Copyright © 2017 Lacey Black

Editing by Kara Hildebrand

Proofreading by Joanne Thompson

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

All rights reserved.

Black Friday from Hell

I strum my manicured fingernails along the battered hardwood tabletop as I await the appearance of the honorable Judge Joseph Walker III. It’s a quarter past one, and this hearing was due to start fifteen minutes ago. The entire situation grates on my already frazzled nerves when it comes to the holiday season, where everyone is too damn cheery and there’s no escape from the forty-five different renditions of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” that’s piped into every elevator car or taxi this side of the Mississippi River.

Checking my watch again, I exhale deeply, ready to get this entire day over with. What started out as a normal Friday has turned into a mess of epic proportions. How in the world did I go from working out in my home gym, before heading into the office, to being bullied by an eighty-year-old grandma and placed under arrest?

You heard right.

Arrested.

As one of the youngest defense attorneys in Springfield, I’m accustomed to sitting in this exact position, at this exact table as a matter of fact, and staring up at the bench of one of the state capitol’s senior judges. But now? I’m stuck in a courtroom, watching paint peel on the wall, and wishing I were anywhere else but here.

I should have stayed in bed. Hell, I should have taken the day off, like most white-collared Americans when it comes to Black Friday. You know, the self-proclaimed holiday where you break out in fist fights to score a five-dollar coffee maker or mow down other shoppers with your cart to nab that final toy your spoiled kid just has to have or will die...all in the name of the Christmas spirit.

Black Friday. The black hole of holidays.

And now, a day I’ll forever associate with being arrested.

So here I sit, as the defendant, ready to plead my case as I represent myself on bogus and frivolous charges, and convince my golfing buddy to throw these accusations right out the proverbial window.

Where the hell is Judge Walker?

Glancing at my Rolex once more, I stare at the large wooden door that leads to Walker’s chambers and will him to come through the door. What could be keeping him? I just played eighteen holes with him yesterday, and he didn’t mention anything besides work on his calendar for the day.

Walker and I have played golf on most holidays since I graduated law school at the University of Chicago Law School, and started working at his former law firm. His wife of thirty-five years passed away five years ago, and with his kids out adulting in the world, he’s left alone on most major holidays.

Like me.

My attention is pulled to the prosecution table, which also remains empty. I’m starting to wonder if I’m being punk’d. Get arrested, post bail, show up for court, and no one’s there, proving that the entire situation was one big fuck-you joke. Typical. The only thing that keeps me in my chair is the presence of the bailiff by the judge’s chamber door.

I’m giving it five more minutes and then I’m out. Even with the arresting officer seated behind where the prosecution is supposed to sit, I’m not wasting any more of my time by waiting for a hearing that may or may not even happen. What’s the worst that could happen? Contempt of court, sure, but it wouldn’t be my first offense. Warrant out for my arrest? Yeah, that would blow reindeer balls. Especially with Barney Fife Jr. ready to slap those damn cuffs back on my wrists one more time.

Yeah, so let’s talk about Junior. Has he even graduated high school? The kid can’t even grow a mustache, let alone be old enough to graduate from the academy. He’s greener than the emerald tie around my neck. I barely got a word in edgewise before he was pushing me against the squad car and throwing the cold metal bracelets around my wrist.

What did I do? Oh, that’s a great Black Friday story, full of holiday merriment.

Before I can dive into the reason for my Friday afternoon courtroom appearance, the judge’s chambers finally opens. But it’s not my ol’ golfing buddy, Judge Walker, who steps into the courtroom. Oh no. This is Judge Amelia Holiday, the old battleax who clearly hasn’t forgiven me for the time she caught me sneaking out of her daughter’s apartment. No way has she forgotten that tidbit of information if the way she glares daggers at me from behind her black-framed glasses is any indication.

Well, fuck me.

Where in the flying hell is Walker? There’s no way I’m getting off on any charge with the old broad who’d rather see me strung up by my balls in front of the Capital Building.

Could this day possibly get any worse?

Just then, the courtroom door flies open. “I’m so sorry I’m late, your honor. The Women in the Judicial System luncheon ran over,” a woman says as she scurries to take her place at the prosecutor’s bench, the clickety clank of her heels echoing through the room.

What can only be presumed as the new assistant District Attorney plops her worn leather satchel bag down on the table and quickly organizes papers in two nice, neat piles. Waves of springy blonde curls fall into her face as she arranges her paperwork and prepares to do battle against one of the top defense attorneys in the fine city of Springfield, Illinois.

Me.

Familiarity sweeps through my blood as her slender fingers grip that luscious hair, moving it out of her face and behind her shoulders. It falls forward again, like unruly ringlets of sunshine. Even in profile, I can tell she’s beautiful, and I’ll be damned if my dick doesn’t take notice. Her body is slim, fit, and looks amazing in the red business suit. The skirt conforms beautifully to her heart-shaped ass, and it takes everything I have to suppress the groan of lust, anxious to slip out. Even the gaudy Santa head pin on her lapel doesn’t dim the need I suddenly feel.

“No problem, Miss Winters. It was a wonderful luncheon today. Didn’t you enjoy Congresswoman Jeffery’s speech on raising a family and still giving one hundred percent to the constituents?”

“I did,” the blonde says, nodding her head fanatically. “When she talked about spending time with your family during the holidays, it really drove home her point about still remaining a family woman who serves the public.”

Unable to hold back, I groan in annoyance. Unfortunately, Judge Battleax hears me and turns her narrow eagle eyes my way. I can practically feel her contempt for me all the way across the courtroom. “Ahh, yes, Mr. Frost. When Judge Walker called me and asked me to fill in for him this afternoon, I was a little reluctant to end my Black Friday, which included some shopping for deals and a powerful women’s luncheon. But once I arrived and saw your name on the docket? And as the defendant? Well, let’s just say that my day started to look up rather quickly,” Judge Holiday says with a bright smile beaming with mirth.

Shit.

“Miss Winters, are you ready to proceed?”

“I am, Your Honor,” the blonde says before turning her blue eyes on me.

Eyes that I’ve seen before. Eyes that I used to get lost in almost nightly in another lifetime. Eyes that, to this day, haunt my dreams. And right now, they’re laser-sharp and piercing me like tomahawks in battle.

Noel Winters.

“Well, double shit.”

Blast From The Past

I knew that seeing him for the first time in five years was going to be difficult. Like that moment you sit down to take the Bar exam and everything you’ve learned in the last three years flies right out the window. Yet you have to power through the complete memory loss so that you don’t screw up your big chance to become the one thing you’ve always wanted to be.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the crazy bolt of lust that swept through my body when our eyes met.

Brandon Frost is still as gorgeous as I remember. Brown hair, hazel eyes that change to a fierce green when he’s aroused (trust me, I know), shoulders and abs that make a woman sit up and beg, and an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of.

He’s exactly as I remember him.

Dammit.

Why couldn’t he have lost all of his hair? Perhaps an ugly comb-over toupee was too much to ask for? Maybe gain about forty pounds and have a potbelly hanging over his belt?

But no, the years since we’ve parted have been good to Brandon, just like I suspected they would be. Even seated, he’s lean, tone, and dominating in his charcoal gray suit and striking green tie. I recall every bit of his six-foot-one body, as it towered over me while he kissed me silly in the snow until my lips were numb. His hands gripped my face and he held me tightly like he was afraid I would run away.

Stupid memories.

Anger is a powerful thing, and it’s time I grabbed a hold of the emotion that has carried me through the past half-decade when I think about Brandon. I’m here to do a job – a very new job, at that. Today is my first official solo case as assistant district attorney for Sangamon County, and I’m determined to do it well.

And what would be better than taking down Brandon Frost?

Nothing, that’s for sure.

It would be the highlight of my life and my career.

“Then, let’s proceed. Mr. Frost, you have decided to represent yourself today,” Judge Holiday says, glaring at Brandon over the top of her glasses. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Amelia doesn’t care for Brandon in the least.

Interesting.

“These charges are bogus, Ma’am. The defense calls to dismiss,” he says, that cocky smile I used to love ever present on his smug face.

“Denied,” I state. There’s no way I’m dismissing charges on a man who assaulted a little old woman who was trying to cross the street with her Christmas purchases.

“Listen, your honor, we could go round and round all afternoon. The facts are this: I was driving down the street and a woman walked in front of me. While in the street, she dropped a package, so I got out and helped her collect her belongings,” Brandon says.

“You called her an old bat and insulted her Christmas sweater.”

“That’s hearsay.”

“Would you like me to call to the stand the woman who says you ran over her great-grandson’s Batman walkie talkie gift? She’s just a phone call away, you know,” I taunt him, reaching for my cell phone as if I were really going to call sweet Mrs. Horner.

“It fell under my tire,” he retorts firmly.

“Convenient for a man who hates Christmas,” I seethe, keeping my eyes locked on his. That’s how I don’t miss the direct hit my comment made. Brandon’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare before they squint into little slits.

“I do not hate Christmas,” he states, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You’re under oath, Brandon Frost.” Saying his name is like chewing on Christmas lights. It’s painful and cuts deep.

Spinning to face the judge, he continues. “Listen, your honor. I was trying to help her out of the way. The woman stopped in the middle of the street and spilled her Christmas packages. I was merely trying to be a good citizen.”

The judge starts laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, waving her hand in front of her face to mask her laughter. “Good citizen. That’s not exactly a term I’d use to describe you,” she mumbles, sending eye daggers his way.

Adjusting my favorite Santa head pin on the lapel of my suit, I smile. Even the prospect of going head-to-head with Brandon Frost hasn’t dimmed the excitement I have for my favorite holiday, Christmas. Even after he devastated me five years ago, at said holiday, I was able to keep my feelings for him separate from the date on the calendar.

Love Christmas.

Hate Brandon.

Even after seeing him in the flesh after five years, I still get giddy excited at the prospect of leaving work and putting up my Christmas tree. The only reason I didn’t do it last night was because I didn’t get home until after nine from my parents’ house. But now I have something to look forward to when I get off work.

And can push all thoughts of Brandon Frost out of my mind.

“Double parking, jaywalking, and assault of a little old woman and a peace officer,” I state for the record.

“I did not assault that police officer,” he seethes through gritted teeth, turning to face the young officer who’s seated behind me.

“You threw a package of tinsel at him and called him a hobbit, Scrooge,” I add.

Brandon scoffs and shakes his head. “I tripped over the Barbie doll that was still in the road!”

“Heaven forbid you pick it up and place it back in the shopping bag.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“That’s what I was doing when the cop showed up and accused me of mugging her!” he hollers.

The pounding of the gavel draws our attention back to the judge. “That’s enough,” she says, rubbing her temples as if to fend off a headache. “What does the state have in mind, Miss Winters?”

“Simple, your honor. Community service,” I tell her. Internally, I smile when I see Brandon’s shoulders relax at my suggestion.

“Community service? That’s it?” Judge Holiday asks, unable to hide her own shock.

“Yes, ma’am. The state has the perfect punishment for a criminal like this,” I offer sweetly, knowing that this judge is practically eating out of the palm of my hand.

“Proceed.”

“The state recommends thirty hours of community service,” I start before being interrupted by the man to my left.

“What?!”

Ignoring his outburst, I continue. “For the next five Saturdays, Mr. Frost will serve as Santa Claus at the Springfield Youth Community Center for five hours per day, from now until Christmas, as well as five hours on Christmas Eve.”

“Hell no!”

“Mr. Frost, would you like to be held in contempt?”

“The State feels this punishment fits the crime perfectly, your honor. Mr. Frost hates Christmas, but more than that,” I say, glancing at the man standing across the aisle, “he hates children.”

And that is what I like to call retribution.

Game. Set. Match.

You Want Me To Wear What?

––––––––

I have no words. I’m physically unable to speak at the moment as I stare at the only woman I’ve ever loved and she uses the biggest guns she possesses to wield my punishment. Five years hasn’t diminished the anger and hurt still very evident in those hypnotic blue eyes. They’ve always been her best feature, not quite as deep as the ocean or as brilliant as a cloudless sky. Just a unique shade of sapphire that I’ve never seen again.

Now those eyes that had always reflected so much love and adoration only shine with so much pain.

And I did that.

“That’s an interesting choice of punishment, Miss Winters,” Judge Ratchet says with a smile. But it isn’t a friendly smile. She glances my way before returning her gaze to Noel. “I like it. The court agrees to the terms of the state’s offer.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask, unable to stop talking.

“Then the court will suggest jail time. Striking a peace officer is a serious offense, Mr. Frost. But I’m sure you already know that.” Again, the old woman gives me a smirk, reminding me to always verify the identity of the women I sleep with to ensure they’re not the daughter of the one judge who despises me with a passion.

It’s as if all of my energy just drains from my body. I feel defeated, but resolved to accept my punishment. Playing Santa for some snot-nosed kids couldn’t be so bad, could it? Because the alternative – jail time – sounds a hell of a lot worse.

I can do this.

I was in the top five percent in my graduating class in law school. At twenty-two I ran the Chicago Marathon for the first time and clocked a personal best time. I once went on a date with Miley Cyrus to a charity event back when she was riding wrecking balls and shaving her head. So if I can do all of that shit, I can surely play the fat, jolly man in a red suit and itchy beard for a few hours, right?

I pull my Mercedes into the first parking spot I can find. Even though every bone in my body is telling me to be fashionably late (or not to show up at all), I don’t want to give Cruella and her evil prosecuting attorney minion any leverage they need to revoke the terms of this arrangement. And while I’m not the least bit happy about it, the alternative isn’t something I plan to do in this lifetime, so I might as well suck it up and deal with the...kids.

Groaning, I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are slightly bloodshot and the bags beneath them are big enough to look like suitcases. I blame Noel for that. She invaded my thoughts and eventually my dreams last night, even when I didn’t want her to. But after seeing her as the fierce prosecutor I always knew she’d become, there was no way I could get her out of my head. She’s taken up residence there, and unless something happens, I don’t see myself evicting her from my brain anytime soon.

Same thing happened in college. After the breakup, for months, I saw her everywhere. In every class (even though we only had one together), in the store, in the library. Hell, I even saw her in the courtroom when I was shadowing a well-known defense attorney in Chicago. But it was never her, just some poor blonde replica of the woman I loved and lost.

I can say it took me months to get over her, but that’d be a lie. It look me years.

If I ever really did...

