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Single Dad Santa: Can I help?
Me: Please
Single Dad Santa: I want you to run your soft fingers down the front of your beautiful body and into your panties. Then dip inside that sweet hot pussy, rubbing until you light up, baby. It’s me touching you. Wanting you. Scream out for me. Call out my name when you come.
I do as I’m told for once. If listening to this man makes me feel as free as it did in his laundry room, then I brand myself submissive, if only just for him. I repeat the words he wrote to me, flicking my clit to the images from our time together. His sculpted body. Those dirty words.Boom. Like lightening, my O shoots through me, and as promised, it’s his name filling the room.
As I’m catching my breath, my phone dings.
Single Dad Santa: Goodnight, Olive
Me: Goodnight, Leo. Master of making me come.
The next morning,I open Black Soul Books with a big smile on my face. I woke up to a good morning text. That’s a first for me. Then, he proceeded to ask me about all my favorite things. Favorite Books…poetry. Food…seafood, pasta of all kinds. Color…black. A lot of it is probably obvious, but he still makes me feel heard. Like he cares and wants to know more.
This might be the first morning since moving here that a smile has been on my face. I can’t seem to help it, when thoughts of a sexy Santa still dance in my mind. In fact, I feel downright cheerful. I even pull back the black lace curtains for more sunlight. Bastian seems to like it, and I give the silky black cat a rub behind the ears. The more I think about Leo and last night, the more I want to pull out my vibrator and reimagine every detail from the laundry room, again and again. Instead, I make myself crazy with the what-if’s. Typical Olive.
I can’t date a single dad. I’m not mom material, let alone step mom material. Relationships are messy enough as it is, and I’m terrible at them. My longest was only a year, and I can’t imagine having to end things with a kid. What if they cry? I would cry! That would have to mean they liked me, though, which is another impossibility in itself. Kids don’t like me usually. I’m a fan of rules, lists, and playing it safe. Totally boring. I know this, and I’m cool with it, but a child…No way.
What if they liked books, though? I have a huge kids section at the front of the store with a few toys. Maybe I could win over his daughter.
Instead of reading, my mind continues to focus on our upcoming date. I write a list of what needs cleaned. Books get terribly dusty. Then, I proceed to make a list of all the things I need to get done before tonight’s date. Leo had asked if tonight was okay, and I agreed in my post-orgasm bless, but now I’m frantically making lists that don’t really need to be made. I can easily remember to pick out my dress and curl my hair. As a matter of fact, I really don’t need any of these lists I’m always making, but something about them lets me feel more in control. And I like control. Except for when I’m with Leo, apparently. The way he ignited my body, making me wither with need, was overwhelming but in the best way. Losing myself felt okay, if he was holding on to me.
Fantasies about all the ways we could play in that Santa suit fill my mind as I dust the shelves. Bastain meows while lying in the window, people watching and preparing for world domination.
My poor Poe display doesn’t see much action from anyone in this city. Nope. Bourbon loves romance. My best sellers are spicy monster romances and blue aliens—crazy awesome dicks thatI do highly recommend.
On the last display shelf, I stop to pick up the photo of Maybell. I miss her, the OG grump of this bookstore. She was the best mix of Dolly Parton and Morticia Adams and, despite her age, lived life to the fullest. She was a poet who wrote beautiful sonnets about falling in love and traveling the world, experiencing life. Maybell made me promise to stay close to Fitzy and, if I was having a bad day, go to a party, especially if I didn’t want to.
And when I did, I met Leo. Now, I’m daydreaming of the filthy things I want him to do to me.
As I finish the shelf, the bell above the door chimes, and I glance at my watch. Four p.m.—it must be Penelope, the only kid in the world I’m excited to see. I quickly hurry to the front to meet her.
“Hey you.”
“Hey.”
“Guess what came in?”
“Enchanted Swords?” she questions, hope beaming in her eyes.
I nod in excitement and pull the box of her paperbacks from behind my counter.
“Twenty copies, which is not at all enough, but we have to make sure you like them.”
“Holy shirt balls, batman,” Penelope says, grabbing the outstretched scissors and running the blade down the crease. She opens it fast and pulls out a few sheets of bubble wrap, then freezes.
Moments pass, and I worry something’s wrong with her book. Or no. She worked so hard on this book for over a year, paid for the cover and editing herself.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart in my throat, waiting for her to say something.
If she cries, I’m definitely going to cry. How did I become so invested in this teenager? Probably when she walked through my door six months ago, asking for Shakespeare. For fun. She’s been the soft spot in my otherwise cold heart. Sharing her book with me was huge, but once I loved it, I never stopped nagging her to publish. Finally, she listened to my wisdom, and now it’s real. I’m so excited to show her.
“It’s perfect,” she finally whispers, and I release a huge sigh of relief.
I wait for her to take a book out, and when she does, the deep blue jackets on the hardbacks stun us both to silence. Absolutely gorgeous.
“It sure is, author P. Miller.”
