Page 24 of Make You Mine This Christmas (Holly Ridge #2)

Austin

The alarm sounds, breaking up one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had in a long time. Maybe a decade, I think, as Brody shifts behind me, our positions swapping at some point in the night.

“I don’t want to be Santa today,” Brody says into the nape of my neck, before sitting upright. “I didn’t mean it. I love being Santa.” I roll over to see his eyes open in shock and have to bite my lip not to laugh at him.

“You can love being Santa and wish for a little more time to snuggle in bed. I know I do.” I put my hand on his leg where it’s covered by the sheet. I don’t trust myself to touch his bare skin right now, especially while he’s already having a crisis of conscience.

He nods, a solemn look on his face, saying, “You’re right,” before scrubbing any remaining sleep from his eyes.

“You go shower,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed and wandering to the dresser for a pair of flannel pants.

“I’ll make breakfast.” I turn around to see Brody’s eyes locked on where my ass, and now my junk, are disappearing into blue and black plaid.

“Brody. Santa time. And we have to swing by Jitters to pick everything up before we change.”

“Right.” He visibly shakes himself. “You have more willpower than I do.”

I stalk over to the bed, putting one knee between where his legs are spread, bringing my face inches from his. “Or more of an appreciation for delayed gratification.” He leans forward chasing my mouth, but I pull back before he can make contact.

“I’m putting you on the naughty list,” he groans.

I walk away, laughing. “Oh baby, I’m already there.” With a wink over my shoulder, I head to the kitchen to make us something to eat, first breakfast if you will. I think we’ll need our energy today.

* * *

You’d think everyone working at the workshop today spent the night snuggling with their ex, the way we’re hustling and humming along.

I worried a dip in energy would follow yesterday’s rough ending, but never underestimate the power of a good leader and free pastries and coffee.

We book out more slots on these weekend days in December, but somehow, we’re keeping right on schedule.

Jimmy is getting information from almost everyone who comes through—he presented Brody with the idea to gather information from everyone, regardless of need.

He pointed out that it makes things slightly less conspicuous for those who want to keep a low profile.

It also allows those who may be able to help this year to receive information about donating to the future of Brody’s cause.

I thought Brody might kiss him, saying how this would change the trajectory of who he could help and how. But nope, those lips are only for me.

I manage to keep finding reasons to touch Brody, innocently, of course.

As Santa and his elf. Whether it’s bringing Santa a refill for his water, or being extra cautious in the handoff of his visitors, every brush of his hand sends sparks shooting through me.

I don’t know what my plans for Brody tonight will contain, but I know they’re going to be big, long, and hard.

A throat clears next to me, and Brody shoots me a knowing look. Seems my eyes are getting a little too lusty. I need to lock it down for a little while longer. I groan internally with a glance at the clock on the wall. Okay, so several more hours longer.

As the afternoon wears on, I start to notice that more than the children visiting are appreciating Santa Brody.

Single parents of all varieties are giving him heart eyes, and it’s getting my tinsel in a tangle.

Have they been looking at him like this all along, and I’ve been too busy trying to stop myself from looking to notice?

It doesn’t matter. Brody hasn’t touched a woman romantically since the tenth grade homecoming dance. These women are not being subtle in their appreciation for how they think Brody could drive their sleigh. It seems to me like even the dads are hitting on him.

One steps in front the elf taking photos.

“Wait, sweetie, you wanted to hold your Rudolph stuffy in your picture with Santa.” He steps forward, handing the reindeer over.

Leaning closer to Brody than I think entirely necessary, he hums. “Wow, Santa, that’s some nice cologne you have on there.

What’s it called? I’d love to put it on my Christmas list.” It’s all too much, and suddenly I’m seeing red.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping up, my voice more abominable snowman than human. I take a breath. “If you can step behind the rope, we need to keep the line moving.” I stand between him and the camera while the photographer finishes up, and Brody’s eyes stay on me, dancing with humor.

“Careful, Austin. Elves don’t growl,” he whispers when I step forward to help the little girl back to her overly flirtatious father.

