by Ellie Hall
"Why are you so sappy, perky, bubbly?" His arms crossed in front of his chest as though he was trying to repel these qualities.
She followed suit with the gesture. "Why'd you stick up for me at the coffee shop?"
"Why—?" He stopped himself, suddenly frozen again. He swallowed back whatever he was going to ask.
"Why don't we both just agree not to answer?"
"Okay. Fine. Except for one thing. What's your real name?"
Her lips pinched together as irritation rose like a wave inside, threating to turn into anger. "What makes you think it isn't Bubbles?"
"No one would name child kid that."
"No one would name their kid Scrooge yet here we are." She swept her hands between them.
"My name is Logan, not Scrooge."
"Ha! Now I know and I didn't even have to ask." At that, she bopped him on the nose with the spatula, getting cookie dough on his face because it was better than punching him, which she kind of felt like doing.
She laughed as his eyes crossed, trying to look at what she'd done.
Then his gaze landed on hers, burning with intensity. Without looking away from her, he wiped the dough, studied it, and then popped it in his mouth. "Delicious."
Her breath caught in her chest as his lips worked, as his gaze smoldered, pouring over her, into her. Another moment passed between them until she found her voice. "You're hungry, you said so yourself. There's leftover pizza in the fridge."
He turned a fraction, locating the appliance. "The little, tiny fridge."
She wouldn't give him the pleasure of her laughter. Instead, she took the tray of cookies out of the oven, put the next one in, and set the timer. When she straightened, a sudden spritz of whipped cream landed on her nose and in her hair. She yelped. "Hey! Not fair." She leaped toward him, trying to wrestle the can away. His skin was warm against hers. He was tickling her and she couldn't help but giggle. Then she fell silent and swallowed hard when she realized their arms and legs tangled. Her pulse picked up and then galloped as he wiped the cream from her nose and took a lick. "Like I said, delicious."
His phone beeped breaking the spell of the moment.
Her pulse slowed as he answered the text and she cleaned up. "So, no entourage—?"
"No family—?"
She didn't answer, desperate to get back on track. It was Christmas Eve and a flirtatious rock star was not going to thwart her mission. "Have you ever had a dog?"
He harrumphed as he continued to text.
When she turned off the water and passed him the bowl to dry, he put away his phone and sighed. "My grandmother had a dog. Her name was Daisy. She was a Bichon Frise, like Dotty. But no spots. My grandmother would always dress her up in jeweled collars and—" He cleared his throat.
Clara paused, collecting her thoughts. She used to walk a dog named Daisy and then not too long ago that same dog was surrendered to the shelter. Her chest tightened, yet she managed to say, "I bet she was special."
"She sure was."
"Do you miss her?"
He didn't answer. But his downcast expression said it all.
Chapter 6
Logan
Logan didn't answer Clara's question because the truth hurt too much. With his celebrity and travel lifestyle, it was unrealistic to keep the dog after his grandmother's passing, but with his wealth, he could have provided for her care and likely a few other dogs too. The shame of this ate him up. He'd had someone on his team leave Dotty at the shelter. His chest knotted at the thought of what was sure to be a sad little face as the dog's life changed forever. So many dogs ended up homeless because people couldn't cover the logistics for their care, but that was even more reason why he should help Clara.
He slid past her from the kitchen space and into the living area. He jiggled the bell on her hat as she started to unbraid her hair. It was brown and silky smooth. The urge to run his fingers through it was overwhelming. He couldn't tear his eyes from her but fought against the desire welling inside because it just couldn't be. He was going on tour soon. He'd be gone for months. Why was he suddenly disappointed, wondering why they didn't select the date after the New Year instead of after Christmas? Because he'd insisted. Because he wanted to get out of the city as soon as possible.
Her hands laced through her long strands. Everything about her was small except her personality, her heart. He found himself drawn to her, how adorable and beautiful and... "Hey, you're elf-sized. Little, tiny." He meant for it to be a compliment.
She lifted her chin and gazed up at him. "And you're abominable snowman sized."
"Are you saying I'm like a yeti?" He tried not to chuckle.
"A yeti who hasn't eaten anything for days, in the dead of winter, with no sign of the sun, or warmth or—"
He stepped closer. "Maybe you should feed me. Those cookies sure are looking good."
"They're a dollar each."
His eyebrows lifted. "You never answered, why are you baking cookies?" He settled on her spinning desk chair sans desk probably because there wasn't room for one. There was hardly room for him, at least not in the apartment.
"I thought we agreed we were done with questions."
"But I still don't know your real name." He leaned over, pulled a magazine out from under a stack of books, and read the address. "Clara Covington? Is that you? Clara, Clara, Clara," he repeated as if he was tasting the letters on his tongue or writing a song.
"That's me. Clara the human. Not Bubbles the elf."
"Knitter, dog lover, what else should I know about you?" He suddenly wanted to know everything.
"Cookie baker. To answer your question I baked cookies because it's Christmas Eve and that's what people do. Bake cookies, eat them, share them, and leave some for Santa."
He flashed a look of incredulity.
She rolled her eyes.
He imagined she still left one out for the old man in the red suit just in case.
