The elf looked shocked, as if Alex had declared there’d be no Christmas this year.
“There are no breaks,” the elf hurriedly informed him. “We work six-hour shifts.”
“Not this Santa,” Alex said as he pushed to his feet. The costume was tight and had cut off all circulation to his groin. He limped his way to the side door.
“Problem?” The nutcracker blocked his escape, bayonet drawn.
Holly had lowered the lever on her wooden mouth, and Alex could see her entire face. Her blond hair plastered her skull and sweat sheened her forehead. The collar on her gray T-shirt showed a wet ring.
She was as hot in her costume as he was in his.
He felt a flash of sympathy—but only a flash. “I’m tired of sitting,” he told her.
“Sitting is part of your job,” she hissed. “Santa doesn’t stand or walk around, he sits. The chair is well padded.”
He leaned toward her, his beard brushing her wooden nose. “I need to adjust my junk.” His tone was confidential.
She stepped back so fast, she bumped into the fake fireplace. The red plastic flames licked her ass. “Fine, fix it.”
“Fix them, sweetheart. It’s the full package.”
Holly McIntyre couldn’t breathe. She’d seen the bulge in his boxer briefs and knew any awkward shift would make him uncomfortable. He’d had kids wiggling on his lap for two hours. No doubt parts of him did need rearranging.
That he would discuss it with her made her cheeks heat. She closed the jaw on her nutcracker head, motioned him to take care of business.
He took thirty minutes to make his adjustments. Holly timed him. No man needed a full half hour to “fix his junk.” When he came back through the door, he had pizza on his breath.
“You ate lunch,” she accused.
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Got to keep up my strength.”
She followed Alex back to the Santa chair. He was all slowness and swagger. Once he was seated, she unwrapped a candy cane and jabbed it in his mouth. “Fresh breath.”
He gagged. “I hate peppermint.”
“Then don’t throw yourself a pizza party when the line’s a mile long.”
Damn, the line to see Santa had doubled while he’d bolted three slices of pepperoni with the mall custodian. The man had been on his lunch break and welcomed Alex to join him.
It didn’t help to have a full stomach when the kids now bounced on his lap. The really young ones jerked around like Mexican jumping beans. The bigger kids seemed to weigh twice as much as they had earlier that morning. He needed an Alka-Seltzer.
“Hey, dude, can I have your autograph?” the question came from a long-haired teenage boy, wearing a Rogues baseball jersey.
Alex took the offered pen signed Santa Claus, North Pole on the paper. “How’s that?” he asked, handing it back.
“Get real, man.” The boy flipped the paper, slipped it back to Alex. “Rumor has it you’re Alex Boxer.”
Not good. He’d expected word to leak out that he was in town. His sports car had become a novelty, but he’d hoped his stint as Santa would slide under the town’s radar. Apparently it hadn’t.
The Rogues’ publicist would cringe to see his name linked to a speeding ticket should the story hit syndication. He was the man of the hour, having caught the final out in the World Series that October. He’d become a household name. He was Alex-friggin’-Boxer.
Sports Illustrated and GQ had cornered him for photo shoots and interviews. The last thing he needed was his picture plastered in the newspaper in the ill-fitting Santa suit. Tight red velvet was not an image he wanted to promote.
“What are you doing in line, Jerry Petree?” The nutcracker came to stand beside the teen seeking Alex’s autograph. Holly lowered her jaw. “You’re over ten—that’s the cutoff age for visiting Santa.”
Jerry dipped his head, looked sheepish. “I wanted Boxer’s autograph,” he confessed.
“Alex Boxer is Santa for the next three hours,” she said, laying down the law. “He turns back into a jock at three o’clock.”
“Catch you on the sidewalk.” And Jerry turned away.
She leveled her gaze on Alex. “Small smile? Little cheer? The kids believe you’re real.”
He looked down his body, from the pizza sauce stain on the tip of his beard to his too-tight suit. “Yeah, I’m definitely the real deal.”
She nodded toward the line that swelled with children anxious to sit on his lap. “Fake it, Boxer. Impress me, and I’ll put in a good word on your behalf with the judge.”
