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At the center of the village square is my Ivy on stage, singing a karaoke duet with one of the orcs.
I watch this display in befuddled amusement. I do not like the way her singing partner stares at her. He’s so tall, he can see down the neckline of her low-cut fur-trimmed dress.
My rosy-cheeked Ivy is oblivious to the leering. When she sees me approach, she jumps up and down, waving at me, her barely-covered breasts bouncing joyfully.
That’s it.
I’m on top of the situation before I give it another thought.
The orc protests as I take the stage and haul away my wife, bending her over my shoulder. “Hey! We were just getting to the bridge!”
“We’re done here,” I snap, and though I doubt any orc has ever backed down from an elf, I don’t have time for a fight.
Ivy squawks as we make our way across the village square. I’m headed back to the barn. “Cyran! What are you doing?”
“You’ve had enough fun without me for one day.”
“But the party!”
“Will go on without you for five minutes.”
“Five minutes!? Is that all it takes?” Ivy teases.
I slap her plump bottom for that one.
Ivy squirms on my shoulder but it only increases my need for her.
The door to the reindeer barn slides open with an thud, though I don’t remember touching it. It could have flung itself out of the way by the sheer force of my approach.
“Out!” I roar.
The people hooking up in Santa’s sleigh sit up in fright, then scatter with their tails between their legs. Some of them with actual tails.
“Wait! Not the tack room!” Ivy protests, her words slightly slurred.
“Would you rather I find an empty stall with fresh clean straw? Not the most convenient for bending you over.”
“Straw is fine!”
She must be joking. Straw? My Ivy would never.
When I push open the tack room door, she tries one more time to halt me. “But think of the children!”
I cackle at this. “Our three little ones are at a sleepover with…”
I trail off at the sight of the tack room. In the center is an enormous, hand-carved work table that wasn’t there before.
This throws me off so much I have to set my wife down to examine the table.
I say nothing at first, but run my hands over the smooth wood top, the raw edges, the ornate carved legs. “Where did this come from?”
“Merry Christmas, husband.”
Spinning to face my wife, I spot the sheepish look on her face. “I wanted to keep you busy so you wouldn’t be tempted to visit the barn until we opened our presents later tonight,” she says.
I’m confused. “So, you threw the biggest party the North Pole has ever seen? That was somehow supposed to keep me away from my present?”
Ivy shrugs. “It was a bit overdramatic. I admit it. Do you like it?”
