Santa, Honey
Sandra Hill
SANTA, HONEY
KATE ANGELL
SANDRA HILL
JOY NASH
LOVE SPELL NEW YORK CITY
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Ho, Humbug, Ho
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Naughty or Nice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Christmas Unplugged
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Praise
Copyright
Ho, Humbug, Ho
KATE ANGELL
Chapter One
Santa wore a smirk that could set Christmas back eleven months.
He had the shoulders of a linebacker.
Black hair that curled at his collar.
Ice blue eyes.
A Rogues tattoo on his left biceps.
And abs that would never shake in laughter like a bowl full of jelly.
Confined to a dressing room at the back of the Jingle Bell Shop, Holly McIntyre faced off with Alex Boxer. He was six feet of aggravation. His testosterone set her teeth on edge.
“Here’s your Santa suit.” She draped the outfit over a straw reindeer statue, soon to be displayed at the front of the store. “You dress and I’ll—”
The man had no modesty. He’d tugged off his navy T-shirt and shucked his jeans before she finished her sentence. He stood in front of her now, wearing black boxer briefs and a naughty grin.
He’d tried to shock her. And he had. They stood so close, his body heat pressed her breasts, nestled into her cleavage. She blushed.
Unable to avert her gaze, Holly took in the sight of him. His chest was deep and well-defined. His chest hair arrowed low and a Batter Up tat was visible at his groin. His legs stretched long and muscled, the swell of his package fully loaded. She forced herself to blink, to swallow, to breathe as he stepped into the red velvet Santa pants, trimmed at the hem with fake white fur.
Alex was six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than the previous year’s Santa. The pants fit snugly. The red jacket set off his six pack. There was no room to stuff a pillow. Santa looked tall, fit, and North Pole hot.
Any woman would love to have him drop down her chimney, with or without presents.
“I’m going to bust a seam.” His expression was dark as he bent in an attempt to pull on a pair of black boots. His feet were big and brawny, and his heel crushed the patent leather. “Too damn small.” He kicked them aside, went back to his Nikes.
Santa in sneakers—they’d moved beyond the traditional image. There was nothing apple cheeked, warm, or caring about this man. He was anti-Christmas spirit.
She held up a wig and eyebrow set, complete with wired mustache and full, fluffy beard. “Elastic straps go over your head.”
Alex frowned. “That’s got to itch.”
Holly was prepared; she’d brought baby powder. She tapped talcum onto her palm, then proceeded to pat the powder onto his face. His cheeks were angular, his nose ran blade straight, his mouth set full, yet masculine.
His skin warmed, and his lips parted beneath her touch. Talcum soon whitened the afternoon shadow on his chin.
A hint of powder collected at one corner of his mouth.
Holly tapped the excess with the tip of her finger, and his breath broke against her palm, hot, moist, and triggering shivers.
She pulled back, annoyed that such an irritating man could raise goose bumps. Visible bumps, which turned his gaze a wicked blue. He knew he’d affected her. And took pleasure in her discomfort.
She dusted off her hands, her voice stern. “Put on the wig set.”
Alex took his sweet time. He fit the short white curls over his head, sneezed into the mustache, and adjusted the beard along the rigid set of his jaw.
“Glasses, stocking cap, and gloves.” She handed him each item.
He squinted behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses. “My vision’s blurred.”
“The previous Santa was near sighted,” she explained. “I had prescription lenses put in the glasses.”
“Where’s the old Santa now?” he asked.
“He’s, um, dead.”
His sharp exhale bristled every fake hair on the Santa beard. “I’m wearing a dead Santa’s suit?”
“The man didn’t die wearing the suit,” she assured him. “It has been dry cleaned.”
Alex shoved his hands in the white gloves. Gloves that didn’t stretch to his wrists. “Damn, I’m squeezed into red velvet, have fake mustache hair in my mouth, and can’t see beyond my nose. An unfair punishment for driving fifteen miles over the speed limit.”
“You were in a school zone,” she reminded him.
“It was Sunday.”
Judge Hathaway protected his own, Holly knew. Hathaway hadn’t cared that it was Sunday and the entire town sat in church. Alex Boxer had been busted for speeding. His good cheer had been left on the outskirts of Holiday, Florida.
The judge had ordered Alex to pay a substantial fine, then tacked on forty hours of community service during Christmas week.
The service would be playing Santa Claus at Wilmington Mall. Alex had growled his objection. The hotshot baseball player had called his attorney, who’d argued with the judge.
In the end, Hathaway’s ruling stood.
Alex’s Saleen S7 had been impounded. The lowslung silver sports car with the gull-wing doors had quickly become a local attraction. Law enforcement opened the compound twice daily. The Salvation Army set up a stand and rang the bell for donations. Money rolled in at Alex’s expense.
The one hotel in Holiday had been booked for the season, which forced Alex into the loft above the Jingle Bell Shop. The one bedroom was small, cramped, and jammed with Christmas decorations. He’d complained his feet hung over the end of the bed. And that the pillow was sized for an elf.