“Think Hathaway would cut my community-service hours by two days?” He could be in Miami by Christmas Eve, knocking back Jack and celebrating his ass off.
“I’ve seen the judge show leniency.”
Not an outright promise, but it gave him hope.
“Ho-ho-ho!” His voice echoed off the walls, loud and jovial. Everyone stared, surprised by his merriment.
His enthusiasm scared the next two girls in line. The sisters broke into tears.
Holly took both their hands and led them forward.
Alex hauled them up on his lap, stiff and sniffling. He could barely get their bodies to bend.
With Holly’s nudging, he learned that Amy was three and Allison five. When the girls finally started talking, they went on and on. Alex got the rundown on their four older and very evil brothers.
Typical boys, he thought, they teased and played pranks on their sisters. They’d grow out of it.
He knew he’d zoned-out when Allison tugged on his beard. “Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll do my Santa best.”
The girls bounced off his lap, all bright-eyed and giggling. “I can’t wait to have sisters,” Allison sighed. “You can give our brothers to any parents you like.”
Holly shuffled to his side. She’d released the lever on her jaw, her face visible, her expression pained. “Not smart, Santa. Did you hear a word those girls said? You just agreed to switch out family members.”
“I’ll pay more attention,” he said to pacify her.
“And you didn’t give them any store coupons,” she accused. “The mall merchants need the holiday business.”
Damn. “I forgot.”
“Try to do better.”
His lip curled. “I need to shine in your report to the judge.”
“Sarcasm is beneath Santa.” She stepped back, motioned the next child forward.
“I’m Louie,” the boy announced as he stepped on Alex’s tennis shoe in his attempt to climb on his lap. He looked six, stick thin, and quite serious. “I want ten pounds for Christmas.”
Alex lifted a white brow, asked, “Ten pounds of what?”
“Weight.” Embarrassment pressed Louie’s chin to his chest. “I’m skinny and get picked on a lot.”
Bullies. Santa could fix this. “I have a friend, Alex Boxer, who’s a Major League baseball player. He’ll be in town later this week. Maybe I could introduce you to him.”
Louie looked up. “Never heard of him.”
Major punch to his ego. “He’s famous,” Alex assured Louie. “I could send him by your school. He’d impress a lot of kids, especially those who like sports.”
“It’s the kickball kids who never let me play.”
“If Alex was team captain, I’m sure he’d pick you first,” Santa said.
“You think?” Hope shone in his deep-set eyes.
“Get with the nutcracker.” Alex pointed toward Holly. “She’ll set up a day for Alex to visit.”
“What’s the guy’s last name again?”
Kid had a short memory. “Boxer, Alex Boxer.”
Louie nodded. “A baseball player for show and tell. Can he wear his uniform?”
“Good possibility.” He’d have one FedExed. “Alex might even autograph a few baseballs.”
“Alex will be better than Mary Murphy’s rabbit.” Louie was excited now. “It hopped and pooped all over the classroom.”
“We
can only hope so.”
Louie threw himself against Santa, hugged him with his skinny arms. “You look different from last year’s Santa,” he said against Alex’s red velvet chest. “Mommy said Santa Claus has a good heart. You’re not scary up close.”
Alex surprised himself by patting Louie on the back. He didn’t do kids or comfort. Louie slid off his lap, all bouncy and happy.
The boy’s smile faded with his first step, and the air turned foul. Louie pinched his nose with clothespin fingers. “Stinks,” he choked out.
“Not me, dude,” Alex was quick to say.
Then who? A snort and the swish of a white tail clued them into the culprit. Randolph the Reindeer had cut the cheese.
Chapter Two
All the elves scattered and the people in line backed up several steps. Alex could barely catch his breath.
It was Holly who sprayed the area with Crystal Frost air freshener. She then took Randolph by the halter and led him from Santa’s Workshop. Alex watched the crowd part like the Red Sea for the nutcracker and her reindeer. No one seemed sad to see Randolph leave the building.
