Page 25 of Sinful Mafia Santa

He sounds so pleased with himself that I flash him a middle finger. For a moment, I think he’ll make me pay for my brattiness. Instead, he glances at his watch and says, “Let’s go.”

In the foyer, he holds my coat for me, and then he leads the way to the private elevator. I start to head toward the Rivian across the garage, but Gage redirects me toward a deep red Porsche, his palm at the small of my back.

Driving a sports car in New York makes even less sense than driving one in Chicago. Gage, though, has the enthusiasm of a teenager behind the wheel. He works his way over the bridge into Manhattan like he’s playing some sort of video game. Ipretend I didn’t overhear his conversation with Trap as we wind our way toward—presumably—Fifth Avenue.

The further we move uptown, the more elaborate the Christmas decorations. Some stores’ displays are stark and dramatic. Others light up with elaborate dioramas from Christmases past.

Gage finally pulls into a space labeled as a loading zone. The shop’s four windows are hung with simple white lights. Each one features an ornament-laden tree—crimson balls on one, blue angels on another, gold stars on a third, and silver snowflakes on the last. They’re simple. Elegant. Classy.

“You can’t park here,” I say.

“They’ll only ticket. Not tow.”

“Gage…”

“Aeryn.”

I give up and walk into Gallagher Samson.

The boutique lives up to the promise of those holiday windows. Clothes are displayed on simple racks, with plenty of space to browse the merchandise. A woman hurries over from the register to greet us.

She’s dressed like my eighth-grade English teacher at St. Boniface, in a boxy lavender suit. Her pink silk top features an elaborate bow at her throat. She wears support hose and practical shoes, and her shock of white hair is twisted into a bun. A brooch shaped like a reindeer weighs down her lapel, gold with a single small ruby for its nose.

“May I help you?” she asks, her voice as warm as cinnamon tea.

“I phoned this morning,” Gage says. “I’m Gage Rider. I’m a friend of Trap Prince.”

“Of course, Mr. Rider,” the woman says, her pale blue eyes glinting as if he’s just told her a joke. “I’m Martha Gallagher.”

“Ms. Gallagher,” he says, like a line chef hoping to impress with his first rendition of hollandaise.

“Martha,” she corrects him with a laugh that sounds likeholiday bells. “Please. And you must be Ms. Reardon.” She turns to me.

“Aeryn,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Aeryn,” she repeats, then claps as if my name delights her. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling a few things you might find of interest.”

I glance at Gage with a look of disbelief. I’ve been with him since he got off the phone with Trap Prince. Even if he sneaked in a phone call while he was making me breakfast, this joyful little woman has had less than an hour to prepare for our arrival.

Gage offers an elaborate shrug, both hands turned toward the ceiling.

“Right this way,” Martha says, ushering us toward the back of the shop.

“I’ll wait up here,” Gage says.

“You’re welcome to have a seat outside the fitting room. I just mixed up a fresh batch of eggnog.”

“I’ll wait here,” Gage repeats, his voice a little rough.

He’s embarrassed. This man—who runs a sex club catering to every kink under the sun, who turned me over his knee without blinking, who served me breakfast this morning like not a day has passed since we fucked like bunnies for the hottest month of my life—he’s blushing at the thought of watching me try on clothes.

In a rush, I realize it’s not my body that makes him uneasy. It’s the thought of buying me a present. That’s an intimacy we’ve never shared before.

“Well,” Martha says. “Just let me know if you need anything.” And she whisks me back to the fitting room as if she’s taking me to a royal ball.

She’s done her work well. A display rack stands beside a triple mirror, filled with party dresses. There’s hand-embroidered emerald silk and ruched cobalt satin and black chantilly lace over a floor-length ruby shell. There are metallic florals andpearly scallops and a leather dress that looks too short for an elf. Martha flips through them all, rearranging the hangers, sorting them by some secret system. Three times, she transfers a dress to another rack, saying, “No,” and, “Not right at all,” and “It was a long-shot anyway.”

In the end, she hands me a floor-length dress cut from lapis-color crepe. It’s sleeveless, with a single silver button at the asymmetric neckline. The dress gathers in gentle folds across the waist, drawing the eye away from a hidden zipper.