And now here I am, getting ready to step inside the community center to play Santa. Frickin’ Santa Claus, of all things. And she’s the reason why. She knew just where to strike that would inflict the most pain and cause the most damage. She knew because she knew me. Better than anyone.

Since our breakup, I’ve never let another woman get remotely close. In my bed, sure, but never anywhere near my heart. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Hit it and quit it. Hump and dump. That’s my style, and for five years that’s worked well for me.

And I’m the best option for portraying Santa to a bunch of kids?

The sad thing is that now I can’t picture anyone in my bed but her. That’s the real reason I couldn’t sleep last night. The thought of calling up any one of the numbers I have in my phone just made me nauseous. Instead, I pictured my hands tangled in soft blonde curls and the most hypnotic blue eyes staring up at me. I was hard and throbbing until there was nothing to do but take care of the problem. And even after a quick solo performance in the shower, it wasn’t enough to wipe away the images of her naked in my bed.

I’ve been a walking hard-on ever since.

Very un-Santa like.

Hey, kids! Come on over and sit on Santa’s lap. What’s that? Oh, that’s just the baseball bat I keep in my pants. Don’t mind me.

Christ, why is this happening to me?

Getting out of the car, I head towards the front of the building. It’s a brisk fifty degrees today and it’s as gloomy as my mood. It must be symbolic. I open the glass door and am instantly assaulted by the sounds of screaming kids. Dozens of kids. Hundreds of kids. Hell, probably even thousands of them. The only good thing about it is it’s killed the boner I had from my earlier thoughts of Noel.

We’ll chalk that one up on the plus side.

“We Wish You A Merry Christmas” is piping through speakers I don’t see as I drudge down the hall towards the chaos. A middle aged woman with tan pants and a big fluffy red and green sweater with a big Christmas tree and some sort of weird gold tinsel weaved through it stands by the door. What is it with these sweaters? They’re ugly as hell!

“Are you Brandon?” she asks, her pink painted lips smiling widely.

“I am.”

“I’m Sheila. We’re so glad you’re here! Even though Santa doesn’t arrive for fifteen minutes, there are several families already here and ready for a visit.”

“Great,” I mumble sarcastically.

“Isn’t it?” she exclaims, mistaking my comment for enthusiasm. “Anyway, you’re scheduled for the next five Saturdays from ten until three. The Santa Lunch is at noon and story time at two.”

“Wait. Story time?” I must have heard her incorrectly.

“Sure. Each day at two, Santa and Mrs. Claus read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to the kids,” she says with glee. Apparently Sheila’s been hittin’ the eggnog a little too hard.

Rubbing my suddenly throbbing temple, I ask, “And this lunch?”

“Oh, it’s an open house for supporters of the program to come and eat lunch with the kids, play games, and take photos with Santa.”

Santa. That’s me.

“This sounds so...awesome.”

“Doesn’t it?!” Sheila exclaims once more. “The kids always look forward to this every year. The program continues to thrive, which is why we’ve added programs like the story time this year. For the last several years, we’ve only hosted the meet and greet with Santa and Mrs. Claus, but we’ve seen an influx of financial support, as well as area families who are taking advantage of the services and programs offered through the community center that we’ve been able to increase our efforts during the holidays.”

Kill me now.

“Oh! And of course, there’s the extra Christmas Eve event. Movie with Santa and Mrs. Claus will start at one o’clock, and all of the children are invited to the auditorium to watch the Christmas movie with you. We’ll serve cookies and milk for all the kids, and they’ll all leave with a final gift from Santa.”

“Thrilling,” I mumble, glancing around at the colorful turkeys made out of construction paper and traced from little hands. The sight of those little hands actually makes me pause for a moment.

“Let’s get you outfitted with your new suit,” she says, leading me towards a small office.

Inside, I stare at the bright red outfit hanging from a rack. My stomach drops to my Italian loafers as I face my doom. Yes, maybe a tad dramatic, but what can I say? I’m not exactly thrilled to be here.

“The glue is on the table. It takes about thirty seconds to set, but you should be good to go for the entire five-hour shift without having to reapply.”

“Glue?”

“You know, for the beard and eyebrows? We have to glue on the fake hair nowadays. Those little stinkers are always tugging at Santa’s beard. We don’t want it to slip down, do we?”

Yes, maybe we do.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, here it is. The padding is in the bin on the floor. We had it dry cleaned after last year’s Santa. He was a sweaty man,” she informs before plastering a big smile on her face. And then she turns her head, making the jingle bells in her ears ring. “I’ll just wait in the hallway. We’ve got seven minutes,” she adds before slipping out the door.

When I’m left alone, I turn my attention back to the offensive suit. It’s hanging there all merrily, mocking me with its bright colors and jolly disposition.

“You really fucked yourself this time, Frost,” I mumble as I start to undress.

Six minutes later, I’m fully dressed in the still smelly fat suit, the Santa outfit, and a beard that itches the fuck out of my face. I can’t believe I have to do this. Out of all the possible punishments in the world, I get stuck with the criers and the overzealous monkeys who only want to use my lap for a jungle gym.

“Ready?” Sheila asks from the other side of the door.

Ready? Fuck no, I’m not ready. I should be at my condo right now, getting ready to watch the Fighting Illini on my seventy-inch flat screen HD TV. Instead, I’m balls deep in community service projects, thanks to a certain ADA who hates my guts. And that just brings my focus back on the blonde who stole my heart all those years ago, and is stealing my sanity in the present.

I can’t believe she did this to me. Kids. Oh, my little hellcat brought out the big guns with this little stunt. It only goes to prove she hasn’t forgotten, and certainly hasn’t forgiven me for my wrongdoings in the past. Instead, she’s using that rage as an accelerant to fuel the fire I thought had long dissipated. But no, that fire is still very much alive and burning, smoldering beneath the surface and giving me a false sense of security. As soon as I turn my back, the fire blazes to life, catching me off guard and sending my entire life up in smoke. 

But there’s no time to think about that right now. At the moment, I have to get my Merry Ho Ho Ho on and entertain kids.

Merry flippin’ Christmas.

I Hate Him

I can’t stay away.

Not because I want to see him, mind you.

Because I want to see him suffer.

For a man like Brandon, dealing with kids for half the day is the worst kind of torture out there. He’s an only child, and though his mother was a part of his life, she worked her tail off, never married or had more children, so he’s never been around them.

His father was absent. A big shot, from what I’m told, in the sports world. Brandon never even knew his father’s last name. All he ever told me was that his mom met Kent, a pro ball scout for one of the Chicago teams, who was in town for the weekend. The story goes that they had some steamy weekend love affair, and he left her a few days later to move on to the next city.

And left a little something behind.

Brandon.

She tried to get ahold of him, but her calls and letters were never answered. Brandon always said he didn’t care, that he didn’t need a father, but I could tell that it cut him deeply. His mom was an amazing woman who gave everything she could so that her son could have his dream.

And then she got sick. It was right there at the end of our time together that her cancer really started to spread. She refused to seek the treatment she needed for fear that it would put too much of a financial strain on Brandon. It ended up taking her about six months after our law school graduation.

I went to see her one last time before she passed. He doesn’t know, at least I hope he doesn’t. I asked his mom, Cecelia, not to tell him. The pain of the breakup was still too hard, too fresh, and too raw to deal with, but I needed to see her one last time and say my goodbyes. Cecelia Frost had an extraordinary heart, full of love and joy.

I never went to the funeral. Even though I ached to be there for him during the loss of his mother, it wasn’t my place anymore. I had said my goodbyes to her and was able to spend time laughing and crying with her while she was still able to. It was a special moment that only she and I shared, and I’ve always carried that time with her in my heart and mind.

How can someone with such a beautiful heart have a son who could say he loves a woman one minute and shred her heart with a cheese grater the next?

I’ve never been able to figure that one out.

It’s just after noon and the Santa luncheon is in full swing. For the last hour, I’ve been lurking in the corner, watching Brandon to make sure he’s fulfilling every fine print detail of his probation. So far, I’ve watched one kid scream bloody murder, a pair of twins rip at the beard he must have glued to his face, and one very little girl with blonde pigtails pee on him. That was the highlight of my day.

Towards the end of the lunch, I notice the sweet woman who’s playing Mrs. Claus get up and practically sprint out of the cafeteria. Concerned that something’s wrong, I slip out the door and make my way towards the closest bathroom. I can hear her retching before I even enter the woman’s restroom.

Pushing the door open, I slip inside. “Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing a wad of paper towels and wetting them.

“Uhhhh,” she groans once the vomiting has subsided. After a few minutes, the stall door opens. Mrs. Claus is as white as a ghost and beads of sweat are dotting her forehead and upper lip.

“Was it something you ate?” I ask, handing her the wet towels.

She places them on her forehead and leans back against the wall. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier. I think I have the flu.”

“Oh no,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come out and have a seat in the hallway. I can call someone for you to come and pick you up. You probably shouldn’t be driving in your condition.”

“My husband. He’s at home,” she groans, taking slow, gingerly steps towards the doorway.

In the hallway, the afternoon session of kids are starting to arrive in the gymnasium. Keeping my hands on the sick woman, I’m able to flag down Sheila. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” she asks, dropping down to fawn over Mrs. Claus.

“Sick,” she groans, wiping her forehead once more.

“I was going to call her husband for a ride.”

“Yes, of course,” Sheila adds, nodding emphatically.

“But, I’m supposed to play Mrs. Claus again. What about the kids?”

“Don’t you worry a second about that, sweetie. We’ll find someone else to finish out your shift, okay? You need to focus on getting healthy,” Sheila says.

“I’m so upset that I can’t stay. This was my only weekend that I could help,” Mrs. Claus says.

The husband arrives just a few minutes later, anxious to help get his wife home and resting. We send her off with a small pail. You know, just in case.

“What are we going to do now?” Sheila asks absently, more to herself than to me.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I reply, watching the rest of the kids file into the auditorium. It’s starting to get loud again after all of the kids got lunch and a second wind.

“Is something wrong?” I hear behind me. It’s that deep, husky voice that I recall from all those years ago. The reaction I have to hearing him is the same as it was then, too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver of something I don’t want to identify sweeps through my body.

“Oh, Brandon! I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Claus has the flu. We had to send her home, which means we don’t have you a wife for the rest of today. I could possibly make a call and try to get someone to come volunteer, but I don’t think I can fill the void today on such short notice.”

“I have an idea,” he says, that grin firmly plastered on his full, kissable lips that are framed by the white beard.

No. Don’t think about that, Noel.

“You do?” Sheila and I each ask at the same time. Uneasiness tingles the base of my neck and warms my cheeks. Something tells me I won’t like this.

“Sure. Noel here loves kids. I think I recall her saying something once about winning the starring role in a high school production of Tony and Tina’s Wedding, so she has the role-playing bit down pat. Noel would make a wonderful Mrs. Claus.” Again, that cocky smirk I used to love is spread wide across his too-handsome face.

“What?!” I exclaim quietly through my teeth.

“Noel? You’d do it?” Sheila turns to me with so much hope in her eyes that I almost falter.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I have...things to do. I’m sure you’ll be able to find another Mrs. Claus on extremely short notice, who’s available on a Saturday afternoon,” I reason, but my point completely loses steam by the time I get to the end of it.

“Did I tell you that I’d make a handsome donation to the community center if she agrees?” he adds, throwing the final nail in my coffin.

That’s when I realize he has me firmly by the ornaments (that’s code for by the balls). There’s no way I could back out now. I really only have two options. One, save my dignity and run for the hills, ripping the donation Brandon’s dangling over their heads out of their hands before they even get a hold of it. Two, play Mrs. Claus. And while that option doesn’t seem so bad in a normal situation, I’d have to stand right beside Brandon, eat lunch right beside him, and read to kids next to him. There’d be no escaping the man I’ve done everything in my power, besides hypnosis, to forget.

Unfortunately, there’s only one answer.

“I’ll do it today. But only if Brandon doubles the donation he was going to make,” I throw in for good measure. Mr. Hotshot Lawyer can afford to drop a little extra cash when it’s for the area kids. Besides, he’ll use it for a tax write-off anyway, so no harm, no foul.

“Done,” he says, sharing a victorious smile behind the snowy white beard. Those hazel eyes are shining brightly with mirth and mischievousness.

“Well, come on, Noel, let’s get you suited up. I’ve got a back-up outfit that is probably just your size,” Sheila says, leading me down the opposite hallway.

Ten minutes later, I almost look the part of Mrs. Claus. With the other Mrs. wearing the only gray wig home, I’m stuck with my own hair. I style it back in a loose bun at the nape of my neck, a few of those radical curls already pulling away from the restraint.

Glancing at the reflection in the mirror, I’m slightly surprised at what I see. The red dress has a fluffy trim around the hem and hits several inches above my knees. If this dress is this short on me (at a whopping five feet, four inches), can you imagine if someone with long legs were to wear it?

Silver shimmery pantyhose lead down to sparkling red heels that are surprisingly in my size. Who would have thought they’d have a five and a half in red heels in the big bin of women’s shoes. The top of the dress is tasteful with a high neckline and long sleeves. Again, there’s white fluffy trim around the neck and wrists. To finish out my outfit, I add a sprig of holly to my bun, which doesn’t do much for the outfit, but makes me smile nonetheless.

“Ready?” I hear on the other side of the door.

“Yes,” I holler, reaching for my sweater and removing the Santa head pin. This is my favorite pin, the one that my grandma gave me a few years ago. I wear it as much as possible from Thanksgiving all the way to Christmas Day. Once it’s fastened securely over my heart, I head out to meet Sheila in the hallway.

“Sweet baby Jesus in a manger,” I hear behind me as I step into the hallway, startling me. My footing in the uncomfortable and unfamiliar footwear falters, causing me to stumble in the shoes. Strong arms wrap around my waist, keeping me from going down. I don’t have to turn to see who my savior was. I can smell him. He smells exactly as I remember.  It’s a clean and musky scent, the same intoxicating cologne he wore back in school, when we spent all of our free time wrapped in each other’s arms.

Stupid memories.

“I don’t recall you ever wearing anything this sexy back in school.” The words are seductive, erotic, against my ear, and I hate the way my body automatically responds to them. Apparently, my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we hate him.

“Yeah, well, I was never into role-playing back then. And too bad you’ve found yourself on the naughty list with no chance of ever redeeming yourself.” There. Take that.

