Page 3 of The Cobbler and His Elves

But how had it ended up here? I never left my shop unlocked, and I certainly hadn’t brought it in. Unless...

A chill raced down my spine as I remembered the figure I’d seen running from my shop. Had someone broken in? Planted the leather to frame me?

I sank onto my worn stool, the leather clutched in my trembling hands. The rich scent of it filled my nose, mingling with the familiar smells of my shop—polish and old leather and the faintest trace of vanilla and cocoa from my own omega scent.

What was I going to do?

As if in answer, my grandfather’s voice echoed in my memory. He’d always said that in times of trouble, Christmas elves would come to help those with kind hearts and clever hands.

I almost laughed at the childish thought. I was a grown man, an omega struggling to survive in a world that often seemed stacked against me. I couldn’t rely on fairy tales and Christmas magic to solve my problems.

And yet...

I looked down at the leather in my hands, then around at my shabby little shop. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. My grandfather had built this business with nothing but determination and skill, and I’d be damned if I let it slip away now.

Setting the leather aside, I rolled up my sleeves. Elves or no elves, I had work to do. And tomorrow... tomorrow I’d figure out what to do about the leather.

As I settled into the familiar rhythm of my work, I pushed away the temptation of charming alpha smiles and thoughts of warm beds and full bellies. I had shoes to mend and a reputation to uphold.

Let the Sterlings have their fine shop and fancy, big city suits. I had my pride and my grandfather’s legacy. For now, that would have to be enough.

2

The leather scrap lay on my workbench, innocuous yet damning. I ran my fingers over its supple surface, marveling at the quality. Such fine material could save my shop, but at what cost?

Mrs. Thackeray’s order loomed over me. The wealthy widow had swept into my shop yesterday, her fur coat reeking of mothballs and self-importance. She thrust a crumpled page from a French fashion catalogue at me, her manicured finger jabbing at a pair of pumps that made my heart skip. The shoes were a masterpiece—sleek satin uppers with delicate beadwork cascading down the sides like frozen champagne bubbles.

“These. I want these for the Christmas gala,” Mrs. Thackeray declared, her voice brooking no argument.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. This wasn’t a simple repair job. She wanted me to recreate couture footwear from scratch, using only a grainy black-and-white photo as reference. My fingers itched to get started, but doubt gnawed at me.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure I?—“

“Nonsense,” she cut me off. “I’ve seen your work, Mr. Hart. I need them perfect. It’s the social event of the season. I simply can’t be seen in anything less than immaculate shoes.”

I nodded, already calculating. The job would pay handsomely—enough to cover next month’s rent and restock my dwindling supplies. But the pumps required a specific type of leather, the very kind that had inexplicably appeared in my shop, taunting me with its ill-gotten presence.

My grandfather’s voice echoed in my head. “A cobbler’s reputation is built on trust, Milo. Once lost, it’s harder to repair than the oldest shoe.”

“I’ll have them ready by next Thursday afternoon.”

Mrs. Thackeray’s face lit up. “Splendid! I knew I could count on you.”

“The pumps will require a calfskin vamp.” My fingers traced the edge of the leather swatch nestled on the shelf beneath the counter where my ancient cash register sat.

I’d be crossing a line if I used it.

“If I may, I’ll need a swatch of your gown.” I flashed her a charming smile.

“A swatch?” Mrs. Thackeray’s brow furrowed. “Well, I suppose... if it’s absolutely necessary.”

“The swatch is essential. It ensures the pumps match your gown. I’d like to dye the uppers to match perfectly.”

Her expression softened, apparently satisfied with my reasoning.

I jotted down her address in my ledger, the nib of my pen scratching against the paper. “Thank you for your patronage. I’ll have them delivered promptly next Thursday.”

Mrs. Thackeray swept out, leaving behind a cloud of perfume and impossible expectations. I found myself studying the catalogue page. The construction, the arch support, the precise placement of each bead—it would be a challenge, but an achievable one, given the right tools, materials, and talent.