Holly returned in a matter of minutes. “The custodian has the reindeer until his owner can pick him up. Apparently Henry Hanson figured he could earn extra money by renting Randolph to the mall. I’d told him twice we weren’t interested. Especially after the reindeer tried to hump our moose last year.”
Alex couldn’t help smiling. “The dancing moose playing the triangle?”
“His name is Hank, and he wears dark musk cologne,” said Holly. “Randolph got off on Hank’s scent. The reindeer knocked him down and, well, you get the picture.”
Alex grinned. “Nailed by a reindeer in the mall.”
“It wasn’t pretty.” She turned then, motioning for the next child to meet Santa. “This is Gracie,” she said, introducing a Tinker Bell blonde to Alex.
Light green eyes evaluated Santa before she let him lift her onto his knee. Gracie was tiny, fragile, and very tired. She sighed, settling deeply against his chest.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Alex asked her.
“A Barbie bake set. I like cookies,” said Gracie. She yawned widely, her right cheek fully buried in his beard.
“What kind of cookies do you like best?”
“Peanut butter for me.” Her words were no more than a whisper. “Sugar cookies for Santa.”
“Put out cookies and milk,” Alex agreed. “I’ll be hungry by the time I reach your house.”
Her head bobbed, her eyes closed, and her body went soft against him. Tinker Bell Gracie had fallen asleep on his lap.
Her mother rushed forward. “It’s her nap time,” she explained. “Gracie’s had a long, busy day, but she didn’t want to miss Santa.”
An elf took a quick photo for the holiday picture, after which Alex gently lifted the little girl into her mother’s waiting arms. Neither the noise from the workshop nor from those still standing in line woke Gracie as her mother carried her to the nearest exit.
“Sweet moment,” murmured Holly the Nutcracker, who now stood by his chair.
“Maybe you should get a copy of that picture and show it to the judge,” Alex suggested.
“Perhaps I will.” It was not a definite promise.
Stiff from sitting, Alex stretched out his legs and rubbed his thighs. “How much longer?” he asked.
She looked at her holiday watch, its face showing a Christmas tree. Twelve red ornaments made up the numbers. “Under an hour,” she said. “We’ll close off the line shortly. Those coming in late will have to return tomorrow.”
“Four more days. I’m dying here.”
“You’ll be making an early-morning appearance at the local elementary school,” she reminded him. “You promised Louie Kessler to be his show and tell.”
Alex needed to make a phone call. He’d told the kid he’d wear his Rogues uniform. He had twelve hours to make it happen.
“Hurry the line along,” he said to Holly. “I don’t have many ho-ho-hos left in me.”
Holly McIntyre motioned to the elf to send the next two children forward. Three-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, they were more interested in playing with Santa’s beard and glasses than in relaying their Christmas list.
To Holly’s surprise, Alex was quite patient. He eventually captured their hands in his own and forced them to smile for their picture. A toothy, squirmy picture where the boy’s eyes were closed and the girl stuck out her tongue. Alex then wished them a happy holiday and told them to mail their Christmas list to the North Pole.
“Next,” he called out.
Holly and the elf kept the line moving quickly. The last little girl to sit on his lap hugged Alex as she recited her toy requests. She then cried her eyes out when it was time to leave. She loved Santa and wanted to take him home with her.
To calm her down, Alex gave her six candy canes and three envelopes of coupons for her parents. The girl’s sniffles became a small smile as she rushed back to her father.
Alex pushed to his feet. “The end.”
“Back to your street clothes, Santa.” Holly returned Alex to the storeroom in the Jingle Bell Shop.
He helped her remove her wooden nutcracker head, then proceeded to draw off his skull cap, along with his wig and beard set. He scratched his cheeks, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m hot and sweaty and in need of a shower.”
“I need to freshen up too.”
“There’s a shower in my loft,” he suggested with a slow grin. “Together we could conserve water.”
“I’ve used that shower, and it’s small. Very, very small,” she said.
“It’s all in the positioning,” he replied with a suggestive lift of his eyebrow. “There’s always a way to fit.”
Holly was certain the man could fit blond twins in the stall if he so desired. He looked capable of twisting, bending, and locking all the right parts.