His chuckle against my ear practically turns my insides to mush. “Oh, Mrs. Claus, you have no idea just how naughty I am.” And dammit, if my body doesn’t sway towards him just a little. Stupid, traitorous body!

In desperate need of a little space, I pull myself free from his clutches and straighten my dress. Sure, I wish the hem were about four inches longer than it is, but that’s not something I can remedy right now. I’m being blackmailed into playing the part of Mrs. Claus, with the very devil himself. He’s evil, horrible, and clearly using his sexual magnetism to his advantage. It would do me good to remember that.

“Yes, well, I hope you’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Otherwise, I’d be surprised that you get any dates at all. If I recall correctly, you had plenty of room for improvement.” Sure, it’s an immature dig at his manhood, and no man wants his masculinity challenged.

Brandon’s face lights up with surprise at first, but transforms into humor just as quickly. His low chuckle sends heat flooding my lady-parts, which is pretty much the exact opposite of what I want to happen.

He takes a step forward, once again invading my personal space, and whispers, “Oh, kitten, I don’t recall you having many complaints about my manhood. In fact, I distinctly recall, in glorious detail, you begging for my manhood over and over and over again.”

A fierce blush burns my neck and settles in my cheeks. I should have known that he’d go there. Squaring my shoulders, I turn and face him. “Listen, Brandon, the only reason I’m here right now is because of you, and the only reason I didn’t walk right out that door and tell you to stick mistletoe up your ass is because of those kids in there. So, let’s just get through the next couple of hours without trying to kill each other, or talking about your...” I clear my throat, “manhood, and I think we’ll be just fine, okay? In just a few hours, we won’t ever have to see each other again.”

Before I can stomp off, victoriously, from my little spiel, Sheila walks over and interrupts. “Wow, you look amazing. The best Mrs. Claus the center has ever had. So good, in fact, that I was hoping you would be interested in volunteering for a few more of these Saturday visits with Santa. I mean, the kids really love it when Santa and Mrs. Claus are together,” she says with a sugar-sweet smile.

“A few more? Like one?”

“Ummm, like...all of them.” Before I can object, she continues. “We’ve had a hard time lining up a consistent Mrs. Claus for these weekends, and I thought that, maybe, since you’re helping us out today that you’d be willing to help more?” The hopeful look on her face leaves me firmly between a rock and a hard place. On one side are the kids, which I would love to help. On the other is Brandon. Cocky, arrogant, still as good-looking and as potent as ever, Brandon, who will, undoubtedly, make this month hell.

“I’ll triple my donation to the center. If Noel agrees to play my Mrs. through Christmas Eve.”

Damn him. See, this is exactly why I hate him. And the fact that my heart speeds up at the prospect of spending time with him over the next four weeks, leaves me unsettled even more.

Stupid heart.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” I whisper, feeling defeated and played. Turning around, I come face to face with Brandon Frost. “For the kids. I’m only doing this for the kids.”

The smile he gives me isn’t cocky and it isn’t malicious. It’s happiness and excitement and unarms me in the exact same way it used to when we were together, like he somehow finds joy in the fact that we’re stuck working together for the next several Saturdays.

“For the kids,” he confirms before extending his white-gloved hand towards me.

There’s no time for hesitation as I slowly reach forward and take the hand he’s offering me. I try to ignore the lust that races through me as our hands connect. I try to ignore the way my heart palpitates in my chest. I try to ignore the rush of familiarity and pleasure that sweeps through me.

I ignore it all, the way I’ll ignore him.

I push it all aside, steel my back, and turn towards the hallway that will lead me to the kids.

Not today, Satan.

Mrs. Claus is Smokin’ Hot

––––––––

I almost swallowed my tongue when she walked out of the room.

Every fantasy I’ve ever had about Noel came rushing back in bright Technicolor, as I watched her step into the hallway. Those tone legs framed with red heels and a skirt that would be illegal at the North Pole, had me moving towards her before I even registered that my feet were walking. And I’m damn glad I did, because she almost went down in those damn heels.

Heels that I wouldn’t mind seeing wrapped around my neck later tonight.

No. No, Brandon, get that shit out of your head right now.

This is Noel.

She hates you.

Or does she?

I’ve seen the way she reacts, the way her body swayed in my direction, almost involuntarily.

This is a marathon, not a sprint.

Slow and steady will win the race.

“Ready?” I ask, as we walk hand-in-hand down the hall, and towards the screaming bunch of kids. The afternoon session is sure to be just as busy, if not a bit more rowdy than this morning’s.

“Yes,” she whispers as we walk together. There’s no missing the slight tremble of her hand. Giving it a gentle squeeze, we step into the auditorium and into madness.

“Ho, ho, ho!” I holler, drawing the attention of every person in the room. There’s a moment of silence as every head in the room turns our way before chaos ensues.

Volunteers work diligently to get the kids back into an orderly line, as the Mrs. and I make our way up to the front of the room. The beard is itching something fierce, but I ignore the discomfort, and in turn focus on something much more appealing: the gentle sway of her ass.

Noel stands beside the chair, and there’s no hiding the glimmer of excitement in her eyes as she gazes out at the crowd. How someone can be this enthusiastic to be pawed at and surrounded by kids all day is beside me. But Noel always wanted kids, and that thought makes me pause.

The smile on her face the day she told me.

The tears that followed as I shattered her.

She would be a wonderful mother, this I know, which is why it surprised me that she’s not already married with two point five kids. Why the fuck hasn’t some jackass already claimed her as his own and given her the family she so rightfully deserves?

Maybe because it was always you who fit into that picture?

Simmer down, brain.

Stupid subconscious.

I take a seat in the big chair and wait for the first child to come forward. It’s a little boy with a wide smile and no front teeth. I can’t help but grin back at him. “Hello,” I say as he climbs up on my lap.

“Hi.”

“And what is your name?”

“Deacon.”

“Deacon, it’s nice to see you. Have you been a good boy this year?” Instead of giving me the standard ‘yes’ answer, the little boy shakes his head. “You haven’t?” I ask, stunned.

“No. My mom has been with my sister, Diara, at the hospital. I didn’t clean my room the way I was supposed to,” the small boy says, whispering so only we can hear.

“You didn’t?” I ask, dumbly, because what the hell else am I supposed to say?

He shakes his head again, the sadness very evident in his light green eyes. “I was sad.”

“Why were you sad?” I find myself asking, even though my gut tells me I won’t like what I hear.

“My sister is sick and I miss her. She can’t come home from the hospital until she gets better.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Deacon,” I say, stumbling around like an idiot. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Panic starts to set in that I’m going to fuck up this child’s life forever, when I feel a presence beside me.

“Hi, Deacon,” Noel whispers, smiling sweetly as she kneels beside us. “I hear your sister has been sick.” He nods his head, as transfixed on those magnificent blue eyes as I am. “Well, I’m sure that’s very difficult for her, your mom, and you.” Again, he nods his head. “It’s okay to be sad when someone you love is sick. That just means that you care a lot about them and want to see them healthy and well.”

Noel reaches forward and takes the small boy’s hand. “I’ll tell you what. We’re more than willing to overlook the whole room-cleaning thing if you promise to keep loving and being there for your mom and sister. It’s not easy on anyone, but as long as you have each other, that’s all that matters. Okay?”

Deacon’s bright green eyes shine with excitement and unshed tears. Hell, even my own throat tightens and tears burn the backs of my eyes. He nods enthusiastically, which earns another heart-stopping smile from Noel.

“Here,” she says, handing me a wrapped gift from the bag beside me.

Clearing my throat, I take the present and hand it to Deacon. “Mrs. Claus is right. Be sure you give your mom extra hugs, and do what you can to help her out. As long as you try, that’s all we ask.”

“Thank you, Santa. I promise I’ll try,” he says moments before throwing both arms around my neck and squeezing. I’m stunned, but find myself wrapping my arms around the boy and returning the gesture.

When he jumps down and returns to the older woman who brought him, a huge boulder seems to lift from my chest. There’s no time to collect my thoughts because the next kid in line is grinning from ear to ear, anxiously waiting his turn. Before he makes his way to my lap, I turn quickly to Noel.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t answer, the smile on her face doesn’t falter, but I see the gentle rise of her eyebrow. “For helping with the kid. I didn’t know what to say, but you did.” She opens her mouth to reply, but my attention is quickly drawn away when I feel the tug of my red velvet pants.

The next hour continues the same: child sits on my lap, asks for something completely outrageous, Noel hands me a present, and we send them on their way with a little extra holiday cheer. Most of the kids are energetic and grateful, while a few are forlorn and standoffish. Those are the ones that Noel has to help me with. I freeze in horror faster than my secretary the time I gave her a fruitcake.

When the clock strikes two, Sheila corrals the kids over towards a big, carpeted area in front of a cushy chair. Noel heads to the front and takes her place in the chair. I’m transfixed at how at ease she appears surrounded by dozens of kids, and frankly, how beautiful she looks. She smiles effortlessly and often while she opens the book, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and starts to read.

Every eye in the place is riveted on her glowing face, taking in the excitement of the moment, the passion in her words. Including me. I’m transfixed, my heart pounds in my chest like a snare drum. I haven’t felt this...alive since the last time she was in my arms. Christmas Eve. Five years ago.

Sheila and another woman start to pass cookies and small cartons of milk to each child. Before I even realize I’m moving, my legs carry me towards them. With my arms loaded with white milk, I walk silently through the room and dispense the snack. When a couple of young children ask for help in opening their drinks, I fumble with the little cardboard, but eventually get them open without ripping them to shreds.

Then, I stand in back and watch.

Watch the way her lips move.

Watch the way the kids react to her words.

Watch the way she engages them with eyes that twinkle like Christmas lights.

And there’s no way I could look away.

I should leave. I should head into the small office where my clothes remain, and get the hell out of this place. My shift is almost done, and I’m not necessarily needed for story time with Mrs. Claus.

But here I am, standing at the back of the room and watching her.

Falling under her spell once again.

I swore I’d never let another woman close, and I guess, you could say I’ve succeeded. For five years, I’ve kept them at a safe distance, while keeping my heart one hundred percent intact.

But this isn’t another woman. This is the woman. The only woman.

And I have no idea what to do next.

So I stand and watch, and wait.

For what? I’m not sure.

And that’s the scariest part of all. Not the kids, though they scare the ever-loving bejesus out of me. No, it’s the fact that I should walk away, but can’t seem to make my legs work.

So I continue to stare.

And for the first time since I walked out of her door, I feel something warm blossom in my chest. It feels a hell of a lot like hope. Instead of turning and walking away, I reach out and grab that hope and hold on tight.

Because it’s always been her.

The Answer Is No

I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

It was unnerving while I read to the children, but I think I hid it well. At least, I hope I did.

Now, I’m taking my sweet time dressing back in to my clothes, carefully hanging the Mrs. Claus outfit back on the hanger. For next Saturday. If I know Brandon as well as I think I do, he dressed unnaturally swiftly and was out the door, probably running towards his car, before I even had my door shut. Yet, I still find myself taking a little extra time redressing, just to ensure he’s long gone before I head out for the day.

Unfortunately, that plan didn’t work.

When I step into the hallway, Brandon’s there, leaning casually against the wall. His well-worn jeans hang low on his hips in that annoyingly delicious way that I used to crave. A snug polo shirt molds beautifully to his toned arms and his large feet are stuffed into a pair of brown leather shoes. He looks completely edible, which ruffles my garland in annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to mask the irritation.

“Waiting on you.”

“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive gesture.

He shrugs his shoulders casually, which just annoys me that much more. “You did great out there,” he says, taking a step away from the wall and slowly walking towards me.

“Thanks.” I should probably return the compliment, but I don’t like him, remember? Brandon smiles a knowing grin at me, and it makes my heart beat just a little bit faster. It also makes me forget that I don’t like him.

“Need a ride?” he offers, his scent wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It’s cozy and familiar and makes me want to snuggle in all nice and tight.

Shaking my head, I latch onto that lingering loathing I feel for this man and give him my answer. “No. I have a car.”

“Okay,” he says casually, shrugging those broad shoulders once more. “Thought I’d offer.”

“Well, thank you...but no thank you.” My words are tight and my movements jerky. I throw my bag over my shoulder and head towards the door. There’s no need to bid him farewell, because he has already fallen in line beside me. And my chest fills with something I don’t want to dissect.

Outside, the late November air is brisk as I make my way towards my car, Brandon still keeping pace beside me. When I get to my vehicle, I dig my keys out of my bag and unlock the driver’s door. There’s this uncomfortable silence that settles between us. I want to just jump in my car and tear from the parking spot like a NASCAR driver pulling from pit road. Am I supposed to say something?

“Well, I guess I’ll see you next weekend,” he says, grabbing my door and opening it widely for me.

“Yes, thanks to you,” I bite.

He smiles down at me, one of those charming, panty-melting smiles that I long to forget. “Yes, well, I won’t apologize for that. I mean, the center is going to get a nice donation for your volunteer work.”

“Volunteer work that I was blackmailed into doing. Again, thanks to you.” I give him my best side-eyed glare as I slip into the seat and reach for the door. But it doesn’t budge. Brandon holds it firmly in his grip, keeping me from shutting him out.

“Again, I’m not sorry.” He turns and looks off to the right, as if he’s thinking of what to do or say. “Anyway, I’ll see you soon, No. Drive safe,” he adds. And with a gentle hand slap to the roof of my car, he lets go of my door and steps back.

I’m left in my car, surrounded by silence, and replaying the way my old nickname rolled off his tongue. No one has ever called me No. Only Brandon. A single tear slips from my eye, unchecked, as I start my car. A blast of cold air hits me, but that’s not what chills me to the bone. Memories of what used to be, parade through my mind. Happy memories. Until it just stopped. Those memories, the happiness, were replaced with something life-changing. A deep sadness that I would carry with me for the years that followed.

I don’t even realize that I’m still sitting there until he knocks on the window. There isn’t any time to hide the sadness, the tears, before I turn his way. But, I’m in no way prepared for the look of anguish reflected in his own eyes as he stares down at me. The pain in my chest intensifies, consumes me and drags me under the water.

Torn between hating him and still wanting him to hold me is a horrible place to be. Part of me instructs to wipe my tears and move on, while the other part pleads with me to open the door. The anger I’ve held onto mixes with confusion, and leaves me unable to breathe.

Brandon must sense that I’m two seconds away from cracking into a ball of woman-emotions, complete with ugly crying and hysterical blubbering, and gives me a small smile. It’s a sad smile that only intensifies my own misery.

