right, I will.” Jason shook her hand warmly. He looked into her eyes, then smiled. “You’re very kind, Avery.”

  Hearing him say her name made the waitress blush. Danielle wanted to be cynical about that fact. She wanted to believe that Jason Hamilton was shamelessly manipulating her customers. But she just . . . couldn’t. Somehow, he seemed too authentic for that.

  For the next several minutes, the store’s meet-and-greet continued. One by one, each excited customer came face-to-face with Jason Hamilton. One by one, they each left their encounters with him appearing charmed and bedazzled and pleased. Pictures were taken. Autographs were scribbled. Gifts were piled on the table Danielle had set up. Even the men weren’t immune. While meeting Moosby’s CEO, they lowered their voices, straightened their shoulders, and offered crushing handshakes; when leaving him, they puffed out their chests and high-fived each other.

  Overall, it was a remarkable scenario. Danielle knew she should come forward and take charge of the situation, but she didn’t want to. Not yet. She was too fascinated by watching. She’d never experienced Jason’s kind of effortless charisma before. Especially not up close and (almost) personal this way.

  To her surprise, Jason Hamilton actually seemed nice. Not bland nice or boring nice, but startlingly nice. Nice in a way that made him seem trustworthy and kind—capable of being brought home to meet someone’s mother without causing an aneurism.

  Clearly, her company’s CEO was going above and beyond. Since when did good-looking men need personalities, anyway?

  Very quickly, the official Moosby’s meet-and-greet devolved into an on-the-spot Christmas party. Jason found the homemade eggnog produced by a local Kismet dairy. He ladled out cups of it for everyone—but only after sampling it himself and then making the dairy owner beam by pronouncing it “perfect—just like grandma used to make.” The Kismet Klangers quit playing long enough to individually meet the man of the hour, then kicked into an inspired, kooky rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

  Customers started dancing. Employees started singing. Even the many, many children present got into the merry spirit by hopping around amid the toys, laughing, and becoming instant devotees of Jason. One little girl presented the picture she’d colored of him. Jason rewarded her with a bright smile and an on-the-spot joint Crayola session. One little boy demonstrated his skill at assembling Legos. He stood by, awestruck, as Jason did the same—only to pronounce the boy’s creation “way cooler.”

  A toddler entourage formed in Jason’s wake, sticky fingered and wobbly legged (and occasionally brandishing woobies) but nonetheless enthralled. By the time an hour had passed, Jason still stood chatting with a rapt Henry in the middle of the crowd, casually carrying one little boy on his shoulders while joking with another little girl about her favorite video games.

  That was when Gigi arrived, having been given the task of tracking down the tardy local news crew. She raised herself on tiptoe to gain a better view. She grinned as she saw that Jason now wore a Santa hat as he took more photos with customers.

  “Wow. It is just me, or is he super miam-miam?”

  Her breathy French exhalation of that phrase—roughly, yum, yum!—made Danielle grin. “He’s miam-miam, all right. But I think he’s about to meet his match.” She aimed her chin toward the doorway, where several people were approaching carrying signs. “Those look like protestors to me. I’d better do something.”

  With authority, Danielle made her way through the pack. Unfortunately, it was slow going. Her customers and employees had crammed themselves in so tightly to be near Jason that she might as well have been moshing her way through a concert crowd.

  Frustrated, she craned her neck to see. Uh-oh. She was too late. The leader of the protest group had reached Jason.

  Why would anyone want to protest here? Danielle wondered. Maybe that group had been picketing nearby and had been drawn, magnetically and inescapably, into Jason’s orbit? But if not . . .

  Worriedly, Danielle pushed onward. “Excuse me. Sorry,” she said. “If I can just get through, please. Thanks. I’m just going to squeeze past you, Avery. Perfect. Now Amy, if you could—”

  Suddenly, the crowd shifted. Danielle’s momentum carried her into a newly created open space on the sales floor.

