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Someone’s opening the back door.
It’s a subtle but familiarclick, followed by soft footsteps, but those aredefinitelyfootsteps.
The gait isn’t right for it to be Jude.
And I know Santa doesn’tactuallyexist.
Am I hearing things?
Trevor hasn’t moved. He’s still passed out cold, which is good. He’s made solid progress in physical therapy, and he needs his sleep to fully heal.
But there it is again.
Someone isdefinitelyin the house.
I disentangle myself and crawl out of bed.
Trevor still doesn’t move.
So I grab one of the baseball bats that he has in his closet—just in case it’snotJude—make a mental note to suggest Trevor get an alarm system here, and I creep to the bedroom door.
And then I barely stifle a gasp.
There’s averylarge man in red velvet walking into the living room.
I rub my eyes.
And I peer again.
Am I hallucinating, or is freakingSanta Claushere?
I look back at Trevor, who’s now sitting up and blinking sleepy eyes at me in the dim light off of our tiny tree. He starts to speak, but I put my finger to my lips and give him thewhat the hell is going on?look.
He looks at the bat in my hand.
Then at my face.
And then he crawls out of bed too, wincing slightly when he moves his left arm.
Poor guy.
That’s still gonna be stiff for months.
But more important—Santa Claushas broken into his house.
Trevor stops behind me, his hot bare skin touching my shoulder, and I feel his sharp intake of breath as he, too, spots Santa in the living room.
“Am I dreaming?” I whisper to him. “Or hallucinating?”
“No,” he whispers back.
“Did you do this?”
“No.”
The living room floor creaks under Santa’s weight, and then Trevor snorts. “That fucker,” he whispers.
I look back at Santa, who is truly huge.