Instead of saying words (words that I don’t think I want to hear), he offers me a wave. Then, he takes a step back, followed by another. Before I know it, he’s walking away, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his head hanging low. It’s an image I’ve seen before. It’s burned into my memory.

So I grab onto that memory, put my car in reverse, and head towards my place. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll forget all about that gorgeous boyish smile and those sparkling hazel eyes.

Something tells me I’m not that fortunate.

“And then...then he just wrapped his arms around my waist and practically pulled me back against his body. Like he just...could.” My breathing is labored, my tone terse, as I grip the string of lights in my hands like I’m strangling it.

When my best friend since grade school, Stephanie, doesn’t answer, I turn towards the mess on my couch and to where she’s sitting.

“What?” I ask, hands on my hips and trying to ignore the way her shocked expression makes me squirm.

“You. Why don’t you just admit you still like him?” Steph asks, a little smile playing on the corners of her lips like she has a secret.

“What? I don’t like him! At all. He’s arrogant and impossible and a jerk and just...mean.” My voice dips to almost inaudible on the last word.

“Yes, Brandon Frost is all of those things.” Just when I go to say something else, she adds, “But you still love him.”

And she sucks the wind straight out of my sails.

The Christmas lights in my hand fall to the floor, along with my eyes. The brown carpeting in my living room apartment has seen better days, but I’ve been determined to make the best out of this new place, new job, new town. So why does my path have to cross with the one person who I despise? The one person who knows how to rip my heart out and do the Cha-cha all over the mangled pieces. Well, if Brandon knew how to Cha-cha, which he probably does and does it to professional dance standards, like everything else.

“I do not still love him,” I defend, but it sounds weak, even to my own ears.

“But you don’t really hate him. There’s a fine line between love and hate, sister, and you have been skating that line for years now. I’ve seen you push away perfectly suitable guys in favor of a ghost.”

God, I hate it when she’s right. Blinking back the tears, I turn my attention her way. “I don’t want to still want him, Steph. I don’t want my stupid heart to pound in my chest and my breathing to get all choppy and breathy when he’s near. I want to remember the hurt of him walking away until my heart no longer pounds in my chest and my breathing doesn’t get all weird and remind me of an asthmatic.”

“Maybe it’s time you really let him go. Talk to him. Tell him all the things you wanted to say back then, over the years, but haven’t had the chance. Pour your heart into it, and maybe then, you’ll finally be at peace.”

Peace. That’s something I haven’t had since that fateful Christmas Eve. Sure, I’ve been content, but I’ve been in limbo. I finished my law degree and worked a few years for a small district attorney’s office in my tiny Illinois hometown. I’ve been so focused on not remembering the past that I haven’t been living in the present. I’ve been stuck, stranded.

It’s a horrible place to be.

“You think that will help?” I ask, sitting on the floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and garland.

“It’s worth a shot. I mean, how could it not help? You’d finally get to say all of the things you’ve wanted to say to him for years. Lay it on the line, let him know how bad he hurt you, and then walk away with your head held high and the weight off your chest.”

I could do that. God knows I’ve cursed and yelled at the man almost nightly in my dreams for years. There’s so much I want to say to him, but could it really be that simple? Just let ‘er rip and walk away?

“Fine. I’ll see if he can spare a few minutes next Saturday after our shift. You know, since the bloodsucker blackmailed me into playing a part in his community service,” I say with a gentle shake of my head.

“I have to admit, that’s kinda hot,” Steph surprises me by saying.

“What? Hot?”

“Yeah, you know, the whole Santa fantasy?” she adds, her eyes as bright and shining as the garland in her hand.

“Uh, no. What Santa fantasy?” Knowing that this is going to be somewhat entertaining, I get up and finish stringing the extra lights. You know, because those pre-lit trees really don’t have quite enough.

I had started to set up my tree last night, but found it hard to concentrate. Then my plan was to do it today, and even get out my grandma’s snow village, but we know how well that went; you know, with having to play Mrs. Claus all afternoon.

“You know, the Santa fantasy. The one where Santa comes home after a long day of making toys with the elves to find Mrs. Claus in the kitchen, bent over the table. Her skirt is hiked up just enough to see a sliver of thigh, which drives the big guy insane.

“He slides his hands between her legs and finds only bare, wet skin. Without even moving, the jolly, fat man has his cock in his hand and is sliding between her thighs. They do it hard and fast right there on the kitchen table.”

I’m stunned silent. My mouth is gaping open, my eyes wide with shock, as I stare at the coy little smile firmly positioned on my best friend’s face. “What? What kinda fantasy is that?”

“Oh, come on, Noel. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a Santa fantasy. Your name means Christmas and is the biggest symbol of the holiday season, for Virgin Mary’s sake. You decorate for the holiday almost immediately after Halloween.” I go to open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “No, don’t start. You do and you know it. The only reason you didn’t this year was because of the move.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve had a Santa fantasy,” I retort lamely.

“Even when Brandon Frost is playing Santa?” she asks, casually organizing the angel ornaments on the couch cushion.

To be honest, I’ve pictured Brandon as the lead in just about every fantasy I’ve had since I was twenty years old, and that includes the ones where I tar and feather his perfectly sculpted naked body and string him up from my daddy’s front oak tree. But that’s because we have history, right? I mean, it’s not like I have any other real relationship experience to base my fantasies on. The first guy I was with right out of high school was... well, he was “quick.” And there has only been one guy since, and he turned out to like Santa more than Mrs. Claus.

So of course Brandon Frost would be the highlight of my dreams. He’s impeccably tone, his skin was the perfect combination of smooth and rough, and the way he played my body, it was as if I was an instrument in his one-man band. One look from those hazel eyes could bring me to my knees and his kisses, well, let’s just say, at one time, I would have readily given up food, water, and air just for one more kiss.

But I hate him.

There’s no going back from the things he said and did.

Maybe Steph is right. Maybe I really need to just tell him how I feel, how bad he hurt me, and then I can walk away. I’ll be able to finally move on with my life instead of being stuck in this funky holding pattern. It’s not like I got to tell him five years ago. It would have been difficult to voice my feelings when all I got was his back quickly hurrying away.

Hating him was easier. Hate filled the void that remained when he left.

I need this. I need to unleash five years’ worth of pent-up frustration and anger, and then I can finally let go, move on.

“No Santa fantasy, Steph. Sorry.” It’s not a lie. I’ve never pictured my ex as Santa. That doesn’t mean I hadn’t enjoyed the bejesus out of the view today. And worse, I probably will have a stupid Santa fantasy now, staring none other than the man I loathe and am trying to forget.

“Too bad. I bet that would be hot,” she grumbles, straightening another string of lights.

Grabbing the last string of lights, I say, “I think you’re right. I need to get a few things off my chest so that I can move on. I’ll talk to him next Saturday, after we’re done at the community center.”

She looks at me from her perch on the couch, her pink painted lips turned in a sad smile. Steph may not have gone to the same college as me, but she knew how crazy I was about Brandon Frost.

She also knew the reason he left.

“So, are you gonna add all this garland to that tree, or what?” she asks, effectively redirecting conversation away from the minefield that is he who shall not be named. “I’m a little worried that it will become a fire hazard with all the lights.”

I give my best friend a warm smile. The silver garland shimmers under the overhead light, brightening up the room, and maybe even my mood. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there is life after Brandon. I’ll say my piece and move on. Should be as easy as it sounds.

“We are. All of it.”

Four Letter Words

The second Saturday proves to be just as busy as the previous one.

The never-ending line of sugared-up kids seems to stretch as far as the eye can see. At least, as far as I can see from inside this auditorium. For every kid that sits on my lap, I swear two more appear at the end of the line.

Mrs. Claus has been right beside me the entire day, tantalizing me with her soft smile and teasing me with her scent. Of course, that smile isn’t directed towards me. Oh no, her smiles are strictly for the kids. I know this because as soon as she sees me watching her, the smile is replaced with a scowl strong enough to make a weaker person shake in their big black Santa boots.

Good thing I’m not a weak man.

And I like a challenge.

At lunch, Noel chooses to sit at a table with kids way on the other side of the cafeteria. Fine. I got this. I know it’ll take some work and a little smooth talkin’ to get her to relax and open up just a bit for me, but I know I can handle it. If anyone’s a smooth talker, it’s me. Why do you think I’m such a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom? I’m a wicked combination of finesse and piranha. I can charm the panties off anyone, usually within a few moments of meeting them. No, not something I’m necessarily proud of, but it’s a skillset I’ve learned to embrace.

But that particular skillset never worked with Noel.

Hell, that’s what attracted me the most to her in school. She had a sharp tongue, a quick-witted mind, and she didn’t fall for any of my lines. She pretty much told me to get lost the very first night I met her. But I discovered something the moment my eyes met her blue ones: Noel Winters owned me.

My heart called to her right there in the middle of the campus library. Sure, I know how much of a douche that makes me sound like, but it’s true. I couldn’t walk away from her in that moment even if I wanted to. Which made it that much more painful in the end, when I did, in fact, walk away.

It was the fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the what-ifs. Fear of myself.

Now, the very thing I ran from is sitting on the other side of the cafeteria, pretending I don’t even exist. I should be happy, right? I did walk away from her, so I should relish in the fact that she doesn’t want to be all chummy and buddy-buddy with me. Yet, a part of me wishes she’d throw me just one more of those amazing smiles, look at me just once more like I was king of the fucking world.

“Excuse me, Santa,” a little boy of about four or five says, pulling me from my thoughts. His eyes are as dark as his midnight hair, and he has a smear of jelly across his chin.

“Yeah?” I ask, completely forgetting my Santa voice.

“I have to use the bathroom,” he whispers, swaying from side-to-side and wringing his hands together.

“Oh, uh, you should definitely go then.”

“I need you to go with me.”

“Can’t little dude. That’s not really my...thing,” I say, glancing around for Sheila or another volunteer for help.

“But she said you would help me,” the boy whispers, his eyes filling with tears. “And I gotta go willy, willy bad.” His swaying because some sort of weird pee-dance that reminds me of my Uncle Ed at my cousin’s wedding.

“Who said I would help you?” I ask, looking for this kid’s mom.

“Mrs. Claus.”

My eyes connect with those hypnotic blue ones across the heads of dozens of kids. She’s fighting laughter and knows she has me by the balls, while this poor little guy is trying not to piss his pants. Awesome.

Not wanting to let her see me squirm, I say, “Let’s go, little dude.”

I’m out of the chair and heading towards the doorway before I can even think about what I’m about to do. I’m so focused on getting from point A to point B that it startles me when I feel the little hand slip inside my much bigger one.  The movement makes my footing falter just a bit, but not enough to really slow me down. Yet, this little guy keeps up with me like a pro.

Inside the empty bathroom, I step over to the corner to give him a little privacy. Instead of heading towards the urinal, the boy goes to the first stall. I hear him working at his pants, and just pray he doesn’t need my help.

After a few moments, it’s finally quiet.

“Santa?”

“Yeah?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“I gotta poop,” he whispers.

“Poop?” Shit.

“And I can’t go when it’s quiet. Can you sing to me?”

“Sing to you? While you poop?”

“Pwease!?” he begs, drawing out the word. “My mom sings to me when I poop.”

“Fine, little man, but you must promise to never speak of this again. I mean it, all right?”

“‘Kay!”

And so that’s why I’m singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” in the john to a five-year-old. No, not exactly a Christmas song, or whatever they’re called, but it was the first thing I could think of. And there’s something about this situation that calls for a little Queen, okay?

“You don’t sound like Santa,” he finally says as he comes out of the stall and walks over to the sink to wash his hands.

“No?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Nope. You sound like Tyler’s dad. He’s a fireman. Are you a fireman?”

“Nope,” I answer while I hand him a paper towel and head towards the door.

“Can I drive the sleigh?” he asks, drying off his hands.

“No way.”

“Do you and Mrs. Claus have kids?”

The question stops me in my tracks. I feel the cool handle against my palm, but I hear nothing but the swooshing of my own blood in my ears. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing right either, as I glance over and look down at the boy. His eyes are full of curiosity and laughter. The kind that you only see in the eyes of a child.

“No, little dude. We don’t have kids.” My throat constricts around the words, and the crazy pounding in my chest is replaced by sharp pain. It feels like a dozen knives are stabbing me, and it’s a familiar hurt. It feels exactly the same as it did five years ago.

“Huh,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“We have the, uh...” I say, stumbling around for the right word.

“Elves?”

“Yep, we have elves. Lots of little big eared, big shoed, short and plump little elves,” I confirm, nodding my head.

“I wanted a hamster for Christmas last year, but got a baby brother. I didn’t want a brother. He takes my toys and slobbers on them.”

“Man, that sucks.”

Instead of calling me on my language, the little dude just nods his head. “My name’s Drew.”

“Mine’s...Santa.”

“I know,” he says with a big smile before pulling the door open and disappearing down the hallway.

I stand in the bathroom for a few more moments, replaying the past ten minutes. Suddenly, I find myself laughing. BS Brandon (that’s Before Santa) wouldn’t have been caught dead in a public bathroom with a child, let alone singing to him while he did his deed in the stall on the other side of the room. It’s like I’m trapped in some alternative universe where kids rule the world, and we adults are just trying to get through the day.

So this is what parenthood is like, huh?

Instead of letting myself think too hard on the craziness that just transpired, I head out of the john to get ready for my next Santa duty. I’m still smiling, and for some wild reason, chuckling, as I step into the hallway and come face-to-face with the Mrs.

I mean Claus.

Not my Mrs.

You know what I mean.

Anyway, she’s there, probably ready to rub my nose in the fact that I failed at the whole bathroom situation. When she sees my smile, hears my laughter, her own grin falters on her gorgeous face. She was probably waiting there, camera ready, for me to come running from the bathroom screaming. And you know what? Not that long ago, that’s exactly what would have happened. But since I’m living in some crazy new reality world where the thought of being surrounded by kids all day doesn’t quite seem like a death sentence, well, I find myself embracing the situation just a little bit.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, her lush lips painted a subtle shade of pink.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” she asks, her eyebrows shooting skyward.

“Nope. Not a thing,” I say, stopping directly in front of her and crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes slowly lower down my face and stop on my chest. Without even looking, I know the red suit is pulled taut across my arms and chest. Her eyes flare with something dark (and preferably dirty) as she stares her fill. My Noel was always an arms girl. Not that I had big guns in school, but I had enough definition to drive her wild. She used to love caressing and kissing my arms with soft lips and the bite of her fingernails.

