Kate Angell

HO-HUMBUG-HO

Santa wore a smirk that could set Christmas back
eleven months.

He had the shoulders of a linebacker.

Black hair that curled at his collar.

Ice blue eyes.

A Rogue tattoo on his left bicep.

And abs that mocked a belly that shook in laughter
like a bowl full of jelly.

Confined to a dressing room at the back of the Jingle
Bell Shop, Holly McIntyre faced off with Alex Boxer. He was six feet of aggravation. His testosterone set her teeth on edge.

“Here’s your Santa suit.” She draped the outfit over a
straw reindeer statue, soon to be displayed at the front of the store. “You dress and I’ll—“

The man had no modesty. He’d tugged off his navy
T-shirt and shucked his jeans before she’d finished her sentence. He stood in front of her now, wearing black boxer briefs and a naughty grin.

He’d tried to shock her. And he had. They stood so
close, his body heat pressed her breasts, nestled between her cleavage. She blushed.

Unable to avert her gaze, Holly took him in. His chest
was deep and cut. His chest hair arrowed low and a Batter Up tat was visible at his groin. His legs stretched long and muscled, the swell of his package fully loaded.

She forced herself to blink, to swallow, to breathe as he tucked into the red velvet Santa pants, trimmed at the hem with fake white fur.

Alex was six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier
than the previous year’s Santa. The pants fit snug. The red jacket set off his six pack. There was no room to stuff a pillow. Santa looked tall, fit, and North Pole hot.

Any woman would love to have him drop down her
chimney, with or without presents.

“I’m going to bust a seam.” His expression now dark as
he bent in an attempt to pull on a pair of black boots. His feet were big and brawny and his heel crushed the patent leather. “Too damn small.” He kicked them aside, went back to his Nikes.

Santa in sneakers, they’d moved beyond the traditional
image. There was nothing apple-cheeked, warm or caring about this man. He was anti-Christmas spirit.

She held up a wig and eyebrow set that layered to a
wired mustache and full, fluffy beard. “Elastic straps go over your head.”

Alex frowned. “That’s got to itch.”

Holly was prepared, she’d brought baby powder. She
tapped talcum onto her palm, then proceeded to pat the
powder onto his face. His cheeks cut sharply, his nose
ran blade straight, his mouth set full, yet masculine.
His skin warmed and his lips parted beneath her
touch. The talcum soon whitened his afternoon shadow.

A hint of powder collected at one corner of his mouth.
Holly tapped the excess with the tip of her finger and his breath broke against her palm, hot, moist, and triggering shivers.

She pulled back, annoyed that such an irritating man
could raise goose bumps. Visible bumps, that turned his gaze a wicked blue. He knew he’d affected her. And took pleasure in her discomfort.

She dusted off her hands, her voice stern. “Put on the
wig set.”

Alex took his sweet time. He fit the short, white
curls, sneezed into the mustache, and adjusted the beard along the rigid set of his jaw.

“Glasses, stocking cap, and gloves.” She handed him
each one.

He squinted behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“My vision’s blurred.”

“The previous Santa had a stigmatism,” she explained.
“I had prescription lenses put in the glasses.”

“Where’s the old Santa now?” he asked.

“He’s, um, dead.”

His sharp exhale bristled every fake hair on the Santa
beard. “I’m wearing a dead Santa’s suit?”

“The man didn’t die wearing the suit,” she assured
him. “It has been dry cleaned.”

Alex shoved his hands in the white gloves. Gloves that
didn’t stretch to his wrists. “Damn, I’m squeezed into red velvet, have fake mustache hair in my mouth, and can’t see beyond my nose. An unfair punishment for driving fifteen miles over the speed limit.”

“You were in a school zone,” she reminded him.

“It was Saturday.”

Judge Hathaway protected his own, Holly knew. Hathaway hadn't cared if it was Sunday and the entire town sat in church. Alex Boxer had been busted for speeding. His good cheer had been left on the outskirts of Holiday, Florida.

The judge had ordered Alex to pay a substantial fine,
then tacked on forty hours of community service during Christmas week. The service came in playing Santa Clause at Wilmington Mall.

Alex had growled his objection. The hot shot baseball player had called his attorney who’d argued with the judge. In the end, Hathaway’s ruling stood.

Alex’s Saleen S7 had been impounded. The low-slung
silver sports car with the gull-wing doors had quickly
become a local attraction. Law enforcement opened the
compound twice daily. The Salvation Army set up a stand and rang the bell for donations. Money rolled in at Alex’s expense.

The one hotel in Holiday had been booked for the
season, which forced Alex into the loft above the Jingle Bell Shop. The one bedroom sat small, cramped, and jammed with Christmas decorations. He’d complained his feet hung over the end of the bed. And that the pillow was sized for an elf.

The small Florida town faced Christmas with a scowling Santa. There was no ho-ho-ho in this man.