"It's for a fundraiser at the shelter. I'm going to share on social media that we're looking for homes for the dogs. Anyone can come down and meet the puppies. I'll have refreshments and cookies for sale. Those'll be to help the shelter. They need every penny they can get for supplies, medicine, and that sort of thing. I could donate twenty dollars or spend it on baking supplies and make fifty."
"How enterprising of you." He contemplated this. "Do you plan to do it all by yourself?"
"It's not like some big name musician offered to donate time and money to little, tiny causes like ours."
"Are you saying I'm not generous? Altruistic?" He leaned forward.
"That remains to be seen. I don’t really know what kind of person Logan Ryder is, but I certainly didn't expect to have him in my house on Christmas Eve."
"You mean your little, tiny apartment." He spun in the chair.
"I won't argue with that." She looked around as though wishing for more space. A desk and regular furniture. Maybe even a workspace.
His mind filled with a vision of an apartment of their own. She'd have a yarn studio and he'd have a music studio. He certainly could afford an apartment, even an entire building.
Clara's voice pulled him from the fantasy. "If I don't start making more money, like the dogs, I'm going to have to look for someone to adopt me." She fussed with a few dog sweaters, straightening them out, then stashed them and some of the stockings and other items in her bag as though she was embarrassed for admitting it aloud.
They were both quiet a moment as the sugary, chocolate scent of baking cookies filled the silence.
She breathed deep. "Smells delicious. Smells like Christmas."
"Reminds me of my grandmother." Logan rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He exposed a rash of sadness in place of the grouchy, irritable, angry front he showed the world.
"Dotty?" she asked softly.
"How'd you know?" His grandmother's pouf of white hair matched the dog's. His jaw trembled.
"Elf intuition. She's a really cute puppy."<
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"She is," he agreed.
"She needs a good home."
"She doesn't want a guy like me, someone who forgets his keys in a coffee shop. Who hates Christmas carols, who—?"
"Hmm. But if you hadn't done that you wouldn't have met her—"
"No, I suppose not." He wasn't sure if they were talking about the puppy or…her.
Still seated, she stepped closer. His legs framed hers. They were mere inches apart. He smelled the sugar and chocolate, vanilla, and something that was uniquely her. He breathed it in. Their eyes met. He tilted his head.
The question that neither one of them would ask pulsed between them.
He planted his hands on her hips to pull her even closer. His lips brushed hers and every ounce of heartache exploded, dissolving into fragments too small for him to feel. Her mouth was just as hungry as his was. She filled the ache within him as the kiss deepened. Yet, his appetite for her increased. He wanted more. More of her soft warmth against him. More of her laughter. More of her lips.
Her hands gripped his jaw as if in answer to his desire. They kissed more. His heart thundered as they continued and his hand traveled along her back.
The cookie timer dinged.
They pulled apart. Clara pointed to the spinning chair. She seemed wobbly, punch drunk. Her cheeks were pink and her lips swollen. She giggled as though to diffuse the tension of the moment and pointed to the chair where he still sat. "Sometimes I don't even bother standing up. I just roll from place to place, but I have to be careful not to get tangled up in the yarn."
Whatever hardness remained inside of him softened when he pictured her rolling along the patch of the hardwood floor. Then it softened, even more, when he envisioned her rolling into his arms.
As the batches cooled, she put them into baggies. "Here, you can tie ribbons on the baggies."
"I don't do ribbon."
"Maybe Logan doesn't, but what about Grouchy McCrabbyPants? He's an elf."
He grunted. "Why ribbon instead of yarn?"
"It's more festive. But whether you're Logan or Grouchy. You do ribbon today. You owe it to Daisy."
While they bagged and curled, getting the cookies ready, she devised a plan of attack, outlining the details for when they returned to the shelter. "Maybe Simon can come back if we get a flurry of people stopping in." She trailed off. He couldn't help but feel she was leaving something out.
"You look sad," he observed, meaning to sound inviting if she wanted to talk about it.
"I was thinking."
"About…? Oh, wait. No questions. Let me guess. You were thinking about how I haven't eaten dinner."
"No, but I bet you're thinking about that."
"Cookies might be a suitable diet for an elf, but one slice of leftover pizza won't cut it for me—" Logan patted his taut belly.
She smiled and her cheeks turned rosy. It was the kind of smile he'd like to see every morning when he woke up and dream about every night.
His eyes lit up. "Hey, I've never seen that before."
"What?" She glanced down at the counter and then looked around the room.
"You smiled."
"I smile approximately every ninety-seconds."
He wagged his finger. "Not like that. That was a different one."
"Have you been paying attention?"
His eyebrows waggled. "Maybe."
She leaned back against the counter. "If you really want to know, I was thinking about my brother. We were twins and did everything together, but Christmas was always extra special. The anticipation… Trying, but failing, to fall asleep. Listening for every creak in the house and thinking about Santa. Then the next morning, the quiet, the stillness—"
"Christmas was always so magical." At least when his grandmother was still around.
"We'd bound out of bed and race to the tree. We got a puppy one year. He loved dogs."
They both retreated to their own thoughts for a moment.
