Kaitlyn

Of all my regrets in life, my biggest at the moment was sitting on Santa’s lap at Macy’s when I was three and asking for a little brother.

Because the fucker delivered, and I want a refund. Twenty-five years isn’t too late to return him, is it?

Thanks to my little brother and his trickery, I’m currently at a local children’s museum that’s been rented out by a private preschool. And I’m sporting twenty pounds of fake belly, sixteen pounds of red velvet and white fur trim, and a snowy white beard that smells like it was stored between a rancid bottle of gin and fornicating sheep. My hair is crammed into a Santa hat, and the only saving grace of the fake white fur tickling my eyebrows is that there’s no way I’m recognizable in this get-up.

As evidenced by the half-blitzed socialite mom currently sitting on my lap, rattling off her Christmas wish list. “And tha’ hun of a schman right o’er zhere,” she says with relish—almost literally, since there’s a pickle on the toothpick in her martini glass. “Zzhoe’s daddy is one I’d like to fu—”

“Ho, ho, no, and that’s enough,” I say in my fake deep jolly Santa voice. Because I know who Zoe’s daddy is, and—nope. Without even looking his way, my pulse skyrockets to Christmas Eve Reindeer speed and my skin tingles like it’s trying to shake some jingle bells. It’s been eight years and I am still not over that man. “Next!”

Drunk Mom Number Four is helped off my lap by one of the elves, who are actually hotel staff, since half the Santas my family usually manage in Manhattan were taken down by food poisoning at a Jingle Bell bar hop last night. We called in our usual elves, promoted them for the day, and deployed them about the city. I should’ve been manning the phones, but my brother suckered me into a fool’s bet and now I’m here instead of him.

My brothers and I run the biggest Santa booking gig in the city, which I thought was the coolest thing ever when I was young, stupid, and in love.

That was before—well.

Just before.

The next mama in line settles into my lap, and I struggle not to oof. You’d think the children would be lined up, but the martinis are more prolific than the hot chocolate here, and all the kids have already had their turns.

Some twice.

Including Zoe, who’s sporting an American Ninja shirt, fairy wings, two blond pigtails, and her father’s eyes, which nearly killed me when I put two and two together and realized not only has Jake Huntington moved on, but he’s moved on and gotten himself a family.

I force myself to focus on the woman on my lap currently stroking my velvet-covered belly.

“Helloooo, you sexy beast,” this mom purrs. She’s platinum blond and packing a little junk in her trunk. Her breath suggests her cider was light on the spice and high on the spike. I’d bet my family’s stash of candy canes that her ugly Christmas sweater cost more than renting eight reindeer for a week. “I’ve been a very good girl this year.”

Undoubtedly.

At the moment, I’d promise her about anything she wants in exchange for one of those martinis. Unfortunately, I’m still on the clock.

Blondie strokes my fake beard. “How about you and I go hang out under the mistletoe?”

“Get your hands off my wife, Santa,” a voice growls. A well-fed dude in black suit pants and a Grinch tie grips Blondie by the arm and pulls her off me.

She giggles. “I love you, Santa.”

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.” I nod sagely, put what I hope is an appropriate but not suggestive twinkle in my eye, and wish one more time for that martini.

Beady brown eyes squint at me. “You callin’ my wife a ho?”

Before I can answer, he’s in my face. “I said, you callin’ my wife a ho? Answer me, you fat bastard.”

Yep. I’m going to kill Ty. Or possibly spike his eggnog with a laxative. “Ho, ho, no,” I say cheerfully in my fake deep voice. My throat’s getting raw from doing this for the last hour. “Let’s be a good boy so Santa doesn’t have to put coal in your stocking.”

“You threatening me, you pussy?”

The elves—two slender off-hours maids and an overgrown bellhop who needed the extra cash I offered—leap to my aid. “Sir. Sir, please. The children are watching.”

“I’m not taking lip from some fucking gay Santa who’s hitting on my wife!” He grabs my beard and pulls, and—dammit.

This is why I’ve come to hate Christmas.