It was exactly eight days to Christmas. The usual office draw had gone around, and Raylan had found himself in receipt of a little tag with Rachel's name on it. Secret Santa.

By some weird quirk of nature, Raylan Givens had never actually drawn a female co-worker's name in a Secret Santa draw… ever.

Men he could buy for. Jim, Jack or Vodka. No problem.

Women required more thought. Female, check. Co-worker, not witness, (not sleeping with her), not girlfriend (the sleeping thing taken as read), potential to be girlfriend… maybe… Taste in music? Maybe too personal? Book? Something cute and fluffy didn't girls like cute and fluffy… Raylan tried to imagine Rachel in the same context as cute and fluffy, and while he could picture it, Art and Tim would never let him live that down.

Dammit.

It was a slow day at the office, Raylan had ploughed through his paperwork in order to leave early for lunchtime. He had eight days to crack this, and he needed every second he could get.

Lacking even the slightest inspiration, he thought he would start with coffee.

It was a coffee shop he hadn't patronized before, and while he waited he glanced idly around. The coffee shop was on the end of a small row of shops, with more on the other side of the road.

One in particular caught his eye. A bookshop. It looked different from the local book chains, and he found himself intrigued by the colorful signage proclaiming Life: Words Included in large bright letters.

He ordered his coffee, paid for it and headed out, across the road to the shop that seemed to be beckoning to him.

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The store started out pretty much as Raylan expected to find a book store. There were several shelves at the front which had the usual mainstream book choices that he expected, as he moved further into the store things were different.

The books were different for a start. Titles and authors that he had never heard of, one in particular caught Raylan's eye and he paused to pick it up.

The book was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, handmade and individually numbered. The feel of the thing in his hands, he couldn't help running his finger tips down the spine, feeling the quality of the paper inside, a quick glance told him that it was beautifully illustrated.

As far as he was concerned, his search stopped here. He turned to look for a cash register.

There was a long counter at the back of the shop and though he couldn't see a cash register he headed there in hope of finding help.

Behind the counter, a girl, sitting at a table, in front of her a neatly folded row of inserts, and Raylan paused, fascinated, watching her neatly hand stitch the binding together.

She was a pretty girl, Raylan estimated late twenties, long wavy brown hair carelessly swept up, secured, he noticed with a single green bamboo chopstick. A casual glance at the bowl on the edge of the table found the chopstick's mate. Raylan grinned.

"Miss."

"Just one minute, I promise." She didn't take her eyes from her work, but she smiled and Raylan found himself wishing that she would look up, so he could get a better look at her face.

His wish granted a moment later, when she reached the end of the row and laid her work on the table.

"How can I help you?"

Her voice was soft and attractive, which went perfectly with the pretty green eyes that were looking up at him.

Raylan was used to the effect he had on women. Used to the calculating look which would come into their eyes, and the way they would set out to impress him. He liked them tall and leggy and blonde.

This girl did none of those things. She smiled at him with simple open friendliness. Her smile was infectious, and Raylan couldn't help the genuine grin that spread across his face.

"Well, ma'am, I'm lookin' for a Christmas present for a co-worker, and this book seems just about perfect."

"Excellent choice, Lorna is very popular." She reached out a hand.

He handed the book over. As he did, he recalled the tiny picture of the author in the back of the book. "Hey, the author wouldn't happen to be you?"

A very slight blush stained her cheeks. "Well, yes." Her eyes connected with his and then slid shyly away, "you're very observant, most people don't make the connection."

There was something in the way of her shyness that made Raylan want to slay dragons for her and bring her roses, but he clamped down on those feelings. "Well, ma'am, I would hope so." He eased his jacket aside just enough for her to see his badge clipped to his belt, but not his weapon. He didn't want to scare her.

"A US Marshal, huh." There was something in her tone that suggested that she had picked up on the teasing note in Raylan's, and had upped the stakes a little.

"Yes, ma'am." The sweetness of her smile was definitely piquing his interest, he wondered how he could spin out this conversation a little more.

He wasn't a big fan of giggling females, but her giggle was shy and charming, "oh please, not ma'am… Elsa. Like the lion."

"Your parents named you for a lion?" He knew he was laying on the southern aw-shucks charm a bit heavy, but this was the first time in a long time that he had felt a connection that went deeper than his libido.

Elsa was different, he could feel it.

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He had lingered as long as he could, if he was late back to the office Art would come down on him like a ton of bricks. The book, in its brown paper bag, calling to him from his coat pocket. He hadn't opted for gift wrapping, figuring that he should do that himself, though lord knew he wasn't much good at the whole parcel wrapping thing. It was a book, how hard could that be?

It was a slow, boring day, Raylan hated paperwork, even though he accepted that it was a necessary evil. Bringing the case files up to date on a fugitive that he and Tim had apprehended was driving him crazy.

