“Like this!HO-HO-HO!”Clarabelle demonstrates, producing a laugh that’s part Santa, part battle cry, and entirely terrifying. I fear she might be summoning werewolves.
The Santa tries to mimic her technique, resulting in a sound that’s somewhere between jolly and genuinely concerned for his vocal cords.
“Better!” Peggy declares. “Now let’s work on that belly shake. You’re too fit to be convincing.” She licks her lips as she says it. “Think more like a bowl full of jelly, less like a gym membership!”
The poor man starts jiggling like there’s no tomorrow, totally committed to his role, even if that role now involvesbeing coached by two senior women who have earned their positions on the naughty list the old-fashioned way.
The music switches to something moody and the entire room takes a turn for the romantic.
“Want to dance?” Killion asks, nodding toward the chaos that’s now passing for a party.
I look around the ballroom—at the champagne-soaked floors, the scattered Christmas tree remains, the socialites laughing with their hostage Santas, the staff frantically trying to restore some semblance of order to the opulent disaster we’ve created.
“I was just wondering,” I say, moving closer to him, “if it’s too late to get a Christmas tree. You know, do a little decorating, maybe cuddle around the fire, test out the new feather tickler I may or may not have picked up for myself?” Okay, it’s for Cricket, but I don’t think she’ll mind me borrowing it.
His expression shifts into something dangerous and decidedly unprofessional.
“Actually,” he says, “I know exactly where we can find the perfect tree.”
“At this hour on Christmas Eve?”
“Trust me.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in front of the sorriest Charlie Brown Christmas tree I’ve ever seen—the last pathetic specimen left on the tree lot, looking like it’s been through its own personal holiday disaster. It’s more of a theory than a pine tree, with branches that seem to be reaching for help rather than capable of holding ornaments.
“This is your idea of the perfect tree?” I ask, staring at what appears to be a Christmas tree’s distant, unsuccessful cousin.
“It has character,” Killion says, trying to convince himself as much as me.
“It has bald spots.”
“Distinguished bald spots.”
We drag our adorable little tree home and prop it up in my living room, where it immediately lists to one side like it’s giving up on life. I hang a single red ornament on the tip of the highest branch, and we both watch in fascination as it slowly bobs down to the floor as if surrendering to the holiday.
“Well,” I say, “that’s festive.”
“Maybe we should focus on other holiday projects,” Killion suggests, pulling me close.
“Such as?”
“Testing that feather tickler comes to mind.”
He kisses me with enough heat to make the pathetic tree look positively tropical, and I decide that some Christmas traditions are definitely worth improvising.
Finally, some peace and quiet!Cricket mewls from the couch.That was the most exhausting evening I’ve had in months. But with Santa due to arrive, I won’t catch a wink of sleep.
Can I have some of those cookies from the party?Rookie asks with his tail wagging as he sniffs around the base of our tiny tree.For emergency snacking purposes! I may have accidentally acquired a few in my fur during the chase scene. I promise to save a few for Santa. Okay, I’ll save him two. On second thought, maybe one. That suit is looking a little tight at the seams.
“Have at it,” I say, and he makes quick work of them.
“You know,” I say to Killion as he holds me by the fire, “when I woke up this morning, I definitely didn’t expect to end Christmas Eve by tackling a killer into a dessert table.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m thinking it was exactly the kind of Christmas miracle I needed.”
Killion kisses me thoroughly as if he’s about to go to war with an entire army of sugared-up elves before pulling back. His lips twitch with a barely-there grin as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small red velvet box. He pops it open and holds a sparkling diamond ring toward me.
