Naughty Saint Nick

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Christmas Night

Amber

“Merry Christmas, Mommy,” Braxton’s sweet voice calls out as I gently ease his bedroom door shut.

I pause and whisper back, “Merry Christmas, buddy. I love you. Go to sleep now.”

The door is inches from closing when he calls again. “Mommy?”

I sigh softly. Of course bedtime wouldn’t go smoothly tonight. Even on a regular day, it takes at least twenty minutes to get him settled. Add the Christmas chaos of presents, sugar, and excitement, and I’ll be lucky if he’s out before midnight.

Still, I remind myself to be patient. He’s only four, and, most days, he really is a good kid. I count myself lucky to be his mom. Which is why his next words hit me square in the chest.

“Can Daddy put my bike together tomorrow?”

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the doorframe, massaging the bridge of my nose. “He can’t, remember? He’s out of town.”

With his homewrecking girlfriend.

The one he cheated on me with.

The one he took back east this week to meet his parents.

UGH.

He’ll probably propose before New Year’s Eve.

The worst part? I’m not even jealous. Just…sad for her.

“But I want to ride my bike tomorrow,” Braxton says, his voice wobbling. A mix of exhaustion and four-year-old heartbreak. It’s the first Christmas he’s spent without his dad, and I’ve been eaten alive with guilt, like somehow I’m the one who broke up our little family.

Like I’m the one who stuck my ex’s dick into his coworker.

His fellow second-grade teacher, who runs the school kindness committee.

What makes me even more upset is how my ex didn’t even think it was a big deal, leaving his kid for the holiday. When I asked, “What about Braxton?” he’d just shrugged. Said it was my week to have him anyway.

Asshole.

I bite the inside of my cheek, blink hard, and force my voice to be steady. “We’ll get it built, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

Silence follows, then a sleepy, “Okay. Love you, Mommy.”

“Love you too, baby.”

When the door finally clicks shut, I exhale a long and shaky breath. The house is quiet, except for the hum of Christmas lights and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock. I’m bone-tired, broke, newly single, and holding it together with cheap wine and sheer willpower.

But tomorrow morning, when he runs out to see his brand-new bike, assembled, shining, perfect, it’ll all be worth it.

Even if I have to figure it out alone.

I linger in the hallway for a moment, listening at the door. When I’m sure Braxton’s drifting off, I pad barefoot toward the living room.

The house is a disaster. There’s wrapping paper everywhere, cookie crumbs on the floor, and dry pine needles that poke at the soles of my feet like a thousand tiny accusations.

The tree glows in the corner of the room.

Its branches droop from ornaments and from the fact I forgot to water it all last week.

I grab my glass of drugstore chardonnay from the counter and take a long sip. It’s gone lukewarm, but whatever. Warm wine still counts.

The bike box sits under the tree, taunting me. I’ve been avoiding it all day, pretending “Santa’s workshop” would handle the assembly. But Santa’s a single mom tonight, and she has no idea what she’s doing.

I set down my glass, pull my hair into a messy bun, and mutter, “All right. Time to get naughty.”

A screwdriver. That’s what I need. And maybe a miracle.

I tear open the box, parts spilling everywhere, screws scattering with tinkling sounds across the hardwood. Within minutes, I’m cross-legged on the floor with an instruction manual written in what appears to be ancient Greek. Or maybe just Japanese.

I rub my temple, half-laughing, half-ready to cry. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “You birthed a nine-pound human. You can build a damn bike.”

The walls creak, the heater hums, and somewhere down the hall Braxton snores softly. Even with those noises, the quiet is deafening. It hits me how empty the house, the holiday, feels when there’s no one to share it with.

A man’s voice—low and deep—booms into the room.

“Testing. One, two, three. Testing.”

I scream and fling my wine glass straight into the air.

It crashes to the floor, shattering on impact.

White wine and glittering shards of glass spray everywhere, but I barely notice.

My heart slams against my ribs as I whip around with my fists up, ready to fight, scanning the room for an intruder.

“Breaker one-nine, anyone out there?” the man asks.

That’s when I see the pair of walkie-talkies I bought Braxton for Christmas, sitting on the coffee table like two guilty little gremlins. Both lights glow red, flickering green every time the stranger talks.

Oh my God.

They’re talking to each other.

I’ve accidentally created a closed-circuit loop of chaos.

A high-pitched shriek of feedback blasts out, loud enough to vibrate the fillings in my molars.

“Jesus!” I hiss, stumbling toward them.

I flip one off, and the noise dies instantly. Blessed silence.

Now only one walkie-talkie remains on, its green light blinking patiently.

