Page 5 of Naughty-ish

I like the place with its three small bedrooms on the second floor and its subtle front stoop raised up a few steps as typical Chicago homes are. Our previous home in the suburbs was double the size with manicured landscaping and a koi pond. Still, this place is mine and I smile in spite of myself.

“Thank you.” My voice is quiet as my teeth chatter.

“Get inside.” He winks with a tilt of his head toward the front door. “I’ll try not to make too much noise.”

“Try not to fall off the roof,” I warn with a laugh in my throat.

“You startled me.” His eyes narrow a bit, focusing on my face until his gaze drifts to the pebbled nipples poking out beneath my thin sleep shirt. He doesn’t take his gaze from my chest.

I breathily answer him. “You surprised me.”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and he pulls his head upward, turning to give me the side of his face. “Go inside, Holliday.” His deep voice roughens, and his jaw clenches.

The strangest sensation washes over me. I want to kiss up the column of his throat, outline the edge of his jaw with my lips, and climb his body like the evergreen he is.

The thought isn’t entirely offhand as I’ve had several similar fantasies throughout the summer and into fall about him. I’m highly attracted to my neighbor, though it’s ridiculous to feel this way.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he adds, breaking into my vision of slipping my arms inside his red-checked flannel and pressing my cool tits to his warm chest.

His words are a reminder he isn’t attracted to me.

He just feels sorry for the single mom next door.

Chapter 2

As if I’m not already a glutton for punishment, I’d volunteered to work the local church’s breakfast with Santa.

Mitch assured me he would attend to sit with the kids so I could scramble around the community center, making certain every table has a coffee carafe and a plate of donut holes. I’m told a fireman dresses up as Santa and allows the children to sit on his lap and tell him what they want for Christmas.

“You should see this guy,” one of the other moms warns me. “I want to sit on his lap.”

I have no idea why she’d say such a thing until Santa appears, looking a little too sexy and a whole lot of naughty.

He isn’t bothering with a pillow inside his red jacket but allows his biceps to bulge in the tight costume. His waistline cinched by a thick black belt, lies flat suggesting his abs are firm. The soft fabric pants hug his thighs, accentuating a fit backside, and his boots are made for a motorcycle more than a sleigh. The white scruff on his face is full enough but not solid white Santa quality. Hints of black rest on a jaw that is more cliff-edge than rounded and rosy. A pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses does nothing to soften his appearance. The stocking cap on his head helps only the slightest.

“Hot damn, I was hoping it would be him again,” another mother adds, rushing past me to pass out plates of eggs and sausage.

I watch our Santa take a seat in a chair on a low stage. Children line up with excitement while the mothers all tip their heads, and husbands cough to regain their wives’ attention. As I cross the room, I feel eyes on me. Glancing up, I notice hot Santa tracking my movements while a child sits on one of his firm thighs.

Yeah, I might want to sit on Santa’s lap as well.

Only what would I ask for this year?

My eyes leap to Mitch, sitting with our children, who are both staring at the man in red. Mitch is focused on something underneath the table. The closer I near, the more I assume he’s texting someone.

Dammit. Why can’t the man engage with his children?

Taking another second, I glance up at the fake father of Christmas. His eyes widen, and then he winks.

I halt.

I know that wink.

That twitch of lids with lashes a woman would kill for. Crystal blue eyes that haunt my dreams and play out in my fantasies.

Nick?

“Holli.” My name from Mitch’s mouth brings my attention to the table where my children continue to eagerly look at the stage, and Mitch sets his phone face down on the table.