I like it.
A lot.
She moves past me to check the goats, pretending she isn’t paying attention, but her gaze keeps drifting my way like she’s tracking a threat she hasn’t decided whether to run from or tackle. I lean in just enough to brush her space. “You keep looking at me,” I murmur. “I’m flattered, but you’re gonna hurt yourself if you stare that hard.”
Her cheeks warm immediately, which tells me everything. “Relax,” she says, lifting her clipboard like it’s a shield. “I was making sure you weren’t losing any children.”
“Pretty confident that’s not what you were noticing,” I say, smiling because she’s cute when she tries to play it cool.
She exhales like I’m exhausting, then mutters, “It’s a small pen. You’re loud. My eyes had nowhere else to go.”
“They could’ve gone anywhere, sweetheart. They picked me.” I wink, and she gives me the look women give men right before either kissing them or threatening bodily harm. For her, these might not be mutually exclusive. She shakes her head and walks away, hips stiff, like she’s too aware that I’m watching.
Two hours later, I crouch to help a kid who dropped his feed cup. The moment I bend, I feel the fabric of my tights strain, then it gives with the kind of catastrophic rip that doesn’t ask permission. It detonates.
I freeze. Wind everywhere wind should not be.
I stand slowly, spine straight, fully aware the back of my pants is now a crime scene. Several heads turn. A mother gasps and covers her child’s eyes like I’ve summoned Satan.
Somewhere behind me, Hannah makes a sound like she just bit her fist to keep from laughing. I hear a choked “Oh, no,” but she’s absolutely delighted.
Chris, operating as Santa against his will, loses every ounce of composure. His laugh bursts out like he’s been shot. “Noel—holy—” He can’t finish. He’s doubled over. Bells jingling. Beard shaking. Useless.
I can’t move. I’m a statue of humiliation. This is how I die, ass out, surrounded by livestock and children with sticky hands. Not chasing a fugitive off a roof. Not wrestling a wanted criminal from a moving car. No. Exposed in a petting zoo while wearing elf tights.
A chicken stares at me like it’s judging me.
Hannah finally rushes over, stepping in behind me like she’s shielding a VIP from sniper fire, though I’m pretty sure she’s laughing behind her hand. “Okay. Inside. Before someone livestreams this.”
I mutter, “Pretty sure they already did,” and she steers me toward the elf house.
“Just walk,” she says, her voice a little breathless. She’s trying to be professional, but she’s pink in the cheeks and biting her lip, and for a moment, I’m not sure if she’s flustered or two seconds from laughing herself unconscious.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare pair of pants tucked in your bag of holiday miracles.”
“I’ve got a sewing kit,” she says. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
“I’d rather bleed out.”
“You’ll survive,” she says, guiding me through the door. “But if you don’t hurry, I’m going to lose it laughing, and then you’ll be on your own.”
I don’t doubt it.
The elf house door swings shut just as Chris calls after me, “Good news, your underwear is festive!”
I flip him off behind the door. I’m ninety percent sure he got a picture.
We duck inside, and the blessed quiet after all that crazy outside is almost as good as the air on my overheated face. Then I take off the elf tights.
Hannah digs through her backpack like she’s defusing a bomb. “Needle… thread… miracle patch kit—yes. Knew I packed you.” She turns toward me and freezes.
Her gaze drops to my underwear. Then a strangled noise escapes, somewhere between a laugh and a tiny death. “So…” she says, eyes sparkling, “festive briefs, huh?”
“They were the only clean pair,” I mutter.
“They havecandy caneson them.” She tries to keep a straight face and fails as she smiles. “This is… not the vibe I expected from a dangerous bounty hunter.”
“What vibe did you expect?” I pass her the tights.
