There was one thing, and one thing only, that could coax me into striped red tights, a fur vest, and an elf cap: Jack Snjosson. Make that Jack Snjosson in a Santa suit. Our high-school paper’s for-charity lunchtime food drive offered an up-close-and-personal with the old fellow in exchange for a nonperishable. Jack, as the paper’s editor in chief, was the unanimous choice for the red suit. Never the look-at-me type, he resisted, digging in deep the heels of his old work boots until he devised a scheme requiring company in his misery. My current ensemble was the result. As the paper’s fashion editor, I found playing elf more than a little embarrassing, but at least I got first crack at Kris Kringle.

“Uh, Santa,” I said, “aren’t you going to ask me what I want for Christmas?” I scooched my striped limbs into the velvety folds of his lap.

“Tell me, what is it you want from old Saint Nick?”

“Santa”— I buried my face into his beard and whispered into his ear —“all I want for Christmas is . . .”

I couldn’t help drawing out the moment. It was just too much fun and too surreal, even if my definition of surreal had all-new meaning since September. It was still hard to believe everything that had happened in just three short months. I really thought I was losing it when, shortly after the move from LA to Minnesota, I discovered that I was a Stork: a member of an ancient flock of soul deliverers. Things only got more complicated when I met Jack. Turned out he had a pretty nifty talent of his own. As a modern-day descendant of Jack Frost — uh-huh, that Jack Frost — he had the ability to control the weather. All the same, had you told me three months ago that I would ask Santa — and not even the real thing, instead my seventeen-year-old, bony-kneed, mahogany-haired, gem-eyed boyfriend — for what was possibly the only thing you couldn’t get at the Beverly Hills Neiman Marcus, I’d have said you were cracked.

“A white Christmas,” I said.

“And have you been good?” fake-Santa asked.

“Mostly.”

He groaned. Because of his special ancestry, heat was Jack’s kryptonite. The heavy costume was uncomfortable to him; my proximity made it worse. Not to mention he wasn’t really the PDA type and there was a line of at least twenty can-donating do-gooders — all girls — waiting their turn.

“Thanks, Santa,” I said, kissing him briefly on the cheek and springing from his lap.

His face went candy-apple red. It was, as always, our combustible combination that tested his abilities. He made it through the rest of the lunch hour without incident, while I, his elfin helper, handed candy canes to both the naughty and the nice. When his lap was finally girl-free, he stretched, peeled off the press-on whiskers, and headed in my direction.

“Were you trying to kill me?” A much younger Jack seized me by the shoulders.

“What?” I asked, all innocence. “I was your helper.” I shook my satchel of goodies as proof.

“You were no help at all.”

“Ungrateful,” I said.

“Unthinking.”

“Unworthy,” I countered.

“Unbelievable,” he said, though his tone had softened considerably.

“Ahem.” I looked up to see Penny standing behind us. “I just wanted to thank you guys for all your help. We collected ten boxes of food.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“Are you two still gonna help us load the van after school?” Penny asked.

“We’ll be there,” I answered for both of us. In the three months since our fateful Homecoming adventures, Jack and I had become a unit. Nothing like almost getting sucked through a portal to another dimension by an evil soul-snatching Raven to fast-track a relationship.

I watched Penny walk away with a Prancer-like lope. She deserved the bounce in her step. She’d worked hard to promote and organize the food drive. I was glad it had been successful and was happy to have assisted by printing up flyers and plastering signs throughout the school.

Jack took advantage of my diverted attention and coiled a thick swath of my hair around his fist. “And what’s this about wanting a white Christmas?”

“I do. Now that I’ve embraced living a stone’s throw from the North Pole, I actually do.”

“You? The California Girl? Not liking this mild winter?”

“It’s wimpy,” I said, laughing. It was true. Now that I lived in Minnesota, the recent start-of-winter warm temps and lack of snow seemed pathetic.

He arched his eyebrows. I loved the way it flared the blue of his eyes. “Wimpy, huh?”