  Unexpectedly, she stood directly in front of Jason Hamilton. He didn’t notice her, though. He was busy holding up one of the protestors’ signs. He nodded at it in thought.

  “This must have taken a lot of time,” he was saying in an approving tone. “Creating a BOYCOTT MOOSBY’S sign out of nothing but old shopping bags and your own ingenuity? Incredible.”

  “Oh, not really,” the protestor demurred. Danielle recognized her as one of the retirees who took Zumba classes at the local YMCA. “It’s a simple braiding technique, that’s all. Plus a whole lot of glue to keep it stuck to the cardboard.”

  “Really? I’m impressed,” Jason insisted. “All that braiding would require a lot of dexterity. And so many bags, too! Your neighbors must have all donated their bags to your cause.”

  “Nope, they’re all my bags. I’ve been shopping here at Moosby’s for a long time. But it’s not strictly my cause.” The woman shrugged. “They said on the news that we ought to protest Moosby’s. I’m retired. What else did I have to do today?”

  “I bet a woman like you has a lot to do. You look like the leader here. You brought everyone down here. You inspired them.”

  “Maybe.” She gave a meager grin. “I guess maybe I did.”

  “Have you always inspired people this way?”

  “Maybe.” Her grin broadened. “I guess maybe I have.”

  “Well, I’m honored by your effort.” Earnestly, Jason held out his hand. “Thanks for letting me know how you feel, Betty.”

  Betty. Of course! Danielle had forgotten the woman’s name. She and Jason clasped hands, then shook. Betty withdrew first. She gazed at her own wrinkled hand with bewildered pleasure.

  Danielle began to believe Jason was some kind of corporate alchemist, able to turn enemies into allies with a simple touch.

  Jason set down the child who’d been on his shoulders. He waited for the boy to scamper away. Then, conspiratorially, he leaned nearer. “Betty, do you think you could keep the protest outside, though? I don’t want to scare all the kids.”

  Betty nibbled her lip. Then she waved her hand. “Nah. I don’t think we need that protest. I think you were set up!”

  Her fellow protestors milled around, nodding emphatically.

  “Shoot, they can do all kinds of
tomfoolery with computers nowadays.” A man nearby lowered his sign. “For all we know, you weren’t even in the same zip code as that hotsy totsy.”

  “Her name is Bethany,” Jason told them all. “She’s funny and bright, and she’s studying to become an anthropologist.”

  “Good for her!” cried a woman to the left of Betty.

  Before long, they’d all set aside their protest signs to claim cookies and delicious cups of nutmeg-dusted eggnog instead.

  It was amazing. Watching things unfold, Danielle had the impression that if Jason Hamilton could have met one at a time with all the potential protesters across the country, he could have defused all their objections without breaking a sweat. He possessed a disarming directness that no one could resist.

  Fortunately for her ability to think straight, none of that infectious charm had been aimed at her yet. It probably wouldn’t be anytime soon, either. Because Danielle was still mulling over those comments about Jason Hamilton having been “set up.” With Bethany. In a situation that was newsworthy and protest worthy.

  What in the world was that all about, anyway?

  For her, it had been a whirlwind twenty-four hours. Since receiving that phone call from Chip Larsen, Danielle had had to wrangle a gala welcome party, contact the Kismet Comet, organize a satellite link to the nearest northwestern Michigan TV station, make sure her store was spic-and-span, and arrange for Karlie, Zach, and Aiden to spend a few days at their dad’s house.

  Even at the best of times, as a single mother, Danielle didn’t have a lot of free time to keep up on current events. Now she had a feeling that her lack of news watching was about to bite her in the butt.

  She hadn’t known there might be another reason for Jason Hamilton’s Moosby’s media tour, aside from the usual corporate mania to “create a Christmas buzz.” That’s the way Chip Larsen had described the situation to her . . . not long after congratulating her on having a “model store” and strongly hinting about her upcoming promotion, of course. The fact that actual protestors had arrived concerned her—even if they had joined the Jason Hamilton fan club in lieu of creating havoc in her store.