SHAWN ISN’T REAL.
He’s something made of dreams and wishes, because I cannot believe this man is just walking around the world and existing in this frustratingly nice and obscenely hot way.
I always thought he was generous; a good tipper (sixty-five percent, always). A door holder (even when someone is twenty paces away and he has to wait). A please and thank you user (every time, all the time).
But today he’s catapulted himself to an elusive category of men that are increasingly impossible to find: the all-around good guy who’s not just trying to get into your pants.
I really think he might be the only one on that pedestal, a category made up of only him, because no one else I’ve ever met in life comes as close to perfection as he does.
Perfect.
It’s the only way to describe him.
We’ve been outside in the cold for hours, but he’s unfazed. He hasn’t lost the spring in his step or his megawatt grin. It’s still in place as we go house to house, bearing presents and holiday cheer.
There’s no press or cameras. There’s no one to put on an act for; it’s just me, him, his dad, a rotation of family members joining us throughout the day and Christmas music blaring from the speakers of the truck. I’ve never heard someone sing “Jingle Bells” so loudly in my life.
I’m not sure he even brought his cell phone with him. I saw him leave it on the foyer table before we left, and I don’t think he ever picked it back up.
He’s thorough with his time and considerate to every family we meet. He stops to take photos and sign jerseys, the hometown guy who made it big showing up on their porches with a sack full of gifts. One kid made Shawn wait while he dug out his rookie season trading card, and Shawn was speechless.
He dipped his chin and wiped his eyes after.
I’m in the stadium with him for every home game, but I’ve spent almost two seasons only knowing him as a coach. The guy who makes the play calls but isn’t actually out on the field. I forget he’s had this whole other life with his career, years in the league and giving his heart and soul to his team.
Today is the first time I’ve truly been immersed in how well-known and well-liked he is. Millions of people look up to him, and it blows my mind he never acts like he’s better than anyone else just because his name is printed on the back of a jersey and he has a hand full of Super Bowl rings.
“Ready?” Shawn asks from behind the wheel. He gives my knee a squeeze and taps the denim of my jeans. “There are only ten houses to go.”
My feet are sore from the miles of walking. My muscles ache from the stairs we’ve climbed. My arms hurt from carrying the boxes of gifts as carefully as I can, not wanting to drop a single one. My cheeks are pink from the wind and the cold, and I stopped feeling my toes an hour ago.
Still, there’s a hum in my chest. The quiet swell of a wave in the cavity behind my heart. The urge to want to keep doing more, as if the first two hundred and ninety houses we visited weren’t enough. A smile on my lips that bleeds into an ear-splitting grin as he puts the car in park and turns off the ignition.
Shawn’s dad hops out of the backseat, the spot he valiantly claimed when we started our day seven and a half hours ago, refusing to switch places with me when I pleaded with him to take the front.
I see where Shawn gets it from.
Maddening, delightful Holmes’ men.
“I’m ready.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and adjust the annoyingly festive necklace I’m wearing. It’s made up of two dozen bulbs, big Christmas lights that twinkle and flicker and change colors when you click a hidden button on the back. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Mine, too.” He tugs on the strand around my neck and I lean forward, right up in his space. I can see the flicker of the lights in his eyes, a rotating rainbow that repeats itself again and again. “Can I kiss you, Lacey girl?”
I blow out a breath, and the cold from outside begins to seep into the car. “You’ve never asked to kiss me before.”
“I know. But before my dad and half the city weren’t watching.”
“I’m yours, right?” I ask, and his throat bobs.
“Right,” he says, and his voice is hard around the edges but soft in the middle with the single word. “You are.”
“Then you should know you can kiss me whenever you want. Audience, no audience. The answer will always be yes,” I whisper, and the air leaves my lungs when he captures my mouth with his.
It’s sweet and tender, both palms on my cheeks and his body heat mixing with mine. I tilt my head to deepen the kiss, to bring him closer, because every time Shawn kisses me, I lose a little part of myself.
That small, insecure voice in my head that tells me I’ll never find anyone good enough begins to fade. It begins to take the shape of the man beside me, down to the tattoo of a cactus on his right hand—a drunken night in Vegas when he was twenty-six, he told me last night—an image that’s startlingly sharp and clear.
My heart knows he’s become more than a friend. More than a fuck buddy. More than someone I can sleep with once—or six times—to fill a need and then walk away from. He’s worked his way into my life, and I don’t ever want him to leave.
He’s taken the spot I’ve left vacant for years, the tiny crater I’m not sure I’d ever fill, and made it his own. It’s different than how I imagined; it’s a little flawed. A little messy. A little loud and chaotic and uncertain, but I’m learning I like messy.
I like messy with him.
How did we go from casual and light to here? My heart in my throat as I think about tomorrow, and the next day after and the next day after. A thousand more days, and I could have them all with him.
Maybe our souls were fused together months ago. Back on the night when we first met and he shook my hand, smiled my way, and told me he was excited to finally meet me.