I’m hard at the thought.

I continue to stare at her face while she openly appreciates the fine definition God gave me. I make sure to keep my eyes locked on her so that when she finally realizes what she’s doing, she’ll know I totally busted her perusal.  It’s quite entertaining to watch, mostly because it’s a pleasant reminder that even though she hates my guts and wants to light them on fire (while they’re still inside my body), she’s still undeniably attracted to me.

Her eyes finally glance up at my face.

That sexy little mouth of hers drops open.

Those ocean blue eyes widen in shock.

And cue her blush in three...two...one...

“See something you like, Miss Winters?” I ask, giving her a cocky grin.

“Absolutely not,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. Oh, that gloriously beautiful chest.

“Oh, come on, No. You don’t have to be shy around me,” I tease.

“Shy around you? When have I ever been shy around you?” she scoffs.

“I do recall you blushing a gorgeous shade of pink the night I finally got you naked and in my bed.” Yep. I went there.

“I can’t believe you said that!” she seethes between gritted teeth.

“Oh, believe it, baby.”

“You know what? Uhhhhh!” she practically screams.

Stepping closer, I invade her personal space and catch the slightest whiff of her perfume. “You can admit it. You want me.”

“Not today, Satan,” she growls.

“It’s Santa.”

“Same letters. You’re definitely more Satan than Santa.”

The corners of my lips curl upward, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. If I thought sexy Mrs. Claus was hot, then pissed off sexy Mrs. Claus is downright smoldering.

Before I can do something stupid like ask her out, or better yet, throw her over my shoulder and take her into the office and have my way with her, she turns on her sparkly high heels and storms down the hall and towards the auditorium.

My boot-covered feet follow, though they’ve never felt lighter than they do right now. Even dressed as this ridiculous fictional character, I can’t help but smile a little more and move a little easier.

Because one thing I recall is that Noel was always the most passionate about the things she cared the most for.

No, I’m not saying she’s still in love with me, but I think she’s hiding behind her tough exterior and her snarky words. And getting past that side of Noel is going to be a challenge...and probably the most fun I’ve had in at least five years.

I barely get the thick red jacket off when my cell phone starts ringing from the pocket of the leather bomber I wore this morning. What I’m not expecting is to see the office number on the screen of said phone. My secretary knows where I am, so to see the number is telling.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Frost. I’m sorry to bother you while you’re serving the public,” Lisa says. And by serving the public, she means serving my joke of a sentence.

“Not a problem, Lisa. I was just wrapping up. What’s up?”

“It’s Mr. Henderson. He called from lock-up again. Left multiple messages with the answering service that he needs you.”

Instantly, I rub my temples and sigh deeply. Mr. Henderson is a frequent flyer, as we like to joke around the office, when it comes to my defense services. Not because I’m the best (even though I am), but because I’m the only one who will put up with him. He’s worked with several attorneys in his seventy-two years on this earth.

“What did he do now?”

“It’s a doozy. I believe the charges include indecent exposure, one count of reckless discharge of a firearm, and DWI.”

“I don’t even want to know what all of those things have in common,” I mumble.

“He was riding a bike.”

“Naked?”

“Allegedly.”

“Remind me, again, why I went into defense law?” I grumble, making my secretary of four years chuckle. “It’s Saturday. What are you doing in the office?”

“When the answering service was unable to get a hold of you, they called me.”

“I’m sorry to have messed up your day off,” I tell her. Lord knows when the last time I actually had a day off was. “Text me the details. I’ll head over to meet him.”

“Sending now. I’ve included information about his bond hearing.”

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for my clothes before hanging up the phone.

I had plans to try to persuade Noel into accompanying me to dinner tonight, but now I can see those plans have been put on hold. As much as I’d rather spend time with her, while not being surrounded by screaming kids, it’s not in the cards. When a client calls, it’s my duty to answer. Or in this case, go get my frisky client out of the slammer for the third time this year.

Unfortunately, Noel and her sexy little body will have to wait.

He Remembers

I dressed in my street clothes as quickly as I could and headed out into the hallway to wait for Brandon. There were many things I had to say, and the more I delayed, the more worked up I was getting. I needed to tell him how much he hurt me. I’ve held onto five years’ worth of anger and frustration and pain, and I’m starting to think that Steph is right. The only way to move forward was to face my past so I could move on.

It was time.

I was in the hall for almost fifteen minutes when Sheila stepped into view. “Are you waiting for me?” she asks, that friendly smile ever-present on her face.

“Umm, actually, I was waiting for Brandon.”

“Well, I’m afraid you missed him. He slipped out rather quickly today.”

“Oh,” I whispered, feeling defeated.

“I’ll see you next Saturday, right?” she asks, hopefulness blazing in her eyes.

“I’ll be here.”

“Good,” she says before stepping inside the office where Brandon has been getting ready. When she returns a few moments later, she has the Santa uniform in her hands. It’s crazy, but even across the hall, his scent reaches me, teasing me with its familiarity and warmth.

Without saying anything else, I head towards the exit and out into the late December night. There’s a chill in the air that almost steals my breath, as I make my way to my car. My mind keeps replaying pieces of the day, especially the part where Brandon took little Drew to the bathroom. I knew I was pushing it when I told Drew that Santa would go with him, but I needed that internal laugh. I needed the reminder that big bad Brandon Frost was, in fact, very human.

A human who hated kids.

What I wasn’t prepared for was them to both be smiling when they came out of the bathroom. Brandon didn’t seem put out in the least. In fact, he was laughing. That makes me wonder if my assessment of him is wrong. Maybe five years was enough to change a man like Brandon Frost.

And maybe elves are real.

I laugh humorlessly as I slip into my cold car and crank up the heat. No, there’s no way a man like him could change. At least, not in the way I always wanted him to. After our breakup, I spent about a year wishing for that mysterious knock on my door, telling me he was so sorry and wrong, that he couldn’t live without me. And telling me that what I wanted for my future was exactly what he wanted too.

But that knock never came.

So that hope and longing turned into resentment. Realization that two people who loved each other with their entire heart still couldn’t meet on common ground was a bitter pill to swallow. He didn’t want what I wanted, and in the end, I wasn’t willing to give it all up for him.

Even though I almost did.

No, things happen the way they’re supposed to, right?

It was better that I learned who the real Brandon Frost was back then. Heaven knows it would have killed me to discover it when it was too late and there was no going back. Maybe him walking away was a blessing. He obviously couldn’t give me what I wanted, even though he had always sworn he could.

It wasn’t a lie, not really. He didn’t know. Or maybe he did and wasn’t sure how to deal with it, until it slapped him upside the head and there was no option other than to face it, say it. Or not say anything. Lord knows so much was said when he didn’t even really say much at all. It was his eyes. His eyes gave him away. The man had no ticks, no tells, showed no signs of what he was thinking, but in that moment, I saw everything. And none of it was good.

It’s time to let go. 

The week passes by quickly. Then another. Before I know it, we’re nearing the last weekend before Christmas.

My time is spent in the office, which is located on the second floor of the courthouse, or in one of the first floor courtrooms. After my successful outcome against Brandon, the DA gave me a handful of additional cases to try. Each one a little trickier than the last. I find myself putting in a few extra hours at night, just to prove to my boss, and maybe even myself, that I can handle the workload.

I haven’t seen much of Brandon, except while we’re at the community center. And even then, he splits as soon as our shift is over. He’s working a few big cases that bring him to our offices, but the DA is prosecuting them himself. He always takes the big cases; the ones that will give him the most glory and paint him as the hero.

Work, work, work. That’s why I choose to finally head home on this particular Friday night, instead of going with Steph to a small club she loves to frequent. The music is loud and the drinks expensive, which helps keep the younger crowd from taking it over. She has gotten me there once, right after I moved here, but I haven’t been too excited to go back.

On my way home from the office, I stop at a strip mall for some Chinese takeout. I’ve been here several times, stopping and grabbing my favorite fried rice and teriyaki shrimp before heading home to get lost in a case file. But tonight, as I pull into the familiar parking lot, I find myself walking towards the Barnes & Noble. Even though I do most of my reading on my tablet, there’s just something amazing about holding a paperback in your hand. It’s been so long since I’ve read anything for pure enjoyment, and not pertaining to work, but I think that’s why I’m smiling warmly as I slip inside the large book outlet in search of something mysterious and steamy.

I generally gravitate towards Lisa Gardner or James Patterson when it comes to my mysteries, but not tonight. This evening, I find myself needing something a little sexier. I’m sure it has to do with the fact that my hormones are all sorts of crazy since the start of my little Saturday run-ins with the devil.

I have tunnel vision as I make my way over to the romance section. It’s weird being in this particular area of the bookstore, but I’m determined to grab something packed with mystery with a side of love story. A few of the titles catch my eye, but if I were judging by the mostly naked man on the cover and the suggestiveness of the title, I’d say they are light on the mystery and heavy on the romance.

And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad either...

Finally, I find a small section of romantic mystery books. I pay no attention to the author or cover, but flip over the book and read the synopsis on the back first. I want a book that draws me in immediately, just by reading a handful of sentences about the book, not by the gorgeous guy gracing the cover.

Within a few minutes, I have two books that have my complete attention. One is about former lovers who are thrown back together when the heroine finds herself in trouble. Of course, the hero is the only one who can protect her. The second book is a murder mystery where the main suspect and one of the detectives investigating appear to be unable to stay away from each other. Both look really good.

“I’d go with the left one. I mean, I’m all for former loves finding their way back to each other,” a husky voice says softly over my shoulder.

“Then I’ll go with the right,” I quip, keeping both books in my hands and slowly turning to face the man I loathe.

“Suit yourself. Either way, it looks like the heroine is gonna get some.” Brandon winks once and the corner of his lip slowly curls upward in that sexy way I remember.

“Anyway,” I start, slowly walking towards the cashier, “It was nice to see you again.”

“And to think, you’ll get to see me again tomorrow. All day long.” Again, he grins.

“Lucky me,” I mumble, giving him my back and standing in line to check out.

“So, no big date?” he asks, completely ignoring the cold shoulder I’m giving him and standing beside me.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I’ve been working long hours this week and turned down an invitation to go out tonight in favor of heading home and relaxing with a book,” I reply, grabbing my credit card from my wallet and setting my books on the counter.

“Naked relaxing?” he whispers. His breath fans against my ear and sends shivers down my spine.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I retort, paying for my books.

“Actually, I would. I recall several instances of naked studying.”

Rolling my eyes, I sign my receipt and grab my bag before heading towards the door. I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to know that he’s following behind me. It’s like my spidey sense is tingling.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, turning on the sidewalk and heading towards the Chinese restaurant next door.

“Nope,” he says, holding up his own Barnes & Noble bag. “I was planning to do a little reading this evening.”

Stopping on the sidewalk, I turn and face him. “Reading? What kind of reading?” I ask, slightly curious as to what types of books Brandon reads. Instead of answering with words, he holds open his bag. Glancing down, I see three books. The one on top is a biography on William Shatner, which doesn’t surprise me in the least, since he’s a closet Star Trek geek. The second book is a historical novel about Wyatt Earp and his brothers, but it’s the third book that has all of my attention.

Reaching into his bag, I grab the copy of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. It’s a newer children’s edition with large pictures and big print. Without even realizing it, I open up the book to the first page and absently touch the photo. Suddenly, the words are flowing from my lips without reading them. I know this book by heart. It was always my favorite growing up, and I recall my mom reading it every Christmas Eve to me before bed.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. Glancing down, I had turned the page of my favorite storybook. Quickly, I close the book and slide it back into his bag, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.

“Don’t be. I see it’s still a favorite,” he says softly, reminding me of the way he used to talk to me...right before he kissed me silly.

“It is.” Clearing my throat, I glance up into his startling eyes. They’re focused intently on me, and I swear he can see directly into my soul.

Clearing his own throat, he says, “Listen, I was just about to grab some dinner. Do you want to join me?”

My heart speeds up, but I’m not sure if it’s from excitement or something else. I shouldn’t want to go to dinner with him, but here I am, faintly ecstatic that he offered. Of course, there’s no way I can go. Sure, there are many things I need to say to him, but I don’t need to do it in a crowded restaurant. For all intents and purposes, I could invite him back to my place – so we could have the talk – but I don’t think that’s a wise decision either. The thought of Brandon Frost being in my personal space again is doing things to my body that would surely land me on the Naughty List.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, lacking any conviction at all.

“Probably not, but it beats the hell out of eating dinner alone. And it would give us a chance to catch up. You know, two old friends talking about what’s happened in our lives and all that.”

And as if I were just doused with a bucket of cold water, his words permeate the fog that he creates.

Friends.

Brandon isn’t asking me out. He’s being polite. Obviously, he doesn’t have a date, which must be rare for a man like him. In fact, he’s so unused to the fact that he’s alone this evening that he’s willing to ask his old girlfriend, the one who hates his guts and sentenced him to community service doing the one thing he hates in this world, to hang out with him for a bit. I don’t know who I pity more: him or me.

Me. Definitely me.

Because I was actually considering it.

“Actually, I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Where?” he challenges.

“Nowhere.”

“Are you blowing me off, No?” he asks, stepping forward and invading my personal space once more.

“No, I just don’t think that us getting together to reminisce is that great of an idea. We ended for a reason, right? No need to pretend to be interested in what the other’s been up to. If that were the case, one of us would have contacted the other way before now.”

Brandon nods his head slowly, the slightest sadness filling his hazel eyes. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.  I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, the words getting stuck in my throat for some crazy reason.

“Tomorrow,” he confirms, stepping aside and allowing me to pass.

I don’t head to the Chinese restaurant for food, but instead slide into my car and drive home on autopilot. Even the constant Christmas carols do nothing to pick up my dark mood.

Why pretend we’re friends? We’re not friends. We’re not anything. We’re two people who used to love each other as if we were the only two people in the world. We used to wrap ourselves in each other’s arms. We used to give each other our hearts, and bodies. Two people who had it all, only to lose it just as quickly.

Now, we’re two strangers.

And I’ve never felt so alone.

Sleepless Nights & Red Lace

I didn’t sleep for shit.

Not a wink.

I kept replaying her words over and over until I was ready to throw punches and chase them with whiskey. Of all the words she’s said over the last few weeks, nothing has stuck with me like these.

