The Christmas Theory

I've Been Dreaming

The staircase was dark, only the dull moon spilling through the skylight to guide my path down the polished steps. I gripped onto the wooden banister as I navigated each one, though I'd navigated each of them countless times since I was a child. But there was something different about this wintry night. Something almost magical, causing excitement and anticipation to bundle in my stomach.

My house was as quiet as the evening outside, and I couldn't quite remember why I'd ventured out from the warmth of my bed. But something was propelling me down that staircase. Something that I couldn't for the life of me figure out.

My fuzzy socks hit the floorboards, my instincts telling me where to go. To the tree, they reminded me. See if you can catch him.

I clasped my sheer gown, wrapping it tighter around my body. That's it; I'd heard the jingle of bells as something flew past my bedroom window. I'd heard jingling and then a thud coming from the lounge downstairs.

I passed my mother's wall calendar, confirming my hypothesis.

It was Christmas Eve, and I'd vowed to catch Santa Claus.

It was strange, of course. I hadn't stayed up for Father Christmas since I was six. But I was sure that it was my desire to catch him that had motivated me to get up while everyone else was sound asleep. I was going to see him, because I think there was something that I needed to say.

I edged toward the lounge. I heard him before I saw him. His movements were quick and practiced, but tiny golden bells rang in his wake.

He was unloading gifts by the tree, the glimmering fairy lights projecting flickering patterns onto his cherry-red suit. In his big black boots and his fur-trimmed hat, he certainly resembled the man of Christmas at first glance. But the closer and longer that I dared to look, the more that I noticed discrepancies from the stories I'd heard and read.

Santa was a lot leaner than I'd thought he'd be. He was muscular and tall, without a single strand of grey decorating his full head of hair. In fact, while the only source of light came from those twinkling on the tree, I could see quite clearly that this Santa was a blonde.

When he turned, my heart skipped a beat. No, the stranger in my house wasn't Santa Claus, after all.

But I think some part of me already knew that.

His chest was bare underneath his red coat, the dull moonlight bouncing off every defined line of familiar muscle. James knew that I was appraising him. He seemed to revel in it, and he was assessing me just as closely. His gaze swept over me before becoming dark, his smile replaced by something far more devilish. I looked down to follow his eye line, trying to find the source of his pleasure.

That's when I realized that I wasn't in my nightgown anymore.

Actually, I was barely wearing anything at all.