Back on the night he first kissed me, a leap of faith off a high ledge. The little moments in between; scrambled eggs done just the way I like and talking on the phone until the early morning, neither one of us wanting to be the first to hang up.
“You’re smiling,” he says against my lips, and I can feel him smiling, too. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” I say. “Me. Us.”
“Us, huh?” Shawn fixes my hat, making sure it’s snug on my head and covering my ears. He straightens my jacket, his hands fumbling with the zipper as he pulls it up toward my chin. I think he’s trying to find any excuse to touch me. “That sounds promising.”
“I think it could be.”
There’s a tap on the glass. Shawn’s dad waves through the window, a kind reminder that we’re on a tight schedule.
“We should go,” Shawn says. “Lots more presents to deliver.”
“We’ll come back to this?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He nods, a promise in the bob of his head. “We will.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt, climbing out of the car and into the bitter cold. The wind has started to die down as sunset approaches, but it’s still hard to breathe. I hurry to the trunk and we grab the row of presents for the Whitaker family, double checking to make sure we have all the boxes and bags.
Shawn leads us up the stairs toward the door and knocks. He rests his hand on the small of my back, and the same nervous energy rolls through him like it did for all the other houses. I look up at him with the Santa hat on his head, and I can’t help but grin.
God, I’m head over heels for this man.
The door opens, and a little girl with red curly hair pokes her head out. Shawn steps away from me and crouches down, his jeans rubbing against the wood as he gets on her level.
“Hi, Clara. My name is Mr. Shawn. Is your dad home?” he asks, his voice gentle and kind.
He’s greeted everyone—every kid, every adult, every second cousin who lives in the basement—by their first name, a feat I’m still trying to figure out. It took me fifty houses to realize there’s a laminated spreadsheet in the truck, a list of all the people he’d encounter today, so he knows how to approach them.
So goddamn perfect.
“Yes,” the little girl says, and I see the war in her eyes. A strange man is standing on her porch with gifts, and she doesn’t know what to do. Hell, I would’ve slammed the door in his face ten seconds ago. “I’ll get him.”
There’s the pitter patter of little feet disappearing, and I rub Shawn’s back with my free hand. He clasps his palm in mine and squeezes tight while we wait. Soon there are voices, growing louder as they approach the door.
“Can I help you?” a man asks. He uses a cane to walk, and it takes him a minute to fully open the front door. “We don’t want to buy anything.”
“Hi, Derek. My name is Shawn. This is my girlfriend, Lacey, and my dad, Michael,” he starts, and my heart turns to goo when he calls me his girlfriend. “We’re with Operation Give Back, an organization that partners with businesses in the community to provide gifts for local families.” His eyes flick to Clara, the little girl wrapped around her dad’s leg and hiding behind his thigh. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “Your daughter wrote a letter to Santa asking for a new Barbie dream house. Santa is a little busy getting everything ready for Christmas, but he sent us to deliver some presents.”
“Santa sent you?” Clara whispers. “All the way from the North Pole?”
“Mhm. He told us you’ve been doing very well in school, and you like to share your toys with your little sister. Is that true?” Shawn asks, and she nods.
“Some kids at recess have two toys, but Lily and I only have one. I don’t want her to not have anything to play with, so we share,” Clara explains, and she steps out from her hiding spot. “I don’t mind that we play together. It’s more fun than playing alone.”
“I agree. Giving up your toys so someone else can have them is a very nice thing to do,” Shawn says. “Santa wants to give you some more toys to share.”
We bend down and set the stack of wrapped boxes and bags on the porch. They’re taller than her, almost three feet high. She tugs on her dad’s pant leg and points at the gifts.
“Look, Daddy,” she whispers. “Christmas magic.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t—there’s no way for me to pay for these,” Derek says. “I’m out of work after an injury and her mom—” he pauses to take a breath, and his eyes fill with tears. “Thank you, though.”
“They’re free, Derek,” Shawn says. “We want you to have them.”
“What’s the catch?” he asks slowly, and Shawn chuckles.
“No catch. Just Christmas magic.” He winks at Clara, and she giggles. “Oh, and one more thing.” He pulls out an envelope from his back pocket and passes it across the porch. “Something for you, too.”
Derek’s hands tremble as he opens the letter, and he lets out a sob when he finds out what’s inside.
The remaining balance of his mortgage—seventy-five thousand dollars—paid off.
Tears sting my eyes and I bury my face in Shawn’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the generosity of this man.
He really isn’t real.
“Where—why—how did you know?” Derek asks.
“Santa has elves everywhere,” Shawn says, and he winks at Clara again. “Merry Christmas, you all.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say, and I wave to the family. Shawn takes my hand in his, and leads me down the stairs.
“Hey,” Derek calls out, and we look over our shoulders. “You look a lot like that guy who ran back a touchdown in Super Bowl 40.”
“I do?” Shawn smiles and dips his chin. “Huh. Never heard of him. I’m more of a baseball fan. Sounds like a great athlete, though. Wish I had those legs.”
Derek stares at him, understanding clouding his features just as we slip back into the truck and “All I Want for Christmas is You” begins to play.