One of us would have contacted the other way before now.

If she only knew how many times I picked up the phone, only to put it back down again without letting the call connect. Or how about the times I stood on the opposite side of her apartment door, my hand raised and ready to knock, just to realize she was better off without me.

Only...what if she wasn’t?

Having her here, in Springfield, is doing a number on me. I should let her be, move on with my life, but you know what? I. Can’t. My heart remembers every beat, my fingers recall every touch, my mind recollects every moment we were together. And even though I should walk away, I fucking can’t.

I won’t.

Not this time.

This time, things will be different. This time around, I won’t walk away. I won’t lie to her, because when I told her I didn’t want what she wanted, that was a lie. Because I wanted her. Her dreams, her happiness, her future. I wanted that, and yet I let it go.

But that stops today.

I’ll start with an apology. An apology that is five fucking years too late. I’ll erase every bit of hurt that clouds her blue eyes and replace it with laughter. That’s my purpose in this world. I realized it at three a.m. this morning when I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop thinking about her. Even when Coletta showed up at my door last night, wanting the one thing I’ve always been able to offer without messy strings, I thought of Noel. That’s why I politely declined and sent her on her way.

My Noel.

It’s time to man the fuck up and fight. Even if the end result is her walking away, unable to forgive me, I will fight. Because sometimes in life, that’s all you have. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down or walk away like the asshole I was before.

It’s time to fight for my girl.

I’m early when I arrive at the community center on Saturday morning. Not only do I have a tall, very strong, very black coffee from the local coffee house, but I have one of those frothy girly minty drinks with candy cane sprinkles on the top. It’s right up her alley.

When she finally arrives a few minutes late, she appears just as tired as me. “Long night?” I ask, smiling as I extend the hand holding her fancy coffee beverage.

“Uhhh, I stayed up way too late reading the book. But it just got so good, and I kept telling myself one more chapter. Next thing I knew, it was three a.m. and the book was finished.” She doesn’t even fight it, just takes the drink in both hands and swallows. Then she smiles...and moans. She fucking moans loud enough that my dick hears, waking up from my self-imposed hibernation, and standing painfully at attention in my jeans.

“Uhhhh, which one?”

“Which one?”

“Books. Which one did you read?” I ask, walking beside her as we make our way to the offices we’re using as dressing rooms.

Noel glances down at her drink, but I can still see the blush that creeps up her cheeks. “The old flames one.”

“Ahhh, yes. The former lovers who find themselves thrown into an impossible situation, which essentially rekindles their love.”

“You’ve read it?” she asks, her eyebrows arching and disappearing behind wayward loose blonde curls.

“No, but I got the gist of it from the back cover.”

Noel stops outside the door she’s been changing in, and part of me (the part that’s just south of the belt) wants to accompany her inside. “Thank you for this. I love peppermint.”

“I know,” I say, leaning forward and inhaling. (Her perfume, not the peppermint.) “I remember.”

Her ocean blue eyes hold mine for several heartbeats and I start to wonder if she’s going to say something. Too quickly, the connection is broken and she slips inside the room. But before the door closes completely, our gazes connect once more and I feel it clear down to my toes. Her smile is timid, but there nonetheless.

Hope buds in my chest.

When the door finally closes, I head into the office to change. The suit is regularly dry cleaned, which I’m more than grateful for. I’ve had more pee and drool on me in the last few weeks than I have in my entire life. Yet it doesn’t freak me out the way it normally does. Instead, I smile as I slip into the freshly cleaned suit, transforming myself into the big guy from the North Pole.

And all I can think about is Mrs. Claus...

I’ll call it progress that Mrs. Claus sat at the same table as I did during the luncheon. I mean, even if she was at the other end of the long eight-foot table, at least she didn’t sit across the room, throwing hateful subliminal messaging through the air, disguising them as Christmas carols.

We’ve been going for about fifteen minutes when little Johnny comes up and climbs on my lap. He’s a weird shade of gray, with bright pink cheeks, and his appearance has me a little concerned. I’m not in tune with the particulars of a sick kid, but red warning flags are waving.

“Are you okay, little dude?” I ask, again, completely forgetting my Santa voice.

Instead of answering, the boy gives me a short little head nod. I mean, it could be that he’s just overly excited to be here, but something tells me that’s not the case. Noel must sense my worry, and steps forward and crouches down beside the little guy.

“Hi, there. My name is Mrs. Claus. What’s yours?”

“Johnny.”

“Johnny, are you feeling alright today? Does your belly hurt?” she asks, reaching forward and placing her hand on his forehead in what I would consider a motherly way.

Little Johnny nods his head, and before anyone can say anything else, the little puker vomits all over the front of Mrs. Claus’s dress. “Holy shit!” I exclaim, surprised that such a large amount of brown nastiness could spew from such a little body.

“Oh no!” a woman exclaims, rushing forward and grabbing the little boy from my lap. “I can’t believe you said that!” she scolds, her heated eyes turned directly at me. Of course she’d focus on my little slip of the tongue, and not the fact that her son just upchucked all over my wife.

Well, not wife...

You know what I mean.

“I can’t believe you brought a sick kid to visit Santa,” I retort, angry at the situation, yet embarrassingly glad it was Noel who was vomited on and not me. Yes, I know, I’m totally a Scroogey douche, but I don’t do vomit, okay?

I instantly stand up to help Noel, but am struck silent when I realize that, despite being covered in kid puke, she’s gazing at the little guy and offering a warm smile. “It’s okay, Johnny. Go home and get some rest so you’re feeling better for Christmas on Tuesday. I hope your tummy feels better soon,” she says softly. I’m reminded of how much of a genuinely amazing person Noel Winters is. Instead of lashing out like me, she embraces the situation, and still smiles.

“There’s another costume in the closet in your room. Why don’t you go get cleaned up quickly, and we’ll work on the mess here,” Sheila whispers, suddenly at my side with towels and a bottle of some sort of magic puke cleaner.

I stand back while the volunteers get to work on tidying up the Santa area. There’s not much I can do, so I opt to take a few moments to go check on Noel. It doesn’t take me long to make it to the room she has been getting ready in. I throw a quick knock on the door, and without waiting for a reply, push it open and enter.

And stop dead in my tracks.

Noel’s very wide, very blue eyes are staring straight at me, her mouth hanging open. She may even be talking to me (or yelling), but all I see is the vision in red. No, not the Mrs. Claus costume she had been wearing, but what she has been apparently hiding beneath it! Red lace, and very little of it. My tongue is dangling from my mouth, and I’m pretty sure I’m drooling. My Noel is standing before me, wearing a tiny little red bra and panty set, that I’m pretty sure I’m going to be jacking off to memories of, later this evening.

“Get out,” she demands, probably not for the first time.

“I can’t. My legs won’t work,” I whisper honestly, my eyes feasting on the smooth skin all the way down to her toes.

“You’re such a man,” she says, drawing my attention back up to her face where I catch her rolling her eyes. It’s then that I really get a good look at the woman she has become. The gorgeous, flawless, beautiful woman I let go.

“Definitely a man,” I confirm, offering her a small smile. Clearing my throat, I do everything I can not to glance back down at her sinful body. “Do you need anything?” I ask, keeping my eyes trained on her face.

Don’t look down...don’t look down.

“You mean besides you to leave this room? Which apparently, you’re not doing because I’ve asked you three times and you’ve acted like you didn’t hear me. So if you’re going to stay in here, at least grab the new dress from the closet,” she quips before turning and walking over to the small sink.

And, that’s when I get a glimpse of her ass. Oh sweet mother of Christmas spirit, she’s wearing a thong. A beautiful little scrap of red lace that disappears between the globes of her amazing ass cheeks.

“Stop looking at my ass and get me the dress, Satan,” she demands before turning on the water, and washing her hands and arms.

Being the total guy that I am, I manage to keep my eyes glued to her ass while retrieving the other Mrs. Claus dress from the closet, and it’s a sight I’ll remember until my deathbed. If the front view was totally spank-bank material, the back view is downright deadly. Her ass is perfection.

With the new dress in hand, I head over to the sink; towards the half-naked woman who I wouldn’t mind seeing completely nude. But I keep my eyes focused on her reflection as I step up behind her. I’m close enough to touch, and my fingers are tingling like a man who was just shocked by faulty Christmas lights.

When her eyes meet mine in the mirror, her breathing halts and her eyes dilate. My front is so close to her back that my hard-on could reach out and touch her. And damn, does it want to do just that.

Our gazes remain locked for what feels like an hour. I’m lost in the lustful haze clouding her eyes, staring at the only woman I’ve ever loved. The woman I lost.

But not anymore.

Not if I can help it.

She turns to face me, mouth opening to speak, when I do the only thing I can think of, the one thing I’ve wanted to do for weeks. I kiss her.

My lips practically rejoice as they connect with hers for the first time in too damn long. Noel is clearly shocked, but it only takes her a moment to catch up. Her lips start to move, following along in the gentle slow dance of the kiss. Oh, this perfectly amazing fucking kiss. She tastes exactly as I remember as her warm, soft lips move in sync with my own.

And when my tongue slides into her mouth and tangles with her own?

Fucking heaven.

I wrap my hands around her waist, savoring the feel of her smooth, velvety skin. She steps closer, or I give her a little tug, I’m not sure, but when our bodies collide, I’m lost. Lost in the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of her. I’m consumed in the best possible way.

Noel’s hands slide from my neck up and into my hair. My body responds exactly as it used to every time she did the exact same thing. She tugs gently on the locks fisted in her hands, while our mouths duel for control. My No was always a possessive and feisty little thing, that fact very much still evident in the way she kisses.

She pulls my hair and I can’t control the groan of pure ecstasy that slips from my mouth. My hands tighten around her waist before slowly traveling southbound to where that little scrap of red covers her sweet pussy. It’s like an electric shock to my system when my fingers slide along the top of those panties. I don’t wait long before they dip inside and come in contact with wet skin.

“Jesus, No,” I groan, ready to drive my fingers into her wetness.

But her body tenses, and not in the good way.

As if a cold bucket of ice water was dumped on us, she pulls back, breaking the connection of our lips. When I open my eyes, it bothers me to find hers so wide with shock. Sure, the lust is still there, but it’s been buried alive by something ugly and hurtful.

Anger.

“What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly.

My brain refuses to work. All I can think about is getting an up close and personal look at the heaven my hand is still touching. You know, the hand that’s still down the front of her red thong?

“This isn’t going to happen,” she bites, pushing me gently on both shoulders and effectively breaking all contact I have with her body.

“Why not?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Because I hate you. Because I want to run you over with Santa’s sleigh. Because I’d rather kiss a Tyrannosaurus Rex who hasn’t eaten in days than you. Those are all the answers I expect, the ones I’m prepared for. I’m not prepared for the one she gives, nor the tears that accompany it.

“Because it hurts too much.” The words are spoken softly, the vulnerability in them noticed. They’re like a reindeer kick to the gut, the head, and the balls...at the same time. It’s the first time I see the slip in armor. She’s been tough, with a lethal tongue, since the moment she stepped into the same courtroom.

But what I see now isn’t toughness. It isn’t stubbornness.

It’s fear. It’s hurt. It’s anguish.

“Can you hand me the dress?” she asks, her eyes trained down on the floor.

Without saying a word, I bend down and collect the red outfit that was haphazardly disregarded the moment my mouth attacked hers. Noel’s eyes remain locked on the ground as she blindly reaches for the dress. She holds it to her chest as if it’s some sort of shield. That action alone makes me feel like an even bigger pile of reindeer crap.

When her eyes finally glance up, it’s another punch to the stomach. The tears remain in her once-bright blue eyes. They’re filled with sadness and so many layers of hurt that it steals my very breath.

Without saying a word, I turn to give her privacy. There are so many things I want to say – no, need to say – but know that this isn’t the time nor place. Everyone out in the auditorium is waiting on us, and even though talking to Noel and apologizing for the damage I had done is a top priority, it’ll have to wait.

At least for another hour and a half.

So instead of saying the things I should, I exit the room to give her space. Even though my arms are begging to hold her once more, I know that there’s one thing that needs to be done before she’ll even consider allowing me to do that one more time.

Apologize.

And pray she’ll eventually be able to forgive me.

Fa La La La La

I’m shaking so badly that I’m not even sure how I get the dress on. My reaction stems from the fact that I’m completely mad at myself right now. I can’t blame Brandon. Even though I’d love to blame him for everything, including the fact that it rained on my birthday last year, but I’m more upset at myself than anyone.

I should have known better.

Brandon with his lethal kisses. Brandon with his sexy lips and smooth talking mouth. Brandon with arms and abs and an ass that make my panties wet and my body hum. He’s always had amazing arms. It was always one of my favorite features, and feeling them wrapped around me once more is doing a little damage to my willpower, not to mention my brain itself.

Shaking my head, I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Plain black flats, modest dress with no sparkly tinsel that hits well below the knees, and flushed cheeks that have nothing to do with playing Mrs. Claus, and everything to do with the mister. This is a completely different Mrs. Claus, but that’s okay. I need to keep the lines from blurring and my lips to myself.

With a decisive nod, I head back to the auditorium, determined to finish this shift. As soon as the clock strikes three, I’m out of here. I’m heading home where I’ll consume a bottle of wine with no food, rendering me completely drunk by five o’clock. Then maybe I’ll pass out and sleep. And hopefully, when the dreams come, they won’t be of a certain Santa, and the way he made my panties melt.

When the clock strikes three, I do exactly as I say I’m going to do. I slip into the office where I’ve been changing, grab my purse and small bag, and slip out into the hallway. Sheila happens to be passing and gives me a look. I’m not exactly proud of the lies I’m about to tell, but I need to create as much space as humanly possible from Brandon, without moving to Timbuktu.

“Everything all right?” she asks, glancing down at the costume I’m still wearing.

“Actually, I’m not feeling so well. If it’s okay with you, I want to get home as quickly as possible. I’ll bring the outfit back on Monday.”

“Of course, of course. Monday’s the big day! Christmas Eve! If you’re still not feeling well by then, give me a call, okay?”

“Will do,” I say as I practically sprint out the door and towards my car.

I don’t even notice how the air is getting colder and frost is already forming on my windshield. In true Illinoisan fashion, I crank up the defrost and turn the wipers on high. As soon as there’s the slightest little hole in the frost, I go ahead and back out. No, not the safest way to drive, but I’m in desperate need of a few miles between me and the devil.

