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Chapter One
Nick
“What do you mean, there are no damn elves?”
I wave my hand as I speak, not that I want to hit the manager of the mall in his face.
Well, maybe I do, just a little, give him a smack to make him do his goddamned job properly. It’s bad enough I’ve got to wear this stupid get-up, with the fake white beard and the big fake belly, but now I have to do it on my own.
At least with the elves, I can say as little as possible, because when I have to really be Santa – when I have to play the role – it’s hard. It’s like my natural Christmas grumpiness comes out. But I’ve got to try and push it down, stay calm, stay on task.
I’ve got to be Santa.
But who is Santa without his elves?
Rex Sullivan looks up and down the mall, quiet this early… but soon it will be full to the brim. Decorations cover every inch of the walls, greens, and glittery golds and yellows, and there’s a giant – giant – tree behind me, reaching all the way up the three floors to the domed glass ceiling, the star reflecting the hazy winter sunlight.
He returns his gaze to me, letting out a shaky sigh.
“They’ve all called in sick. What do you want me to do? Just improvise, Nick.”
I stare down at the man, forcing myself not to curl my hands into fists. Anger pulses inside of me, because this is bullshit, this is ridiculous. I can’t go on dressing up like an asshole and acting like I’m not all twisted up inside.
Be Santa, I yell in my head, as if to affirm the mission. Just be Santa.
Telling myself Santa would handle this calmly – and that he probably wouldn’t throw Rex Sullivan through the wall – I try to force a smile to my face. The only problem is, I’ve never been very good at smiling. Rex takes it for a grimace, stepping back and raising his hands.
“I’ll improvise. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” I grit.
He nods and turns away, racing through the mall, his shoes clicking loudly and his footsteps echoing all around me.
I face Santa’s Wonderland and push out a breath through tightly clenched teeth.
My Santa’s chair sits in the middle – fake snow strewn everywhere, a life sized reindeer sitting beside my chair, with mountains of gifts piled on each side of the walkway. The guests wait behind a small white picket fence, on a red carpet with gold edging.
Perhaps it would make other people feel Christmassy.
But I feel nothing.
This job really isn’t suited to me.
I drop down into the large chair and close my eyes, trying to take a moment of peace before the stampede commences. With the beard on and the hat pulled low, at least nobody will recognize me… but they will notice a Santa who stands at six foot five.
Again – really not suited for this job.
But it has to be done.
“Aren’t Santas meant to be cheerful?”
I look up at the sound of the woman’s voice. It’s a combination of sassiness and shyness mixed together, as though she wants to be confident but there’s something holding her back from letting go completely.
Interest piques in me the second I hear it, the complicated enticing notes twining together.
Then I see her, and my world changes. Forever.
She grips the fence, leaning forward slightly, giving me an ample view of her curvy body. She’s wearing a hoodie that shows the outline of her breasts, and the dip in her waist leads to the voluptuous width of her hips.
Something inside of me howls as I take in her long flowing brown hair and the light freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes are brown, deep, scared, excited, and brave all at once.
Fascination sparks in me.
I need to have her, to own her, to make her mine.
Now and forever.
Always.
Fuck.
How has this happened so quickly?
It doesn’t matter.
The primal instincts inside me spread through my body like gasoline thrown on a fire, making every part of me taut and ready, making every part of me stiff with the need to unleash myself on her.
I warn myself to calm down.
I’m not here to go crazy over some stranger.
But it’s too late. I already have.
Clearing my throat – I’m just sitting there like a weirdo, not saying anything – I lean forward and rest my forearms on my knees. “Santas, plural? There’s only one. And you’re looking at him.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” she says. “I’m nineteen, douchebag, not nine.”
Nineteen, which makes her more than twenty years younger than me.
What would this young innocent gift say if she knew a forty-three year old man was rock solid just looking at her?
“So, how’s business?” she goes on.
“Why, need a job?” I shoot back.
I mean it as a point of banter, but her brown eyes widen and a blush lights up her round high cheeks.
