Page 3 of Christmas By Design

“Okay, Star-baby,” I say softly. “Let’s see the last couple of windows and get some hot chocolate. Sound good?”

She nods without lifting her head from my shoulder, but she turns her face outward so she can see. We walk slowly—but faster now that I’m carrying her—to take a look at the last two displays, then I swing us around the corner and into the store. There’s a coffee shop on the first level that, with any luck, won’t have much of a line.

I turn toward the shop and stop in my tracks. The line is at least twenty people deep.

When did Christmas get so crowded?

Nova feels heavier in my arms all of a sudden, and I look down to see her eyes drooping closed. I’ll never say it out loud, but my mom was right when she said Nova is too young for this to be fun. I didn’t care. I just wanted to share some holiday cheer with my daughter. Is that too much to ask for?

Apparently, it is.

I glance toward the door, where the rain is really coming down now. I look back at the line, which seems to be moving at a decent pace. There are four baristas behind that tiny counter.

Hot chocolate or dragging a sleepy Nova all the way back to my car in the rain. That’s not even a choice. I slide into the back of the line and shift Nova higher on my hip. She barely even stirs.

About thirty minutes later, I’m finally at the counter. Nova has perked up with the proximity to hot chocolate. So have I, honestly. She’s getting wriggly, so I set her down before ordering for us. Two hot chocolates with extra whipped cream and a cake pop for good measure. Nova reaches to grab the counter ledge so she can get up on her tiptoes to see over it. I hand over my card and gently squeeze the little pom-pom on top of her hat. She smiles up at me like I’m the most important person in her world. My heart—already overflowing with love for her, for the season, for this city—grows even more.

“Um, I’m sorry, ma’am.” The barista says, and I tear my attention away from my kid. “Your card has been declined?”

“What?” I frown. I’m sure I had enough money for this excursion on this card. I’m positive, actually. Things have been tight, especially as I’ve been trying to save for a house of our own, but I planned this trip down to the penny. Unless…

I glance at the clock on the card reader. Five o’clock on the dot. My parking meter must have run out. The parking app I use would have automatically charged me for another hour. I hadn’t calculated getting hot chocolate to take this long.

I curse under my breath and toss my diaper bag on the counter so I can rifle through it. I never carry cash, but I also never clean this thing out, so there’s a possibility I could get lucky today. It is the holiday season, after all. Isn’t there supposed to be some guardian angel looking out for me or something? Some kind of Christmas miracle waiting to happen?

Nova, sensing something is wrong, hugs my leg and starts to whimper.

“I know, baby.” I try to keep my voice soothing, but my breathing is starting to get shallow. It feels like something is squeezing my chest. “Just give me a second. I’m sure I have something in here.” My heart starts beating faster, and my breath is coming in shorter gasps. It’s the type of anxiety I probably won’t recover from for the entire evening, but I try to keep it cool for her sake.

I can sense the people behind me getting frustrated, which makes me even more agitated. The last thing I want to do is tell Nova we can’t have this little treat. It’s under fifteen dollars. What kind of parent am I if I can’t even treat my kid to something that costs less than fifteen dollars?

And that’s the thought that has tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I will not cry in the Macy’s café in front of Nova and all these people, I tell myself, though it does little to lessen the anxiety. If anything, it makes it heavier. Nova squeezes my leg tighter.

God, I am the absolute worst parent in the world right now. I’m sure of it.

A big hand touches my elbow. I jump at the contact, which causes a couple of the tears I had been barely holding at bay to trickle down my cheeks. I hastily wipe them away and put an arm around Nova.

“Allow me.” A voice so silken it sounds absolutely decadent comes from my left. It’s soft and reassuring. A guardian angel, indeed. That voice alone manages to take my anxiety down just enough for me to turn and look at the man who is handing his card over to the barista.

My arm around Nova stiffens as I take in the extremely handsome man who smells deliciously like rosemary. I scan my way up, past his navy wool peacoat, clean-shaven jaw, and land on the excellently coiffed salt-and-pepper hair of Beckett Camdon.

Oh, hell no. This is the man that cost me the historical house project that I desperately wanted to take on, because how fucking cool would it be to work on a historical house? Not only that, the bonus that Jacob pays for each project would also be the difference between me putting a down payment on a home of my own and living with my parents for the next six months. Sure, the bonus wouldn’t clear until the new year, but without Beckett, now I have to wait for one of the junior designers to be free. And they are wretched. Sexist assholes, every one of them. Beckett hates me, but at least it’s not because I’m a woman.

But no. This man had to stand between me and my Christmas spirit.

He’s no guardian angel. And I certainly don’t care if he’s hot as hell in that peacoat. He’s the Scroogiest of Scrooges, and there is no way I’m letting him buy our hot chocolates.

Except I’ve been frozen in shock, and the barista is already handing his card back to him. When I don’t move to grab the drinks she’s holding out for me, Beckett takes the smallest and bends down to hand it to Nova. She squeals with joy.

The barista clears her throat, and the woman behind me sighs deeply.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. I take my hot chocolate and the paper bag with Nova’s cake pop before moving out of the way.

“Sank you,” Nova lisps, cupping her mittened hands around the hot chocolate.

“No problem,” Beckett says, his voice impossibly kind and warm. His eyes crinkle at the corners briefly as he looks at her with clear affection. I don’t know who this man is, but he’s not the Beckett Camdon who coldly denied working with me yesterday afternoon in Jacob’s office.

He straightens, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine. They’re frigid again, as if I don’t deserve the warmth he was just directing toward my daughter. Could he be any more obvious? I’m sure it wasn’t the project he was rejecting, but working with me. I’m not surprised. All the men at the office are like this—and Designs by Drawley is made up of mostly men. They don’t want to work with a thirty-year-old single mom who rushes out the door every morning with unruly hair I don’t have time to do and fresh toddler stains on her clothes. It doesn’t matter that I’m a damn good project manager. They see me and run for the hills. Or, worse, say a bunch of sexist shit I have to pretend to ignore.