Page 33 of The Santas Who Stole Me

Georgie claps her hands at that, and I turn to Zeke, lowering my voice to a whisper. “We need to do the thing we said we would do for her,” I tell them.

“And what was that?” Keeper asks.

“Georgia likes Christmas, so we were going to get some stuff to put around the house.”

“Such as?” Keeper continues to question.

“Tree, lights, shit that has her bouncing around with Marge over there.” All our eyes are back on her, just like our devotion. She seems to be the center for us. I was going to fight the fuckers to win her, but I’m starting to come around to the idea that she’s all of ours. I look at my brothers. Keeper will never agree, but I might get Zeke to. He thinks he’s a loner, but he likes when we are all together. If this is going to be our first real date, I want it to be special. I make my way to the girls who are now making a list of things for B to get.

“Tinsel, the silver kind that is metal and vintage, not the foil,” Marge says.

B is making a list on his phone, and he nods after adding her request.

I might like the asshole. He didn’t cower or cry when we pointed guns at him. He seems like he could hang with us.

They continue working on the list, and I take Georgie’s hand to get her attention. “Want to go out with us?”

“Where?” Her eyebrow lifts, and she tilts her head in question.

“You’ll see when we get there. It will be fun, like a date.” I’m suddenly reminded I’ve never been on a date, and now I’m questioning if I asked her the right way.

“Yes.” She throws her arms around me, and I try to ignore the press of her tits on my chest. I can be a gentleman. Briefly.

“A date? Where to? When? What does she need to wear?” Marge questions. “I will help you get ready.”

Georgie mouths ‘sorry’ as she’s pulled by her friend. There is nothing to be sorry about. If she’s happy, I am too.

“Casual it is then, we need an hour,” Marge says.

“You have fifteen minutes,” Keeper announces from back at the booth.

No customers have come in and the sign on the door has said closed since we’ve arrived. They don’t seem overly concerned with making money if the doors can be closed now and again Wednesday.

I’ll talk with Zee and see what background they have. He might have already had Lee look into it. Eventually the girls come out, and Georgie looks like a fucking goddess. I let out a whistle taking in her cropped sweater showing her waist and tight jeans that come up to her bellybutton with high-heeled boots.

“Fuck me,” Keeper says.

Zee stays quiet, but I see in his eyes he wants her too. Every inch.

I walk over and link my fingers through hers. I almost skip out the door, dragging her to the truck while she waves goodbye to her friends. Keeper agreed to follow with Zee in the truck. I want her to myself for a minute before we get there.

Music fills the car and I try not to gawk at Georgie the entire drive. Is this how she is? When she isn’t worried or fighting, she looks sweet and free. She also looks like she is going to be mine. I turn down the stereo and remind myself to pay attention to the road.

“Did you celebrate the holidays when you were younger?” I ask and hope that question brings good memories instead of bad ones.

“Oh yea, my mom died when I was young, but I remember some things about her. She always baked around the holidays. When I came home from school around this time of year, she had a treat set out that she made for me each day. I wish I remembered what they were, so I could cook them, but I don’t. Still, sometimes I’ll smell something at the bakery, and it takes me back there. It’s one of those memories that you don’t know if you remember or if you created over time, you know what I mean?”

She doesn’t wait for my answer. I do know. Some memories stick with you but fade into only an image. It’s easy to make that image what you want most. The thought that I could one day be only a memory for her twists my gut. I don’t want my time with Georgie to be like that. I want her to stay. She said she would, but I can’t help but feel like she always has one foot out the door.

“We had a small house. We weren’t rich, but my dad was a hard worker. We had enough and my parents made the holidays special. I woke up to presents, and we had a big dinner on Christmas day. Even after we lost my mom, my dad tried to keep some things the same. He couldn’t bake though, so when I got older, I started filling in with the cooking.” She looks teary as she stares out the window.

“Is that why you like baking? Reminds you of her?”

“She always let me help.” She shrugs with that response.

“Sounds like a good mama. When did your dad pass?”

“When I was seventeen. Too old for foster care, too young to know what to do by myself. I stayed in our house for a while, finished school, then started working at a local bakery. You know the rest. I wonder what they would say if they could see me in this mess.” She twists her hands in her lap trying to sink down into herself.