Holly watched as Alex fought with the stocking cap. It
was too tight. The pom-pom swung, bopped him on the nose.

Alex ripped it off. “Not going to happen.” He looked
around the shop, found a long red bandanna, which he
wrapped as a skull cap. There was no cuddly softness to this Santa, he looked street corner tough.

“A couple of rules,” Holly went on to tell Alex.
“Be gentle when you hoist the children on your lap. Keep smiling even if they pee, whine, tug on your beard or burst into tears.”

“Pee on me?” That caught his attention.

“Children get scared,” she explained. “Peeing is a
natural reaction to fear. Not every child loves Santa on his first visit.”

His mouth thinned beneath the mustache. “Can the kids
sit beside me and not on my lap?”

“Not an option.”

“This job sucks.”

“Volunteer Santa’s are jovial,” she stated. “They
embrace Christmas and bring hope and joy to children.”

“I’m not a volunteer, I’m court ordered,” he ground
out. “I should be in Miami by now. I was to meet up with my teammates to celebrate winning the World Series. It’s warm weather, cold beer, and hot babes. Time to cut loose.”

“Instead of your buddies, you’ll spend your week
with a moose, elf, gingerbread man, and nutcracker.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’m to write up a daily report for the judge on your
cooperative efforts,” she told him. “So give it your all.”

His jaw shifted left, then right, and his stare turned
cold. Santa had gone all silent and wintry.

She returned to the rules. “You must be as nice to the
first child as you are to the last. You ask each one what he or she wants for Christmas, but never promise the delivery of the gift. Many parents can’t afford what their child requests. Afterward, the elves from the photo booth will snap the holiday picture.”

Alex looked down on her. His ice blue eyes were
magnified behind the prescription lenses. “What part do you play in this insanity?”

“I’m the nutcracker.”

“Perfect type-casting."

She ignored him. “Your Santa bag is filled with candy
canes.”

“I hate the scent of peppermint.”

“Get used to it,” she said flatly. “Each child gets a
cane. There will be a decorative gift box by your chair with discount coupons from the local merchants. You’ll need to give an envelope to each parent.”

“You’re asking me to remember a lot.”

“Try to extend your mind beyond bat and ball.”

He cut her a sharp look. “Stop cracking my nuts.”

“Speaking of which, I need to change into my costume." She motioned toward the door. “Step outside, please.”

“I dressed in front of you, feel free to strip before
me.”

“Not in this lifetime, Santa. Hit the door. I’ll be
with you in fifteen,” she instructed.

Alex Boxer sauntered out. He’d have liked to watch
Holly undress, it would’ve turned him on. He’d always
had a thing for blondes with gold hoop earrings in flirty yellow sundresses. She touched on pretty with her big brown eyes and sexy mouth. Unfortunately, she was too thin for his liking. He preferred a woman with a nice rack and curvy booty. He enjoyed the wiggle and jiggle of the female body.

He’d been looking forward to a lot of jiggle in Miami.
Skimpy shorts and thong bikinis flashed a lot of skin.
Spandex hugged a lot of curves. Alex and six single Rogues had booked condos on South Beach. They’d planned to raise hell between Christmas and New Years.

Instead of suntanned-oiled twins, he now faced
children sitting on his lap. Any one of them could pee on him. He’d be handing out candy canes and store coupons. Not close to the wild time he’d originally planned for the holidays.

“I’m ready.” The crack of the door drew Holly to him.
Costumed as a nutcracker soldier, she could barely fit
her big wooden head through the frame. Painted in the
Old World style, the face had severely arched eyebrows and wide black eyes. A tall black hat topped her head. A moveable lever below her left ear opened and closed her jaw.

A red jacket with gold epaulettes hung large on her
small shoulders. Baggy black pants and boots with gold
glitter rounded out her outfit.

Rifle in hand, she poked him with the bayonet. “Down
the hall and to your right, the door will open into Santa’s Workshop. There will be hammering elves, a dancing moose, and a gingerbread man decorating his freshly baked house.”

Alex backed against the wall. “Honest to God I can’t
go through with this. I feel stupid.”

“Stupid is as stupid does. Playing Santa is the price
you pay for a speeding ticket.” She jabbed him a second time. “The kids are waiting for you. Move your red velvet butt.”

“Careful where you poke.” He cast over his shoulder.
“No need to ream me a second.”

He made it down the hall, even with the glasses
distorting his vision. Noise broke beyond the door, loud with pounding, laughing, and what he swore sounded like an animal’s bellow.

He cracked the door, squinted. He didn’t like what he
saw. “There’s a live reindeer tied to a post beside my
Santa chair.”

“His name is Randolph.” He heard Holly expel her
breath within the hollow head of her costume. “He wasn’t supposed to be here this year. He offends people.”

“Offends people, how?” Alex wanted to know. “Does he bite? Kick? Spit like a camel?”

“None of the above.”

“Then what?” he pressed.

“He passes gas.”