The small Florida town faced Christmas with a scowling Santa. There was no ho-ho-ho in this man.
Holly watched as Alex fought with the stocking cap. It was too tight. The pom-pom swung, bopped him on the nose.
Alex ripped it off. “Not going to happen.” He looked around the shop, found a long red bandanna, which he wrapped as a skull cap. There was no cuddly softness to this Santa; he looked street-corner tough.
“A couple of rules,” Holly went on to tell Alex. “Be gentle when you hoist the children on your lap. Keep smiling even if they pee, whine, tug on your beard, or burst into tears.”
“Pee on me?” That caught his attention.
“Children get scared,” she explained. “Peeing is a natural reaction to fear. Not every child loves Santa on his first visit.”
His mouth thinned beneath the mustache. “Can the kids sit beside me and not on my lap?”
“Not an option.”
“This job sucks.”
“Volunteer Santas are jovial,” she stated. “They embrace Christmas and bring hope and joy to children.”
“I’m not a volunteer, I’m court ordered,” he ground out. “I should be in Miami by now. I was supposed to meet up with my teammates to celebrate winning the World Series. Warm weather, cold beer, and a pair of hot twins. Time to cut loose.”
“Instead of your budd
ies, you’ll spend your week with a moose, an elf, a gingerbread man, and a nutcracker.”
“Lucky me.”
“I have to write up a daily report for the judge on your cooperative efforts,” she told him. “So give it your all.”
His jaw shifted left, then right, and his stare turned cold. Santa had gone all silent and wintry.
She returned to the rules. “You must be as nice to the last child as you are to the first. You ask each one what he or she wants for Christmas, but never promise the delivery of the gift. Many parents can’t afford what their child requests. Afterward, the elves from the photo booth will snap the holiday picture.”
Alex looked down at her. His ice blue eyes were magnified behind the prescription lenses. “What part do you play in this insanity?”
“I’m the nutcracker.”
“Perfect typecasting.”
She ignored him. “Your Santa bag is filled with candy canes.”
“I hate the scent of peppermint.”
“Get used to it,” she said flatly. “Each child gets a cane. There will be a decorative gift box by your chair with discount coupons from the local merchants. You’ll need to give an envelope to each parent.”
“You’re asking me to remember a lot.”
“Try to extend your mind beyond bat and ball.”
He cut her a sharp look. “Stop cracking my nuts.”
“Speaking of which, I need to change into my costume.” She motioned toward the door. “Step outside, please.”
“I dressed in front of you. Feel free to strip before me.”
“Not in this lifetime, Santa. Hit the door. I’ll be with you in fifteen,” she instructed.
Alex Boxer sauntered out. He’d have liked to watch Holly undress; it would’ve turned him on. He’d always had a thing for blondes with gold hoop earrings in flirty yellow sundresses. She touched on pretty with her big brown eyes and sexy mouth. Unfortunately, she was too thin for his liking. He preferred a woman with a nice rack and curvy booty. He enjoyed the wiggle and jiggle of the female body.
He’d been looking forward to a lot of jiggle in Miami. Skimpy shorts and thong bikinis flashed a lot of skin. Spandex hugged a lot of curves. Alex and six other single guys on the Rogues baseball team had booked condos on South Beach. They’d planned to raise hell between Christmas and New Year’s.
Instead of suntanned and oiled twins, he now faced children sitting on his lap. Any one of them could pee on him. He’d be handing out candy canes and store coupons. Not close to the wild time he’d originally planned for the holidays.
“I’m ready.” The crack of the door revealed Holly to him.
Costumed as a nutcracker soldier, she could barely fit her big wooden head through the frame. Painted in the Old World style, the face had severely arched eyebrows and wide black eyes. A tall black hat topped her head. A moveable lever below her left ear opened and closed her jaw.
A red jacket with gold epaulettes hung large on her small shoulders. Baggy black pants and boots with gold glitter rounded out her outfit.
Rifle in hand, she poked him with the bayonet. “Down the hall and to your right, the door will open into Santa’s Workshop. There will be hammering elves, a dancing moose, and a gingerbread man decorating his freshly baked house.”
Alex backed against the wall. “Honest to God, I can’t go through with this. I feel stupid.”
“Stupid is as stupid does. Playing Santa is the price you pay for a speeding ticket.” She jabbed him a second time. “The kids are waiting for you. Move your red velvet butt.”
“Careful where you poke,” he cast over his shoulder. “No need to ream me a second.”
He made it down the hall, even with the glasses distorting his vision. There was a clamor beyond the door, loud with pounding, laughing, and what he swore sounded like an animal’s bellow.
He cracked the door, squinted. He didn’t like what he saw. “There’s a live reindeer tied to a post beside my Santa chair.”
“His name is Randolph.” He heard Holly expel her breath within the hollow head of her costume. “He wasn’t supposed to be here this year. He offends people.”
“Offends people how?” Alex asked. “Does he bite? Kick? Spit like a camel?”