By the time I make it back to my apartment, my windshield is completely clean and the wine is calling me. I’m two minutes away from being able to drink myself stupid, complete with crying fits and man-hating. It’s been a long time since Brandon Frost has brought out this sort of reaction from me, but after that kiss (you know the one where his big hand slipped into my panties), I’m due.

So bring on the wine.

And the Brandon hating.

And the crying.

Because if I know anything about myself, it’s that I don’t hate him. Not even a little. I’m still in love with him. And even though he hurt me and changed the course of my life, I still feel everything good and wonderful when I’m around him. My anger is a mask. It’s camouflage to keep the real reason at bay.

Steph is right.

I don’t really hate him at all.

He’s everything to me.

But I’m not to him.

And that’s what hurts the most.

The loud pounding on the door pulls my attention from the full glass of wine I just poured and was about to consume. Who in the world could that be? I’ve only been home for five seconds, and there’s no reason for a neighbor to knock so aggressively.

Setting my glass down, I mute the upbeat Christmas song I turned on as soon as I got home and head over to the door. I gasp when I see the face staring back at me from the peephole.

“Open up, No. I can hear you breathing.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, making no move to unlock the door.

“I need to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

Oh, yes there is.

“Oh, yes there is,” he demands.

“Fine,” I say, unlocking the deadbolt and twisting the knob. “You have five minutes. I have a date with a bottle of wine,” I add, opening the door. I don’t hang around to greet him properly. Instead, I walk away and return to my glass.

I already know he has joined me in the kitchen. Not only could I hear his heavy footfall on my cheap linoleum floor, but I could smell him. Not in a weird he smells sweaty way, but in that pheromone producing, I want to jump your bones and ride you like a rodeo bull kind of way.

“No.” I cringe at the way the old nickname rolls off his tongue like a beckon, but more so, it almost physically hurts the way my body sways in the direction of his voice.  “Please turn around. I have something to say.”

My hand is shaking so badly that I almost slosh the wine all over my hand, so I opt to set my glass down before turning. When I finally come face-to-face with Brandon, I’m surprised to see him still in full Santa garb. The jacket is open, revealing a tight white tee underneath, and the hat is gone, but otherwise, he still looks the part.

“No,” he starts, those hazel eyes focused completely on me. It’s what I see within them that makes my heart drop to my toes. They’re filled with so much remorse and hurt, nothing like I remember them looking like five years ago. “I owe you an apology.” He glances up and laughs without humor. “No, I take that back. I owe you a hell of a lot more than an apology. I owe you an explanation.”

I’m unable to speak. My heart is practically breakdancing in my chest, and I’m not sure that I’m actually breathing.

“Five years ago, I had everything. I was almost finished with school, I was being scouted by several law firms with offers that promised me the world, I had the woman I loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

I’m not sure when the tears started to fall, but I noticed when they landed on my shaking hands.

“That night,” he starts, struggling to find the right words, “that Christmas Eve, I was blindsided. I was scared. No, terrified. When you came to me and told me you might be pregnant, all I saw was everything I was working for – we were working for – slip away. I said things I never should have said, that I didn’t mean. God, I didn’t mean one fucking word of them, but for some reason, I pushed. I forced you away from me when all you wanted was my love and assurance. I knew that my words had hurt you, yet I couldn’t take them back and I didn’t even try. My childhood wasn’t easy, even with my mom working her ass off to support me, and I just kept thinking that our child deserved better.”

“Better than you?” I whisper, trying to understand his ramblings.

“Yes. That baby deserved better than me. You deserved better than me.”

My throat closes tightly, cutting off my air, but I push through to say the words. “There was no baby.”

His eyes are filled with sadness. “I know.”

“I started my period on Christmas.” He nods. “I was grieving, and suddenly, I went from not having you to not having you and the baby I thought I was pregnant with. I hurt so bad. You hurt me so bad.”

“I know.”

“You walked away. You broke up with me when I needed you the most. You were a coward and were going to leave me alone to raise that baby. You told me you didn’t want to be a dad,” I fire off, heaving those painful words back in his face.

“I know what I said. Hell, I’ve relived that night so many times it’s unhealthy. But here’s the thing, No,” he says, stepping forward and standing directly in front of me. “If I could take it all back, redo that entire night, I would have wrapped my arms around you and smiled along with you when you shared the news. I stripped you of that joy, but I stole it from myself too.

“When I got home that night, I picked up my phone a million times. I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life, and by the next day, when I went to see you to try to make it right, you had left for your parents’.”

I’m transported back to that night where everything went so very bad. The breakup, him walking out the door, me crying all over Stephanie’s lap until I needed to get out of the apartment. I drove to my parents’ house that night instead of Christmas morning, and stayed for two days.

“I called Stephanie.”

“What?” I ask, his words shocking me. Stephanie? She never said a word.

“Christmas night. I was looking for you, so that I could tell you how big of a dumbass I was, how much I loved you, and how much I wanted to be that baby’s father.”

The tears are falling hard now, and he blurs before me.

“She told me. She told me there was no baby and I just felt...lost. Sad. But most of all, I felt angry. Angry at myself for freaking out and walking away from the best thing that ever happened to me when she needed me the most. That’s when I decided that I didn’t deserve you. I didn’t deserve your love if I could so easily throw it back in your face as if you and a possible baby meant nothing.

“But the truth, No? You. Meant. Everything. Everything. And you always will. There is no one else, because it’s always been you. I just realized it too late.”

“What?”

“I was afraid to turn out like the father I didn’t even know, but by walking away, I did exactly that. I’m sorry, Noel. I’m sorry for the shitty way I treated you when I was a young, stupid kid. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused, and the hurt you’ve carried with you. I’m sorry for ever letting you go, for walking away, when all I’ve ever really wanted was you.”

I don’t recall if he moves or if I do, but I know the moment I’m in his arms. I cry as I absorb everything he’s just confessed. His fear of turning out like the man who fathered him, his reasoning for breaking up with me when I told him I thought I was pregnant. I cry for the lost time and the lost love that we could have shared. And most of all, I cry because I know that I’ve already forgiven him. His confession, his words, was like the balm that my broken heart needed to help mend the shattered pieces.

So much time was lost when it wasn’t necessary. All of the hurt and anger that built for years just crumbled at my feet. Hearing those words, words of love and adoration.

“God, how I’ve missed you,” he whispers moments before his lips claim mine in a bruising kiss, filled with passion and longing.

The kiss is fierce and escalates from zero to ho-ho-ohhhhh in less than a second. My hands are in his hair, gripping and tugging on handfuls of thick locks, my tongue is practically shoved down his throat, and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He steps forward and presses me against the counter. His hands are everywhere, my hair, my face, my ass, while his mouth claims and possesses me.

Brandon growls and rips his lips from my own. We’re both breathing erratically as he rests his forehead against mine. “I’ve had dirty visions of you in a Mrs. Claus outfit from the first moment I saw you.”

“Really? So the Santa Claus fantasy is really a thing?”

“Well, I don’t know about Santa, but the Mrs. Claus one is definitely real. All I can think about right now is bending you over the kitchen table and having my wicked way with you,” he pants, nipping at the corner of my mouth.

“That doesn’t sound so bad either.”

“If I’m finally getting you back, I won’t let our first time be against the kitchen table,” he says standing up and taking a half step backwards.

Glancing down, I notice the way his red velvet pants are tented, making my mouth water and my red panties soaking wet.

“Stop looking at me like that or I’ll forget about trying to be a gentleman,” he growls.

Sliding my hands up his chest, gripping the white t-shirt, I reply, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Brandon gives me that little smirk I love. “Ohh, Mrs. Claus is a bad girl. I think someone just got moved to the naughty list,” he says before throwing me over his shoulder and slapping my ass. I yelp as he turns and heads towards my bedroom, making sure the front door is locked on his way.

Inside my room, he gently sets me down on my bed. “This okay?” he asks, looking for reassurance.

“Yes.”

He joins me on the bed, stretching his long body out atop mine. Our lips meet in the middle once more, a kiss that starts slow, but still packs quite a punch. When his tongue slides along the seam of my lips, a shudder rips through my body. I gasp, and Brandon wastes no time taking advantage of my open mouth. The kiss goes from slow and sensual to toe curling in a matter of seconds.

Except...

“What’s the matter?” he asks, noticing my hesitation.

“It’s just...the beard. It itches,” I answer, trying not to laugh. When my words seem to permeate the lust clouding his brain, Brandon lets up a hearty laugh.

“It itches, does it? You should try having this shit glued to your face repeatedly,” he says, goodheartedly, before running the beard along the column of my neck.

“That’s kind of nice,” I murmur softly with a gasp.

“Yeah?” he asks as he continues his trek down my torso, pushing up the dress as he goes. It tickles immensely when he kisses my stomach, but there’s something greatly erotic about it as well.

His mouth is hot and wet as he finally makes his way to the junction between my legs, which automatically open for him. “I’ve been thinking about this red thong since I saw you standing in that office.” His voice is deep and husky, which sets my blood on fire.

“While you were around the kids? That’s a little creepy, Santa.”

“You have no idea, Mrs. Claus. I’ve been hiding hard-ons since the first day I saw you in that dress.”

“Really?”

“Fuck, yes,” he says before sliding his tongue over the lace at the exact place I ache for him.

“So this isn’t a little weird? You’re dressed as Santa, I’m dressed as Mrs. Claus?”

“Do you think it’s weird?” he asks, removing his mouth and gazing up at me with lust-filled eyes.

Instead of answering in words, I shake my head. “There’s something kind of hot about it.”

“Let me show you what this getup has done to me for the last five weeks,” he says before lowering his mouth back onto my swollen flesh. Even with the scrap of coarse material between us, the friction and warmth of his mouth feels amazing.

This Santa fantasy thing is hot...

Back In My Arms For Christmas

––––––––

Everything has led up to this moment.

Noel back in my arms.

Or, more specifically, beneath me.

My mouth waters to devour her, my brain completely lost by her scent. She’s whimpering beneath me, and I haven’t even removed those sinful red panties yet.

Ever so slowly, I push the scrap of material aside and feast on her swollen, wet flesh. She’s so hot and tastes exactly as I remember. My tongue is everywhere, licking and tasting and savoring the very essence of this woman. My cock is throbbing something fierce in these horrible red pants, but he’s just going to have to wait. First, I’ll make her come with my mouth. Then, I’ll make her come with my cock.

“Jesus,” she whimpers, grinding herself against my face, chasing the orgasm I know is barreling down on her at Mach speed.

“No, just Santa,” I quip, but my lame humor falls on deaf ears.

It only takes one finger sliding inside of her body to cause her to detonate like some sort of beautiful Christmas wrapped bomb. Her eyes are closed and I’m completely transfixed on her beauty as she rides out wave after wave of her orgasm. When there’s nothing left but tremors, her stunning blue eyes finally open and collide with mine. It’s right then and there that I feel it.

Love.

I’ve been in love with this woman from the first moment my eyes caught sight of her, and it has never gone away. Even through the years of being apart, it’s been there, dormant and waiting. Waiting for her to return. And now that she’s here, in my arms, I know there will never be another woman. She’s my forever.

Slowly, I remove the dress she’s wearing. “I almost wish I weren’t taking this off,” I quip with a smirk.

“Gotta thing for crushed red velvet do you?” she retorts with her own ornery smile.

“I gotta thing for you. And since I’m playing the part of Santa, then I definitely have a thing for you wearing this dress. Maybe we should leave it all on,” I add as she glances down and takes in my own outfit.

“Maybe next time, big boy. I want to feel your body against mine right now.”

Deal. Done. Finished.

When she’s stripped down to nothing but the lace bra and panty set, I finally remove my jacket and the white tee I wear beneath it. Fortunately, the boots are the pull-on variety, so after kicking those off, I’m able to work on the drawstring on the pants.

“How did you get out of the fat suit so quickly?” she asks, staring at my chest.

“I was just starting to undress when Sheila knocked on the door. She mentioned you weren’t feeling well and left right away. I didn’t finish undressing, just pulled the pants tight, threw back on the jacket, and ran out the door.”

“Did she see you?” Noel asks, her eyes wide.

“Oh yeah,” I reply, laughing. “She had this knowing smile on her face when I ran by too, like she knew there was something brewing between us.”

“Really?”

“She winked when I went by,” I say before dropping my pants.

My black boxers are tented, and at this point, are only in the way, so I drop them along with those horrible pants.

“Wow,” she whispers, her eyes locked on my groin.

Not wanting to waste another second with her, I climb back up her body, unhooking her bra as I go. When we’re laying together, skin on skin, my need to touch her becomes too great.  My hands are everywhere, slow and precise, relearning every curve, every inch of her delectable body.

“You feel so amazing. Better than I remember,” I confess, as I make my way down to the junction of her legs. It’s time to lose those panties. “Are these expensive?” I ask, toying with the flimsy string at her right hip.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say, just before ripping them from her body. Her gasp is one of shock and pleasure, and it’s the sweetest music to my ears.

“That’ll cost you,” she shoots back, her legs wrapping around my waist.

“You can bill me, Counselor.”

Bending down, I take her lips again in another bruising kiss. My cock is throbbing, lying heavily against her stomach, waiting. Noel’s legs tighten around my waist, shifting until I feel her wetness against me.

And that’s when it hits me.

I don’t have my wallet.

“Shit,” I grumble, dropping my forehead to rest against hers.

“What?”

“I don’t have my wallet. I left in such a hurry, I left my pants at the community center.” My eyes connect with hers. “I don’t have protection.”

“I have some,” she says softly.

“You do?” Instantly, I’m thinking about all the other assholes she’s been with since I walked away. It’s a picture that floods my mind, and brings me absolutely no comfort. I know there’s no way she’s been celibate since our time together, and Lord knows I haven’t been, but that doesn’t mean I want to actually think about some other jackwad’s hands all over my Noel. Jealousy is a mean bitch.

She turns and reaches for her nightstand. Inside the small drawer, I spot three foil packages. Noel takes the first one and flips it over, reading the back. “Okay, they’re still good,” she says, handing me the rubber.

My eyebrows arch as I gaze down at her beautiful face.

“Umm, I’ve had them for a while, so I just needed to make sure they were still okay,” she says, her face blushing a fierce shade of pink.

“Define a while.”

She clears her throat, a sign I know she’s nervous. “Two years.”

