All the Elf Kisses (Sugar & Spice #1)

Chapter 1 Saoirse

ONE

SAOIRSE

I know it’s going to be bad when my phone autocorrects “Santa’s Helper” to “Satan’s Helper” on the first text from the guy looking for an elf.

But that’s just how things are going right now in my life.

I don’t have the luxury of turning down side hustles that look a little sketchy, not if I want to keep the heat running in my sub-sub-sub-standard apartment.

The rent here is highway robbery. I’m talking lots of zeroes for one-room shoeboxes.

I mean, everywhere you look, it’s millionaires.

Old money, new money, maybe even secret mafia money.

Their houses have names. Their dogs have Instagram contracts.

Their toddlers have personal chefs and stylists.

Meanwhile, I’m surviving on off-brand cereal and praying my ancient radiator doesn’t tap out mid-blizzard so I can teach at the school of my dreams.

My teacher’s salary barely covers groceries, let alone any surprise costs. I’m the only resident in a five-mile radius who drives a vehicle with duct tape holding the bumper together.

I seriously need a raise. Or a sugar daddy. Or a winning lottery ticket, but none of them are anywhere in sight.

So, here I am, already in the elf costume as instructed, ready to “assist Santa at whatever he needs.” At least, that’s what the job application stated. I’m not going to lie; it was a little sketchy picking up my costume at the UPS store downtown, but I’m desperate.

The package included a candy-cane striped crop top, a sparkly skirt that was illegal two inches ago, tights that are the ugliest red I’ve ever seen, and an elf hat with a bell that rings every time I turn my head. Ick. I look like a hooker elf.

I wish I could say this is the lowest I’ve stooped, but if I’m being honest, there’s an even longer, more embarrassing resumé of shame that includes singing telegrams and bartending. While bartending is a perfectly respectable job for most people, I’m a whole other story—all due to my clumsiness.

The sun is just dropping on the horizon as I turn down the dark road.

Glancing down, I try to ignore the “Check Engine” light flashing on my Mazda’s dashboard as I pull up to the address.

It’s not what I expected. The ad had said "Santa's Workshop," and in Silver Spoon Falls, that usually means a country club with manicured lawns or a sprawling mansion with exotic cars lining the driveway.

But this dingy metal building with peeling gray paint and rust stains trickling down from the gutters is definitely not what I expected.

A faded Santa flag hangs upside down from a crooked pole, flapping pathetically in the wind like it's signaling for rescue.

I kill the engine, which responds by making a noise like a dying walrus, and check my face in the rearview. Darn. The ugly hat isn’t doing me any favors. I fix my red lipstick with a practiced swipe and take a deep breath before stepping out into the frigid air.

While southern Texas is supposed to be “mildly brisk in the winter,” the icy wind is no joke. My miniskirt and the thin, ugly tights are no match for it. I clutch my purse to my stomach and speed-walk to the front door, nearly wiping out on a patch of black ice as I step onto the front walkway.

Taking a deep breath, I ignore the voice of reason screaming through my mind and knock. The door opens instantly, as if whoever’s inside has been waiting, forehead pressed against the peephole.

I can’t stop the gasp that escapes my lips when I get a good look at “Santa,” and I use that term very loosely. His wheezy "Ho, ho, ho" escapes from behind a beard that's peeling away from his left cheek. The man standing before me is the stuff of Christmas nightmares.

As his bloodshot eyes dart around, I automatically take a huge step back.

His velour suit, a shade of red even uglier than my tights, has dark half-moons of sweat spreading beneath each armpit.

The synthetic white trim is yellowed at the edges, and what appears to be last night's dinner has left a crusty splotch down his front.

But the pièce de résistance? His eyebrows are thick, uneven streaks of black Sharpie that make him look perpetually surprised-slash-unhinged.

“Hi,” I say, wondering if I’m about to be kidnapped and sold on the black market. Damn. I really need to get my shiznick together. “I’m Saoirse. You must be Mr. Claus?” Or the asshole who’s about to kidnap me.

His breath reaches out and slaps me in the face as he mumbles, “You’re early. Good. Good.”

I glance over his shoulder at the sad, nineteen-seventies-inspired decorating and notice a freaking Camcorder. What in the heck have I gotten myself into? I slip my hand into my coat pocket and grasp my taser tightly.

“Uh, so, what’s the plan?” I ask, injecting as much fake cheer as I can. “You said this was for a charity event?”

“Yes, yes.” He gestures to the table. “Come in and sit. We’ll discuss.”

I shake my head. I’m a true crime fanatic, and I know you never, ever step inside.

“I’ll stay right here. Where is the event taking place?” I should’ve asked this question before I agreed to this crazy job.

He walks over to the rickety table and rummages in a file folder full of loose papers and glossy Polaroids.

