Santa, Sir

The Call

Ronan's POV

I pressed the call button before I could second-guess myself. It rang twice.

"Hello?" Her voice was tired, the professional elf persona gone, replaced by a weary softness.

"Katie." I kept my tone low and level, devoid of any seasonal cheer. "It's Ronan Rourke."

A pause. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head, switching from end-of-day relaxation to cautious alert. "…Mr. Rourke. Is something wrong at the North Pole?"

"No. This is unrelated to our work there," I said, cutting straight to the point. "I need to speak with you about a private business proposal. It requires a conversation in a more appropriate setting."

Another silence, this one longer, laced with suspicion. "A business proposal?"

"Yes," I confirmed, my gaze fixed on the ridiculous, smiling reindeer painted on the wall. "Are you free to meet tomorrow evening? Seven o'clock. The Grindstone Cafe on Elm Street."

It was a neutral location. Public. It would put her at ease, show her this wasn't an ambush. It was a negotiation.

"...Okay," she said slowly, the word a question. "The Grindstone at seven. I'll be there."

"Good," I said, and ended the call.

I stood in the silence, the phone feeling heavy in my hand. The first move had been made. Tomorrow, I will lay my cards on the table. And I would find out if the unflappable Elf Katie was prepared to play a much more interesting game.

End Ronan's POV

The Grindstone Cafe on Elm Street looked nothing like the North Pole. No fake snow, no glitter-crusted plastic, just the warm, earthy scent of roasting coffee beans and a low hum of afternoon chatter. I chose a booth tucked away in a corner, my back to the wall, a half-eaten scone and a lukewarm latte providing a flimsy shield. Seven o'clock. Ronan Rourke was late.

My phone, still clutched in my hand, showed 7:07 PM. Punctuality was a sacred rite for Head Santa. The man timed photo sessions down to the second. What kind of business proposal could warrant such a breach of his meticulously ordered universe? My mind churned through possibilities: a new seasonal venture, an extended contract for Elf Katie, a sudden need for my expertise in motorcycle maintenance. Each idea felt more ridiculous than the last. The last time a man had a "private business proposal" for me, it ended with my bank account drained and my dignity in tatters.

A shadow fell over the table. The cafe lights, usually so soft, seemed to recoil from his presence.

"Right on time," Ronan's voice, a low current beneath the cafe's murmur, cut through my thoughts. He slid into the opposite side of the booth, his broad shoulders easily filling the space. He wore a dark, form-fitting Henley shirt that stretched across his chest, the fabric clinging to the sculpted lines of his torso. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, tattoos peeking from beneath the fabric. No Santa suit. No stiff white gloves. Just Ronan, raw and imposing.

My gaze snagged on his hands. They were massive, calloused, the kind of hands that built engines, or perhaps… controlled. The memory of the dream, of his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw, sent a jolt through me.

"Seven minutes past, actually," I said, my voice betraying none of the tremor that ran through me. I picked up my latte, the ceramic warm against my fingers, a small anchor in the sudden shift of atmosphere. "Punctuality is a virtue, Mr. Rourke."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting curve that vanished almost instantly. "For elves, perhaps. For those who set the schedule, flexibility is power." He leaned back, his eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on mine. "So, you came."

"You called," I replied, a slight edge to my tone. "You asked me to meet you about a business proposal. Here I am. Now, what's this about?"

He held my gaze, his intensity almost physically pressing down on me. "Direct. Good. I appreciate directness." He picked up a napkin, folded it into a precise square, then unfolded it again, his movements deliberate. "This isn't about your elf duties, Katie."

My brow furrowed. "I gathered. Is the mall extending the Christmas season? Because I'm going to need hazard pay for anything beyond December 26th."

His smile returned, a genuine, unsettling flash. "No extensions. This is… different. More personal. More demanding." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, weighted with unspoken meaning. "And entirely separate from our employment agreement."

I felt a prickle of unease. "Personal and demanding? Are you recruiting for some secret underground biker gang? Because I'm pretty sure my skill set doesn't extend to leather craftsmanship or impromptu bar brawls."

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the worn upholstery of the booth. "You have a quick wit, Katie. A sharp mind. An intriguing defiance. I've noticed."

My unease solidified into a cold knot in my stomach. The way he watched me, the lingering quality of his gaze, was not the way a boss looked at an employee. It was predatory, assessing. "Noticed what, precisely, Mr. Rourke?"

"Your resistance to the mundane," he began, his voice dropped in pitch, becoming a low, intimate murmur that bypassed the cafe noise and spoke directly to something deep inside me. "Your disdain for the trivial. Your need for… structure. For order."

My hand tightened around the latte mug. "I prefer efficiency. There's a difference."

"Is there?" His eyes seemed to bore into mine, stripping away my carefully constructed facade. "You chafe under superficial rules, but you follow directives with an almost military precision when they make sense. You question, but you comply. You challenge, but you obey."

A flush crept up my neck. He saw too much. He saw past the weary elf, past the sarcastic employee. He saw… me. Or at least, a version of me I hadn't realized was so transparent. "I'm a good employee, Mr. Rourke. That's what you're seeing."

"You're an excellent employee, Katie. But that's not what I'm talking about." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, closing the distance between us. His scent reached me then – leather, a faint hint of oil, and something musky, primal. It was intoxicating. "I'm talking about a dynamic. A connection that transcends the professional. A space where your inherent obedience, your secret desire for control to be taken from you, can finally be fulfilled."