“Two years?” Why does that make me happy? Because I’m a jealous asshole, that’s why.

“Yeah.”

Without saying another word, I bend down and take her lips once again. My hand reaches for the package, and without breaking contact with her sweet, intoxicating mouth, I sheath myself in the protection.

Noel’s arms wrap around my neck as I slowly move to her entrance. Our eyes lock and I wait for her silent approval before I slowly push inside. She’s hot, tight, and so fucking wet that it takes all the strength I possess to keep from ramming home and claiming this woman.

Instead, I move deliberately, slowly, and smoothly, while keeping my eyes locked on hers the entire time. Her eyes are glassy, a look of pure ecstasy written on her face. My pace starts to quicken, and she meets me thrust for thrust.

Eventually, my body’s need for release becomes too great to ignore. I feel her start to grip my shaft, tightening with each drive. Her nails score my back as she moans in pleasure. I’m unable to hold back any longer as I slam into her sweet pussy once, twice, three times until she’s gripping me so tightly my eyes cross.

It’s my name that slips from her lips like a curse and a calling, all at the same time. It’s what drives me to claim those lips as I finally let go. The base of my spine starts to tingle as I thrust into her one last time. I’m completely still as I come for what feels like days, aftershocks of pure pleasure rendering my body boneless.

“Wow,” she whispers, mimicking her earlier response.

I’m lying on top of her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her hand absently toys with the hairs on my neck as I struggle to get my breathing under control. “Mmmhmm.”

I nuzzle her neck, which results in a giggle. “That tickles.”

What? I almost ask aloud, when suddenly, I realize I’m still sporting the Santa beard. Funny how you get so used to having some itchy dead animal glued to your face that you completely forget it’s there.

Laughing, I slide my jaw against the exposed column of her neck once more. “You don’t like it?”

“Actually,” she starts before hesitating.

“Actually...”

“I do kind of like it. Maybe not the gray factor, but the roughness is kind of hot. It reminds me of when we were in school and studying for finals. You didn’t shave for a week.”

“And you liked it,” I recall, getting momentarily lost in the pleasure of the memory.

“I did.”

“Maybe I’ll grow a beard,” I suggest, kissing down her throat and across her collarbone.

“I wouldn’t argue if you did,” she whispers, gasping as the beard tickles her chest. “Just not as long as this one.”

“Definitely not as long as this one,” I confirm, making my way to her nipples. “Mmmm,” I groan, lavishing each peak with plenty of attention. “I have an idea. Why don’t we take off the beard. Then we can shower. Together.”

“I like that idea,” she chirps, sliding her leg up my thigh and swinging it over my ass.

“I can tell.”

Together, we head to the shower, where Noel helps me remove the final traces of my Santa appearance. And I help her remove the lingering traces of doubt that may remain, because I’m not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not ever.

I’m right where I belong, and that’s with my little Christmas angel in my arms.

Christmas Eve Redo

Christmas Eve

We meet in the hallway one last time as we prepare to enter the auditorium of the community center. It’s hard to believe that only five short weeks ago, we were thrown in to this mess together. Well, he was thrown in. I was blackmailed. But anyway, the point is, I couldn’t imagine any of this happening before that fateful court date.

Maybe I should be thankful he ran over that Barbie doll and accosted an elderly woman.

Brandon’s already waiting for me, looking ever so handsome in his costume. No, I would never say I’d find Santa so attractive, but when it’s this one particular man, well, all bets are off. Santa is smokin’ hot.

“Wow, Mrs. Claus, I do believe you look downright naughty in that dress today,” he whispers, taking in the shorter and sparklier dress of the two in the closet.

“Why thank you, Mr. Claus. I happen to believe you’re not looking so bad yourself,” I say, grabbing that thick black belt and tugging it until it’s perfectly centered.

“You know, I think there’s a supply closet down the hall. We could sneak away and maybe have a quickie. I’ve had this image of you bent over a table and I can’t get it out of my mind,” Brandon wiggles his bushy eyebrows, making me laugh hard.

“Sorry, big guy, but the kids are waiting.”

“Damn,” he mumbles before placing a sweet kiss on my still-swollen lips. From the moment we woke Sunday morning, neither of us have been able to keep our hands off each other. We ended up spending the entire day at my apartment, wrapping presents, snuggling on the couch, watching television, or naked and working our way through the box of condoms he ran out and purchased. It has been a wonderful, exhausting twenty-four hours.

Walking down the hall, hand-in-hand, I turn and face the man I’m pretty sure I’m still in love with. “I’m sorry I made you work with kids.”

His eyebrow raises and he gives me a questioning look. “I’m not. It was the best punishment I could have ever received. It gave me you.”

“Yeah, but it also got you peed on, almost puked on, snotted on, and I stopped counting after the thirty-fifth time someone yanked on your fake beard.”

“I did, but do you know what? It wasn’t so bad. I’ll admit, I wasn’t looking forward to any of this, but I don’t know, this whole Santa thing wasn’t so terrible.” He steps forward and wraps his arms around me. I try to return the gesture, but the fat suit beneath his jacket makes it a little difficult. “And it got me thinking.”

“About?”

“The baby.”

I swallow hard. “There was no baby,” I whisper.

“I know, but if there were, she would have been the cutest little blonde with big thick ringlets in her hair and the brightest blue eyes, just like her mother.”

Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “You think?”

Brandon runs his nose along the side of mine. “I know. And if I’m ever given the chance to be in that situation again, I’d show you just how excited I’d be for you to carry my child. I’d tell you every day how much I love you and how lucky I am that you chose me.”

“You love me?” I whisper, the tears clogging my throat and making it hard to breathe.

“More than I could have ever imagined. Five years hasn’t changed a damn thing,” he answers, kissing the corner of my lips. “In fact, it made me love you even more.”

“I love you too,” I confirm, knowing that I mean those words with every beat of my heart.

“Then let’s go see the kids one last time. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

“I do know.”

“This might come as a shock to you, so brace yourself. Even though I look just like him...” Brandon glances around to make sure no one is within earshot. “I’m not the real Santa.”

I gasp, playing along with his big reveal. “You’re not?”

“No. In fact, as soon as the clock hits three, I’m jobless until January second. My law firm always closes for the holidays. For the last few years, I’ve always spent the time playing golf or taking a trip to avoid all that merriment crap. But not this year.”

“No?”

“Nope, I have a delivery to make. I heard you were a naughty Mrs. Claus and so I have something special wrapped up just for you.”

“You do? What is it?”

Dropping his voice, he whispers, “It’s in my pants.”

Laughter bubbles from my throat, and his quickly follows.

“Seriously, I don’t have any plans except to spend as much of the holidays as I can with you.” He places a firm kiss squarely on my lips.

“I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, taking my hand and leading me towards the entrance, “because you’re not getting away from me this time around. You gave me a second chance, and I’m damn sure not going to fuck it up.”

“I’m going to my parents’ house for Christmas tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’ll go too.”

“My grandma will probably want to pinch your butt.”

“It’s a nice butt. I wouldn’t blame her.”

“She always liked you,” I say with a smile.

“I really liked her. Your entire family, as a matter of fact. And if you’ll have me, I’d love to accompany you to visit your family tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I can’t stop smiling.

“Are you ready?” he asks, grabbing the handle to open the door.

“As I’ll ever be,” I confirm.

“Mrs. Claus?” he asks, moments before pulling it open.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply, a wide smile on my face that matches his.

My Noel

She looks up at me with so much love in her eyes that it hurts. It’s a look I hope to always see written within those hypnotic blue orbs. How in the hell did I get so lucky?

Before I open the door, I steal one last kiss from the woman who owns me. Hell, I’m not just talking about now, but for years. From the first moment I saw her in the library (You know, when she told me to get lost?) to now, and all the years we were apart in between, there’s never been anyone but her. And I’m damn lucky she took the chance on me once again.

There’s no way in hell I’d let her down a second time.

Her lips are soft and sweet, and might even be a bit swollen from our earlier Christmas Eve indiscretions. It’s been a long morning already, considering we were up half the night. But after a round of sex in bed after waking up, one in the shower, and one at the front door that resulted in us being fifteen minutes late getting out the door, we’re both standing here with those big cheesy looks on our faces.

It’s her smile that holds all of my attention right now, because this smile is real. Its genuine and happy, and best of all, aimed directly at me. I’m the reason she’s smiling, and for as long as I live, I’ll make sure I keep it that way.

No, it may not be your classic fairytale love story, but this one’s ours. And sometimes you have to fall apart so that you can come back together, better than before. Noel and I aren’t perfect, but we’re perfect for each other. We’ve both made mistakes, and we’ll continue to do so, but as long as we stick together, we can make it through anything.

She’s my Christmas miracle.

The one that got away.

My Noel.

My sexy Mrs. Claus.

Instead of ravishing her in the supply closet the way I’d prefer, I know we have a job to do. Or a community service order to complete, as the judge would say. So instead of throwing her over my shoulder, I open the door. With the woman I love’s hand firmly in my own, I raise my hand to wave and take a step inside the room.

“Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!”

Christmas Eve

5 Years Later

This is, by far, my favorite time of year. The lights, the tree, the Santa pin placed poignantly over my heart all contribute to the joy I feel today: Christmas Eve. But, for as wonderful as those things are, they aren’t the main reason I love this holiday.

Brandon holds our three-year-old daughter, Olivia, up and helps her guide the star up to the top of the tree. Even though the decorations have been up for weeks, we started a tradition four years ago on Christmas Eve when we, together, placed the star at the top of the tree on our wedding night. Our own version of a unity candle.

When I think back over the last five years, I smile like a loon who drank too much spiked egg nog. Brandon changed the course of our future at that community center five years ago. Ever since that day, we were inseparable: engaged over the summer, married on Christmas Eve, and even giving birth to our sweet daughter exactly one year after we said I do.

Our dark haired, blued eyed angel came screaming into the world after only fourteen hours of labor. The moment that red, wrinkly girl was placed into my arms, I knew what unconditional love was. With the exception of the color of her eyes, Livie is the spitting image of her father. They have the same mannerisms and stubborn disposition that when they go head-to-head over little things like bath time or putting her socks on, it’s comical just to sit back and watch.

Brandon glances at me over his shoulder, waiting for my approval of the star’s placement. It’s crooked, of course, but I don’t care. “It’s perfect,” I tell them with a big smile.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, placing a tender kiss on my temple before placing a matching one on Livie’s forehead.

“Hardly,” I retort, reaching down to grab the empty box.

“Maybe not, but you’re perfect for me,” he says with his own big grin.

I can’t help myself. Dropping the box, I step into his arms and tuck myself firmly at his side. Livie reaches over and grabs the pin on my sweater. “Santa!” she exclaims, which brings matching smiles to our faces.

Brandon made partner at his law firm two years ago. He works hard, billing as many hours as he can without selling his soul to the business. He’s home most nights by six o’clock, and even takes vacation days leading up to Christmas to help with the Christmas shopping, and holiday gatherings.

I cut back my hours at the DA’s office when Livie was born. Even though I have a successful career, my focus shifted with my pregnancy. I still work two to three days a week, depending on the caseload, and that’s enough for me. I’m available to take Livie to daycare and pick her up every day. On my off days, we spend time together reading books, baking treats, or just playing in the blanket fort she insists on building almost daily.

But for as busy as our lives have become, there’s always one thing we still make time to do: volunteer at the community center. Brandon and I have played Santa and Mrs. Claus since that fateful winter, five years ago. Even on our wedding day (which was technically night, since the ceremony was at eight p.m.), we still made time to volunteer. It’s our thing.

“You about ready for bed?” Brandon asks our daughter.

“Cookies!” she exclaims, pointing to the end table where we just set out three freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and a tall glass of cold milk.

“The cookies are ready, sweetie. Santa is going to love them,” I confirm, glancing at my husband.

“Santa does love mommy’s cookie,” he says with a naughty smirk and a waggle of his eyebrows.

I laugh and reach for the book that is sitting on the couch, waiting to be read. My heart rate kicks up a million beats per second as I hold the newer version of my favorite book, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. (Remember the copy Brandon had in his bag at the bookstore? He gave that to me for Christmas that year, and I’ve read it every year since.)

Together, as we’ve done on her birthday for the last three years, we sit down on the couch. Brandon sits Livie down on his lap and wraps his arm around my shoulder. Opening the first page, I snuggle into his embrace and begin to read.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...

I read with excitement, but this time, it’s not just the book. There’s a surprise waiting for Brandon and Livie on the last page. As I turn each page, getting closer and closer to my surprise, I notice a slight tremor to my hands. They’re nerves of enthusiasm and nothing more. There’s no need to worry about his reaction. I already know what it’ll be.

Finally, I flip that page.

And read the slightly edited ending of the story.

“But I heard her exclaim as she hugged those she holds dear, baby Frost will be making his or her appearance next year.”

Right below the new words is an ultrasound picture from yesterday’s appointment.

Livie starts to clap as the book ends, but I’m pretty sure it’s not because of my altered version. Brandon has yet to say anything, so I keep quiet, waiting. My hand shakes as I start to close the book. His hand stops me. With a gentle touch, he reaches forward and tenderly touches the grainy ultrasound photo.

My vision blurs and it’s not until then that I realize I’m crying. When my eyes connect with his, I see tears in his eyes as well. A wide smile breaks out across his face moments before he pulls me against his hard body and crashes his lips down on mine.

“A baby?” he whispers, his lips warm and comforting.

“Yeah.”

“God, I love Christmas,” he proclaims before placing another chaste kiss on my lips. Turning towards Livie, he tells her, “Livie, guess what? Mommy’s going to have a baby.” There’s no much awe and wonder in the words that I can’t help but slip deeper in love with this man, especially when he reaches over and places his hand on my stomach.

“Baby!” Livie exclaims, reaching down and touching my belly right beside her father’s hand.

Christmas Eve will always hold a special meaning for us.

And it just keeps getting better.

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~ The End ~

About the Author

Lacey Black is a Midwestern girl with a passion for reading, writing, and shopping. She carries her e-reader with her everywhere she goes so she never misses an opportunity to read a few pages. Always looking for a happily ever after, Lacey is passionate about contemporary romance novels and enjoys it further when you mix in a little suspense. She resides in a small town in Illinois with her husband, two children, and a chocolate lab. Lacey loves watching NASCAR races, shooting guns, and should only consume one mixed drink because she’s a lightweight.

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