When he brings it back to me, I glance down, expecting some kind of event flyer.

Instead, I see myself—or rather, someone in a remarkably similar elf costume, perched on Santa’s lap and grinning like her life depends on it.

The photo is definitely not from a country club, and it’s absolutely not PG-rated.

Hell, it’s freaking creepy as hell. I look up sharply, gauging how hard I’m going to knee him in the balls if he takes one more step toward me.

He's watching my reaction like it's his favorite part of the whole transaction, his watery eyes gleaming with anticipation, the corners of his chapped lips twitching upward beneath that ratty synthetic beard.

"We do special requests," he says, winking one bloodshot eye. "Private clients. All high-end." His voice has a greasy quality that makes my skin crawl.

My throat closes as anger at my own gullibility flows through me. "I thought this was for kids," I manage to croak out.

"Kids can't pay," he says with a wheezy chuckle. "This is for grown-ups. They want... memories." He drags out the word while I mentally gag. "You're new, so you get a bonus if you're willing to try the 'Naughty List' package."

There's a beat. I stare at the camcorder with its blinking red light, then the door with its peeling paint and rusted hinges, then back to his smirking face, now flushed pink with excitement.

"You're fucking kidding," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. But the hungry look in his eyes tells me he's not kidding. Not even a little bit.

“Light touching,” he says, as if that makes any of this better. “Just a photo and video of the act for the customer to keep. You keep your hat on and lose everything else. If you want to make real money, you upgrade to the Premium Package. That’s when—”

Oh hell no. “Not freaking happening,” I mutter as I turn and hightail back to my Mazda. “I’ll leave the elf uniform at the UPS store,” I call over my shoulder without looking back at Sleazy Santa.

He sputters behind me, “You’ll never find another gig that pays this well.”

I ignore him as I fumble my Mazda’s door open and launch myself inside. Pissed I fell for this.

My breath fogs up the windshield as I turn the key. The engine stutters to life, barely. There’s a rattling behind the glove compartment as I put the car in reverse, and I hold my breath, hoping my trusty rusty Mazda at least gets me back to my apartment.

I pull out of the lot, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles go white. There’s a moment, as I wait for a break in traffic, where the car idles and everything is eerily quiet.

I roll up my window, jam the heater to “MAX,” and head home. I make it about three blocks before my Mazda starts screaming for help.

At first, it’s just the normal, sad little whine from the engine. Been there, heard that. I pat the dash and mutter, “Don’t you dare, Zippy Doo. Just a little farther.” My car answers with a sound like a coffee grinder eating gravel. Louder. Then a thunk so violent it jars my teeth.

Not kidding, my heart drops to my toes as the steering wheel shudders under my hands.

The heater coughs out one last pitiful puff of lukewarm air before giving up completely.

Of course. Because the only thing worse than being broke is being broke and freezing your butt off in a dying car with no way to pay for the repairs.

Oh, and the check engine light? Now it’s flashing in time with the radio, which is playing Mariah Carey at full blast.

Fate is trolling me. Big time.

I jerk the wheel and lurch Zippy Doo onto the shoulder, right next to a field that’s as empty as my bank account. The engine wheezes, shudders, and goes dead. Silence. Mariah Carey’s last note is still ringing in my ears.

Things have definitely gone from bad to worse.

It’s pitch black outside except for the sad glow from a streetlamp up the road. I smack the dashboard. Nothing. I try the key again. Not even a whimper. I’m officially stranded while wearing Elf Hooker Chic with no coat, no power, no heat, and not even the dignity of pants.

I fumble for my phone and... are you kidding me? The screen’s completely black. Dead as a doornail. I press the button a million times. Nada.

This cannot be happening.

But it is. I take a deep breath and mentally pull up my big girl pants.

I’ve been in jams before. Plenty. Growing up in an orphanage taught me to be tough.

And to rely on myself. I tell myself I’ve been in worse jams than this, and I’ve always gotten by.

I’ll find a way out of this, too. After my little pep talk, I open the door and step out into the chilly, Texas night. Freaking hell. It’s cold.

My entire body does a full-body shiver as I huddle against the wind, regretting every life choice that landed me in this position.

I mean, what kind of cosmic joke is it to get stuck on the side of the road in slutty Elf Hooker Chic?

I’m so cold my knees are knocking louder than Mariah Carey’s high note.

My fingers are numb. My teeth are chattering.

There’s a bar down the road. The Silver Spur Saloon. I’ve driven past it a hundred times but never actually set foot inside. Guess tonight’s the night I bust in wearing a skirt so short it technically qualifies as a belt and an elf hat that jingles every time I blink.

Please, universe, don’t let me die of embarrassment. I push open the door to the Silver Spur Saloon, and every single head turns at once. Of course, they do. Because I’m the literal opposite of subtle right now.

Desperation sucks.