“If I hadn’t gotten busted for speeding, I’d be in Miami, sipping Jack and getting laid.” He tugged his Santa coat over his head, and Holly came face-to-pecs with his magnificent chest. Her breath cut off, and her knees gave way. She shifted to keep her balance.
“I can buy whiskey at any liquor store.” His light blue eyes studied her closely. “It’s a woman I’m after.”
He stroked her cheek, gently slipped the damp tendrils behind her ear. “I’m looking for someone who cracks nuts for a living, but doesn’t bring her work to bed.”
Sex with Alex Boxer. A man so hot women would line up to heat his sheets. He’d be good in bed, she guessed. He was built to bang the headboard and make the box springs squeak.
However tempting, it wasn’t going to happen. They were polar opposites. Holly embraced Christmas. Alex was the antithesis of the Jolly Old Soul who uplifted the world with peace, hope, and cheer. He was total humbug.
After his week of community service, he would drive slowly out of town, cautious of the speed limit. He’d celebrate New Year’s Eve in Miami with breasty twins.
“Knickerbocher’s Liquor Locker is two blocks down on your right,” she directed him. “As far as you, me, and sex, use soap and enjoy your solo flight.”
Alex chuckled, a deep, sinful sound that made her tingle. “Dinner then,” he offered. “Join me?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I have to work.”
“Nutcracking’s not your full-time job?”
“It’s only for the holidays,” she said. “I own A Midsummer’s Ice Cream on Main Street. I usually work days, but during Christmas I switch shifts.”
Alex heel-toed off his Nikes. He then loosened the drawstring on his Santa pants and let them drop. Damp with sweat, his boxer briefs stuck to his body, showcasing him fully. He patted his stomach, shrugged. “A banana split or sundae for dinner—not my usual, but I’m game.”
“A purchase over ten dollars lets you ride the carousel on the boardwalk for free.”
“Hot time in a small town,” he grunted. “Will the excit
ement never end?”
Showered and shaved, Alex strolled into A Midsummer’s Ice Cream as sunset washed the sidewalk in orange and gold. His shoulders filled out a white knit shirt, and his creased khakis ended in brown leather loafers without socks.
He was the sexiest man ever to enter Holly McIntyre’s shop. She hoped his heat wouldn’t melt her ice cream.
He looked around, took it all in. “You work in an ice cream cone.”
That she did. Holly loved the architecture. The exterior was cone-shaped, and the roof swirled with two scoops of strawberry. The design drew dessert lovers off the street and into a whimsical blend of pink brick walls and mint-and-yellow polka-dotted booths.
All the flavors had silly, fun names. Customers got a charge ordering Tutti Frutti Butti, Cotton Candy Circus, or Banana Fana Fo.
The Ex-Boyfriend was a daily request, comfort food for the broken hearted. Young girls healed fast over six scoops of ice cream.
Near the ceiling, a raised track and operational choo-choo train ran the rails. Suspended from sturdy light fixtures, model airplanes, miniature hot-air balloons, and tiny rocket ships twirled in the breeze whenever the door opened. It was a kid’s paradise.
Along with Holly, two employees worked the shop. Their uniforms consisted of hot pink T-shirts and white shorts. Both the women checked out Alex as if he was the flavor of the month.
“Dipstick.” Celine likened Alex to a frozen banana, dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with nuts.
“He’s Smoochy Goochy.” Marissa tagged him a rich blend of peanut butter and toffee drizzled with two sticky toppings.
Lewd Licorice, Holly thought, and had it confirmed when Alex lowered his voice and said, “Sixty-nine flavors—lots to lick.”
The man was a piece of work.
“Can I help you?” Teenaged Celine smiled the smile of a twenty year old.
Fortunately, Alex saw her as jailbait. “What do you suggest?” he asked Holly.
“Eat Dirt.”
The ballplayer blinked. “I came for ice cream.”
“Eat Dirt is a flavor,” she informed him. “A chocolate sundae served over crumbled-up Oreo ‘soil’ in a plastic flowerpot.”
“We’ll scoop and fling for you,” Celine offered.