Since they'd decided questions were off limits, Logan simply said, "And he's gone."
She nodded.
His fingers found hers and he gave her hand a squeeze. He meant to bring her comfort, but couldn't deny the other sensations: the warmth, the longing, and the way they lingered together. He wanted to give her a hug, to hold her and absorb whatever made her so upset. But wasn't sure he could risk that kind of intimacy. Instead, he cleared his throat. "Hey, before we head back to the shelter, how about we grab a bite. My treat." He glanced down at his sweatshirt. "In exchange for this amazing gift."
"Does that mean you're coming with me? And I don't have to steal your phone?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Were you going to use it to broadcast about the puppies? It's password protected, you know."
"I think I can crack the code."
He mock scoffed. Maybe she already had. "Yeah, I guess I'm coming with you."
Chapter 7
Clara
Snowflakes danced around the streetlights, forming little clouds before falling to the pavement. Clara and Logan left a small set of footprints and a bigger pair as they each carried a bag full of baked goods toward one of the few open restaurants without a line in her neighborhood.
The maître d studied Logan for a moment and assessed Clara with a shrewd scan. "Reservation?"
Logan shook his head.
"We're rather busy tonight."
"You wouldn't say no to one of Santa's own," Logan joked, gesturing to Clara, still in costume.
Just then, two willowy women dressed in black rushed up to Logan, practically pawing at him. One of them wore red lipstick. She stifled a squeal. "We had no idea you were in the city."
"Quincy said you were spending the holiday on your yacht…" The second, with a British accent, trilled. She towered over Clara in red high heels.
"Sold it," he muttered.
"What a shame. We hoped you'd invite us to someplace warm." She batted her eyelashes.
"Remember Ibiza?" the other asked.
"Oh, how could I forget?" Red Lips said.
They rambled and reminisced about a party on the Mediterranean island with Logan's old band before he struck out on his solo career.
"It's nice seeing you again. We have a table waiting," he said politely but firmly.
"You have my number, right? Text me later," Red Heels purred.
"We could meet up and have fun." The girl with the red lips winked.
"Remember, you said we could sing back up on your next album." Red Heels glanced at Clara, seemingly noticing her for the first time. She squinted for a moment, possibly wondering why L Ryder was out with a woman dressed as an elf, and then followed her friend out the door.
Clara made a face at their backs and rolled her eyes.
Logan chuckled.
The maître d sniffed, grabbed two menus, and paraded through the dining room, bringing them to a table for two right in the middle.
Clara's hat jingled as she adjusted her chair. "I was thinking pizza, um, not fancy." Her funds were tight and she couldn't afford a meal there if she wanted to make rent.
Logan shrugged. "Come on, live a little. Plus you had pizza in the fridge, meaning you must have eaten it recently."
A plate with a precious coin of something yellow and topped with a green sprig passed in a server's hand. Clara glanced at the prices on the menu. One dinner item alone could feed at least three dogs for a week. "Logan—"
The server approached with a courteous bow. "Sir, miss, may I bring you beverages?"
"Water. We'll just have water," Clara blurted.
The server left, looking as perplexed as Logan. "This place has some of the best wine or you could get—"
"It's too expensive."
"I told you, my treat."
"I can't justify a seventy-five dollar entrée when I have twelve dogs who might need to eat tomorrow and the next day and who knows how long after that if I don't find them forever homes." She left out the part about her own bank account.
Logan tilt
ed his head, looking intently at Clara as she spoke. "You know, you're adorable."
"Is that because I'm short? If so, save it. I've heard it all before and it's not endearing." Then she remembered what she was wearing. "Or because I'm dressed like an elf?"
"Because you're different than everyone else I know. Because you have a big heart. Because you're passionate about something that matters deeply to you. I knew someone like that once and she was my idol." Sadness flickered across his features, but joy too.
"Well, I try. Someone has to."
The snap snap of a camera came from nearby.
Logan dipped his head behind his hand. "Someone has to do it for the dogs," he mumbled.
"I suppose that's better than doing it for the fame." Still irritated by the encounter with the women, friends, fans, or whatever they were, Clara realized how harsh this sounded as soon as it came out of her mouth.
The muscles in Logan's jaw worked. "For your information, I'm not a musician because I want to be famous."
Just then, a woman appeared at his side. "Do you mind signing this for my daughter?" She held out a napkin.
He startled. Apparently, he wasn't used to being recognized and rippled with discomfort. "I'm sorry, we're eating dinner—"
The server brought their waters.
The woman's lips puckered. "It doesn't look like it. Plus, it's Christmas."
Clara saw how wanting to satisfy his fans, but have a private life tore him in two—even if he was bickering with his dining companion. "Ma'am. You're right, it is Christmas and as such, Ryder would enjoy his dinner uninterrupted, but I'm sure he'd make an exception if you said the magic word."
A crease formed between her eyebrows. "The magic word?"
Clara nodded.
Logan's lips quirked.
The woman stumbled over words like open sesame and abracadabra.
Clara interrupted. "Please. Surely, you know that one."
The woman collected herself and then asked politely.
"Be sure to tell your daughter to check out his feed later. It's going to be epic," Clara said.