“Hello?” the man says again, then adds under his breath, “Guess no one’s listening. Cheap-ass toy.”

Then, oh God, he starts singing. Loudly. Horribly. A painfully off-key rendition of All I Want for Christmas Is You.

I lunge across the coffee table and snatch up the walkie-talkie, half to confirm it’s the source of the noise and half to make him stop murdering Mariah Carey.

“I hear you!” I shout and then realize my mistake. I push the talk button this time. “Hi. I can hear you.”

A long pause. Then a cautious, “You can?”

“Yes. Yes, I hear you.” I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow the pounding of my heart.

“So…” He hesitates. “You heard the singing too?”

“I did.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a quiet, mortified, “Shit.”

I don’t know why, but it makes me smile.

“Sorry about that,” the stranger says. “Singing’s not exactly my, uh, strong suit.”

I suppress a giggle. “Yeah, I gathered that.” Crawling on my knees, I go to the broken glass and start to sweep it into a pile with the side of my hand. On the second pass, a shard bites into my palm. “Ouch!”

“You okay?” the man asks, and I realize I’ve been holding down the talk button this whole time. Great. He’s heard everything, my muttering, my yelp, probably even the sound of me crawling around on the floor.

So embarrassing.

I stick my hand in my mouth and press my tongue to the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding. “Fine,” I mumble around it. “Just cut my hand on some glass.”

“Glass?” he echoes, his voice tinged with concern. “That doesn’t sound good.”

I glance at the tiny smear of blood on my palm. “It’s just a scratch. Nothing a Band-Aid and some mom grit can’t handle.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm through the static. “Mom grit, huh? Is that stronger than regular grit?”

“Way stronger,” I say, pushing to my feet. “It’s fueled by caffeine and spite.”

He laughs again, and something in the sound makes my stomach flutter. It’s been a long time since a man’s laugh has done that to me. I make my way into the kitchen, where I rummage through the junk drawer until I find a Band-Aid. It’s got a picture of Bluey on it, but I slap it on anyway.

“Very professional,” I mutter to myself, admiring the cartoon dog grinning up from my hand.

The walkie-talkie crackles in my hand.

“You still alive over there?” the man asks.

“Barely,” I say, holding up my patched hand like he can somehow see it. “Bluey to the rescue.”

“Bluey?” he repeats, laughing. “Please tell me that’s not your code name.”

“Only in medical emergencies,” I tease.

“Wait,” he says, “Bluey like the cartoon?”

“That’s the one.” My heart dips a little, which is silly. “You must have kids to know that.”

“Nah,” he says. “Just an energetic six-year-old niece and a four-year-old nephew.”

“Ah.” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Bluey fans?”

“Big ones,” he says with a grin I can hear.

I let out a soft laugh. “I mean, who isn’t?”

“True. That dog gives better advice than most adults I know.”

That pulls another smile from me, the kind that sneaks up and warms my cheeks. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a small click of static from his end, then he asks, “What’s your name—no, wait.” A short laugh. “Forget I asked. I’d be furious if I found out my sister was giving her name to random guys over a walkie-talkie. I’m not about to do that to you.”

I duck my head, smiling even though he can’t see me. “I’m glad you understand.”

“Honestly,” he says, his voice going lower, a smile tucked inside it. “It’s cool. I’ll just call you…Vixen.”

I blink. “Vixen? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says, then clears his throat. “It sounded less creepy in my mind. But now I’ve said it out loud, I’m kinda committed.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Bold move for a total stranger.”

“What can I say? It’s Christmas. All the good reindeer names were taken.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. And you just happened to land on the sexiest one.”

“Pure coincidence,” he says, still laughing. “Though, for the record, you’re the one who brought up that it’s sexy.”

My face goes hot, and I’m suddenly very aware of my heart thumping in my chest.

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “If I’m Vixen, then I’m calling you Santa.”

He laughs, a low, rich sound that curls through the airwaves. “That’s funny.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because my real name’s Nick.”

I pause. “No way.”

“Swear to God,” he says, still laughing. “Nicholas, if we’re being formal. But only my mom calls me that, and usually when I’ve done something stupid.”

I narrow my eyes at the little plastic toy in my hand like it can somehow lie to me. “You’re messing with me.”

“Cross my heart, Vixen. Scout’s honor.”

“Convenient story,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Why am I even talking to this guy?

There’s a rustling sound on his end, then his voice comes through louder. “Sis! What’s my name?”

“Idiot,” a woman yells back.

“Not your nickname for me,” he says, so loud I pull the walkie-talkie away from my ear. “My real name!”