“None of the above.”
“Then what?” he pressed.
“He passes gas.”
“Son of a bitch,” Alex snarled. “Kids peeing on my lap and now reindeer farts. Could it get any worse?”
The day went downhill fast.
Holly suggested that he give a robust “ho-ho-ho” on his entrance. His greeting was far from jovial—it sounded low, guttural, and grumpy.
His appearance silenced the crowd.
He felt captured in a freeze frame. Everyone stared at him.
The fathers looked skeptical.
The mothers were oddly appreciative.
The children shifted nervously.
One little girl started to cry.
Alex didn’t mind crowds. He was used to them. The Richmond Rogues drew tens of thousands of fans to James River Stadium. He’d been cheered and booed by the best of them.
A line of holiday shoppers didn’t faze him in the least. Let the people stare. It gave him time to check out Santa’s Workshop.
The day topped ninety degrees, yet the mall had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Muzak blasted “A Holly Jolly Christmas” above air-conditioning units cranked to the max. Frost hung on the air, and Alex swore he could see his breath.
Mock snow crunched beneath his Nikes as he walked the short path to Santa’s Workshop. Garlands and tiny white lights wrapped a red corduroy high-back chair. He swung the bag filled with candy canes off his shoulder, settling it between himself and Randolph the Reindeer.
Randolph didn’t give him the time of day. The reindeer kept to his business of munching hay. His white tail twitched.
The scent of cinnamon wafted from the gingerbread house.
The evergreen decorated with enormous red and green balls cast the rich fragrance of forest pine.
“Back to work.” Holly the Nutcracker clapped her hands, and the elves returned to their workshop tasks.
The commotion grew as Santa’s little helpers put together bikes and wrapped toys for the mall customers.
Alex watched as the costumed moose danced down the line of children patiently waiting to relay their wish lists. The moose was tall, thick, but light on his feet. He played a triangle to the holiday tunes.
Alex sucked air. The sights, sounds, and scents of Christmas smothered him. He’d grown up in a wealthy household where holidays meant international travel. He’d never done small town, never sat on Santa’s lap. The experience cramped his style.
“A Chippendale Santa,” he heard one woman at the front of the line say.
“He’s so hot he could melt the North Pole,” her friend agreed.
Alex felt hot, all right. Not sexy hot, but sweaty armpit-and-groin hot. The Santa suit now stuck to his body in places he’d rather have a loose fit. He discreetly tried to pry the plush fabric off his abs and thighs as he took a seat on the padded chair. He was certain to have a wedgie when it came time to leave.
A female elf materialized at his side, short, plump, and dressed in a green jumper and red tights with black patent-leather mary janes. “I’ll call each child forward, and you can ask what he wants for Christmas.” She squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “Maybe you could smile a little.”
Smiling proved difficult. Each time he moved his lips, he got a mouth full of mustache.
The first boy to step forward came with a list a mile long. Alex heard a moan rise from those in line. Impatience could turn a crowd ugly. He’d have to hustle the kid along.
“I’m Tommy, and I’m four,” the boy in the denim jacket and jeans told Santa as he climbed onto Alex’s lap. He held up his list, written in crayon. “Bring me these, please.”
Alex scanned the list, which consisted of a jumble of letters. The kid f
avored the color red and the letter B.
Alex patted the boy’s shoulder, punted. “Books…do you like books?” He damn sure hoped so.
Tommy scrunched his nose. “No books on my list.”
Crap. Alex went with, “A bicycle?”
The boy shook his head. “I already have one.”
“Baseball.” The nutcracker soldier jabbed Alex from behind, again with the bayonet. “Bat, ball, bases. Tommy’s printing is perfectly clear.”
Clear his ass. “You have a favorite team?”
Tommy puffed up proud. “Tampa Bay Rays.”
Alex snorted. “They weren’t even in contention this year.”
“Win or lose, Tommy’s still a fan.” Again from the nutcracker.
So be it. “I’ll see what I can do,” Alex said, then handed the kid a candy cane.
Tommy ran back to his mother, and the nutcracker returned to handing out small bags of whole walnuts to those in line. Holly proved a personable nutcracker. She worked the lever on her jaw, spoke to every single person.
The moose danced toward Holly, gave her a quick ballroom spin. The people applauded. The moose next produced a sprig of mistletoe, which he held over Holly’s head. The animal dropped a light kiss on the nutcracker’s wooden cheek. The crowd ooed and awed.
Alex wondered if moose man and cracks nuts were a couple. The thought irritated him. They were flirting and having fun, and he was stuck coddling a drooling baby.
Definitely not fair.
Two hours passed, and Alex needed to stretch. He had butt prints on the red velvet pants from all those who had sat on his lap. His left thigh had gone numb. He’d yet to be peed on, which he considered a blessing. He did, however, doubt he’d recover from the blinding camera flashes. All he now saw were spots.
“Break time,” he said to the elf who controlled the steady stream of children. “I’m taking ten.”
