Page 13 of Erotic Temptations 1
Pineflame stopped at a metal door and punched in a code. Since when did elves need security codes? This was starting to feel as shady as that button.
A green light blinked. The door clicked open.
“Yeah, no. I’m not following the man who won’t even tell me his real name into the murder room. Hard pass.”
“Santa’s looking a bit haggard,” Pineflame said, eyebrow arched. He was not allowed to look good doing that. “You’ve lost your jolly belly, and your beard’s looking as saggy as your suit.”
My fingers brushed my cheek, and I winced. “It’s the cloth tape. I didn’t want that questionable beard touching my skin. I was trying to protect it.”
“You’ve had tape on your face this entire time?” His voice wavered between annoyed and concerned. His eyes scanned my beard, then flickered, just for a heartbeat, to my lips. What was that about? He’d made it clear from the beginning he hated me. Those green eyes shouldn’t be lingering. Period.
“Clearly,” I snapped, “I should’ve worn a hazmat suit. And while we’re on the subject of tape, it would’ve been nice if you’ddone something about that linebacker child who used my thighs as a trampoline. Santa wants hazard pay.”
Pineflame sighed. “The door leads to a hallway with cleaning supplies and a first aid kit. Santa Claus looks like he’s falling apart, and I’d prefer not to share that with the kids. They’re already confused about your height.”
“Santa can be fun size!” I shouted, ready to kiss him. No! Kick. Kick his ass. Not kiss. Maybe I needed worker’s comp instead. There was definitely something wrong with my brain. I did not want to kiss a man who couldn’t stand me. Unless my standards threshold had hit rock bottom.
“Would you mind taking your snit inside before someone sees Santa having a meltdown?” He pushed the door open. “You’ve already lost your padding. Let’s not add unhinged mall Santa to your résumé.”
I cocked my hip “You are the most irritating man I’ve ever met,Pineflame.”
“I’m well aware, Alex.”
The way he said my name sent an electric current straight to my groin. Whatever. I was too exhausted to psychoanalyzethatreaction. With a huff, I stormed past him into what was, thankfully, an actual hallway and not the murder dungeon I’d expected. Small victories.
The hallway was longer than expected, sterile but somehow not cold. Light bounced off white-painted cinderblock. Every few feet, there was a marked door—Janitorial, Electrical, Security, and then a battered laminated sign that read “North Pole Operations: Storage & Staging.” Across the way, a two-stall bathroom, the kind smelling faintly like industrial soap.
Pineflame strode ahead like he’d lived here his whole life. I lagged, busy cataloguing ways to be murdered by janitorial supplies. The velvet suit had sagged in all the wrong places, andjudging by the way my lower half felt, I was leaking stuffing from more orifices than I cared to count.
Inside, the “supply closet” turned out to be a full-blown room, at least fifteen feet deep with shelves lining two walls and bins stacked everywhere. The air tasted faintly of Pine-Sol and cinnamon.
Pineflame closed the hallway door behind us with all the drama of a man sealing off a crime scene. He went silent as he strode to the big white kit mounted to the wall, flipped the clasps open, and took stock of the medical supplies like he was prepping for an ER trauma instead of your standard mall Santa meltdown. Then he glanced at me, arms at his sides, head cocked, green eyes way too bright.
The man had presence. I’d give him that.
“This might sting. Come here,” he said, voice quieter than I expected.
I stayed where I was. Not shy, exactly. More like waiting for the football tackle. That, and I didn’t trust anyone who could intimidate me in pointy shoes and tights. Instead, I took a moment and made a point of scanning the closet’s dizzying collection of bleach, glass cleaner, and backup air freshener. Nobody needed this many pine-scented strategies.
It was impressive, in a post-apocalyptic way.
Pineflame—or whatever his name was, because nobody with bone structure like that deserved a Comic Sans tag—held up some sort of antiseptic pad, eyebrow raised.
“I’ll do it myself, thanks,” I said, eyeing his hands with the caution usually reserved for spiders.
“You keep jerking back like I’m going to stab you,” he replied. “The worst thing I could possibly do is rip off some tape.” He stepped closer, and I pressed my back to the wall of supplies, nearly knocking over a gallon jug of “Odor Neutralizer: Peppermint Nightmare.”
He rolled his sleeves up, exposing forearms I’d bet money weren’t in Bryce’s contract. At this point, he could strip off the elf hat and start a modeling career called “Sexy Mall Emergencies.” He set his jaw. His eyes dropped to my chin and the beard, which was now looking desperate, half-taped on like a failed ransom note.
“My name’s Mason,” he said. “Not Pineflame.”
I tried not to react, but of course my eyebrows did their own thing. “Alex,” I replied, like we’d never been introduced, even though he’d used my name a minute ago. It was easier to focus on the beard. “You want me to just let you rip it off?”
Mason studied the tape line for a second, then pointed at a battered folding chair beside the supply cart. “Sit there. I’ll be careful.”
I went along with it, mostly because my legs were tired and the beard had begun to feel like an alien mold taking root under my nose. Lowering myself into the chair, the pillow that used to be my stomach tried to revolt and slid into my lap. I ignored it.
Mason didn’t immediately start on the beard. Instead, he rummaged through the first aid kit with steady, competent hands, pulling out a little packet and a tube of something. The man had a calm, unhurried way of doing things, like he’d handled a lot worse emergencies than a drag mall Santa. Even with his back to me, he radiated this weird, warm energy, like he belonged in a kitchen making sourdough bread or something.