"Y'weren't kiddin' when y'said y'handwritin' was barely legible." Raylan squinted at the two post its adhering to the file index sheet on top, covered in Tim's illegible scrawl, then shot a scowl at his unrepentant partner on the other side of the partition.

Tim just grinned. Raylan tilted his head and upped the scowl to pissed instead of exasperated. Which had no effect, Tim's grin grew wider, and a devilish light danced in his eyes.

"I don't miss." The sniper said.

"'cept when it comes to dotting the I's and crossing the t's." Raylan heaved the offending, over-stuffed file onto the partition, "what the hell does that say?" He stabbed a long index finger at the bottom post it.

Tim squinted. Shook his head. "Darned if I know." He said.

Raylan closed his eyes. Thought about counting to ten. A vision of a pair of pretty green eyes distracted him from his counting.

"RAYLAN."

"Huh." Raylan almost jumped. Tim was looking at him strangely, and Art had come out of his office. Damn. "What?"

"I said I'd take the file, okay." Tim said with exaggerated patience. "Say, what is up with you? Y'in love or something?"

Raylan felt his cheeks turn scarlet. Took in Tim and Art's delighted grins and wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. The clock on the wall said checking out time, he shoved the file at Tim, grabbed his hat and coat, mumbled something about seeing them tomorrow and left before it could get any weirder.

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He didn't want to sit down in the bar and drink. He wanted to hide himself away and not deal with people. So he bought himself a bottle of Jim and headed upstairs to his crummy little apartment.

It was cold. The one rather unfortunate radiator had some serious air bubbles in it, and Raylan had meant to bleed the thing before the cold weather set in, but somehow he had never gotten round to it. So it gave off very little heat.

Damn.

The one place that was guaranteed to be warm was his bed.

He stripped, showered, found a pair of sleep pants and a long sleeve top that was warm enough to go over his usual wifebeater, and climbed into bed. He was about to pour himself three fingers of Jim when he realised that he'd put the book on the bedside table too.

Jim forgotten, Raylan stared at the brown paper bag. The book seemed to be begging him to pick it up. Rachel's Christmas present.

He shrugged, he could buy her another one.

He poured himself the promised three fingers, and settled down to read.

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The story was simple, charming, funny, part romance, part adventure. Entranced, Raylan kept reading.

By the time he was finished it was two a.m. and the three fingers of bourbon sat, untouched, in the glass.

In a daze, Raylan put the book down, and turned out the bedside lamp. He lay there in the dark awhile, recalling a pair of green eyes, and some dark brown wavy hair haphazardly caught up with a chopstick.

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Raylan glanced up at the clock on the wall. In five minutes he could legitimately go out to lunch. On an office day, he would usually wait for the one p.m. slot, figuring that this made for a shorter afternoon. Always better when there was nothing to do other than paperwork. But today he couldn't wait to escape.

Both Art and Tim had been giving him funny looks all morning. After his blushing escape from the office the night before, Raylan assumed that they would be giving him grief all day. Other than the funny looks, they had both held off, but he could sense the anticipation.

The second hand reached twelve. And Raylan was out of his chair. Art drew breath as though he was about to say something, "I'd love to discuss this with you some other time, boss, but right now my presence is required elsewhere." Raylan had his coat on and his hat and was out of the door before either Art or Tim could react.

Shunning the elevator he headed straight for the stairs.

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Amy Denning eyed the tall, good-looking man that entered the shop oh my, "your cowboy's back."

"Amy…!" Elsa bent over the latest book she was putting together in a vain attempt to hid her blush. "He's not my cowboy."

"Oh yeah." Amy painted her most brilliant, sexy, come-hither smile on her face. Not that she would ever hurt her friend, because it was clear that Elsa had taken a shine to him, but it served to test the waters.

"Can I help you, sir?"

He smiled, he was polite, with liberal helpings of that courtly, slightly old-fashioned southern charm which Amy was sure mesmerized fugitives, but he never really took his eyes from Elsa.

Amy gave it two minutes before she slipped away into the stacks ostensibly to check on some price, but to give them the space they so obviously wanted.

Returning from her lunch break yesterday she had found Elsa bent over her sketch pad. The sketch made Amy's eyes widen and stare at her friend. Elsa was almost painfully shy at times, this man had clearly made a big impact on her. Then seeing the original walk into their store, Amy suddenly wished that she possessed Elsa's artistic gifts. Amy was a romantic at heart and this was like something from a courtly romance novel.

She peered through the stacks, watching as the cowboy said something to Elsa, who blushed and nodded. He's asking you out… accept… Elsa. Amy was prepared to rush over there and virtually push her friend out of the door.

She didn't have to. Elsa called out "Amy, I'm going to lunch."

"See you later… Have fun!" Amy called back, smiling to herself when her friend didn't reply, too caught up in whatever her handsome escort was saying.