“They might if they were the ones sleeping with Santa instead of Mrs. Claus,” I mutter back.

And that’s how I know I’ve been spending too many hours in the North Pole—all my metaphors are coming out Christmassy.

Around 3:30 p.m., there’s a commotion at the door. The college girls working at the door today start to look panicked, and Brody nods when I ask with my eyes if I should go help.

“I don’t care if I booked for tomorrow. I thought today was the ninth. We drove the whole way here, and you need to let me in.” The woman tries to bullrush the door and looks up in surprise when I don’t budge. “Excuse me, let me in.”

“Ma’am, I understand you’re frustrated, but all the people in front of you and the sizable crowd now waiting behind you in the cold have reservations for today,” I say.

My eyes look with purpose at the line of people behind her.

She turns her head, and when she looks back, her cheeks are red—whether with embarrassment, renewed purpose, or anger, I’m not sure.

“I’ve never been treated this way in all my life,” she shouts, bringing the rest of the noise in the workshop to a stop for a second until an enterprising elf starts a sing-a-long of Jingle Bells to distract the kids in line.

Renewed angry purpose, it is. “How can you keep kids from seeing Santa?” The kids in question are tugging on her hand.

Even under the age of eight, they know Mom’s wrong.

“If you had explained the situation to my co-elves here, we would have been happy to see if we have space in the next little while for you.” I let my voice convey how her demanding to see Santa on a day when she doesn’t have a booking sounds about as ludicrous as being angry we don’t have a real life Rudolph to take people on flights in the sky.

“But as it stands, we’ll be refunding your booking for tomorrow. Have a great day.”

I stand there with my arms crossed, waiting for her to turn and leave.

“I’ll blast this festival! I’ll ruin you . . .” Her voice wavers as she realizes people around us are recording.

“My boss probably wouldn’t love it if we went viral for the wrong reasons, but seeing as you forced your way into the workshop, and you signed a release saying you understood the risk of being photographed or recorded on official festival grounds when you booked your tickets, we can release any of these videos to the press and be sure the real story gets out. ”

Jimmy appears at my side then, a cookie bag in each hand.

As the woman storms away, leaving her children behind to follow, he stops the older one.

“Allergies?” he asks, and she shakes her head no, not able to meet his eyes.

Poor kids. Jimmy hands them each a cookie.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, and they walk away hand in hand, their mother waiting for them twenty-five yards away from the door.

“Sorry about the delay, folks,” I say to everyone outside moving forward to check in now.

Luckily, the overall atmosphere seems to be understanding.

Before going back to my post next to Brody, I hide behind the false wall for a second and give Blaire a heads up.

Her GIF response of George Michael from Arrested Development laying down on the carpet tells me everything I need to know about how her day is going.

Back at the Santa station, a mom is standing off to the side, waiting for her son to finish with Brody. She looks vaguely familiar, like I’ve seen her around Winterberry Glen. Two more steps has her right next to me.

“Some people have all the nerve,” she says. “You handled her really well. I’m Victoria. You’re Austin, right?” I take her outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, do I—”

“Oh, no. I’ve seen you around, though. Never had a chance to say hi before.” She puts her hand on my arm then and leaves it. “So, hi.”

A throat clears to our left, and I find Brody, looking much more murderous than Santa ever should. It’s pretty fucking sexy. “Excuse me, ma’am? Lillian needs to use the bathroom.”

“Duty calls,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say in response, biting back a smile as the pair walks away. I walk to Brody under the guise of handing him his water bottle. “Needed to pee, huh?” I ask under my breath.

He takes a gulp of water first. “What, she’s four, and this line is at least thirty minutes long. There’s a good chance she does,” he says, no shame in his voice.

“Careful, Brody. Santa doesn’t growl,” I echo back, leaning down to set his bottle on the ground.

“Under the right circumstances, this Santa might,” he breathes, before exclaiming, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” in greeting to his next visitor.

Five p.m. has never been so far away.