2. Ivy
CHAPTER 2
Ivy
C risscross applesauce in my flannel candy cane pajamas—the heaviest ones I own—I clutch my hands around the cup of steamed apple cider I made myself before leaving the coffee shop. Turning up the heat costs more and encourages the radiator to clank louder without actually making my drafty apartment warmer.
So I wrap myself in the thick comforters I picked up at the thrift store and settle in for a night of scrolling the internet on my second-hand laptop. I’m so grateful it’s still running now that I’ve finished school.
Not that my animal welfare degree is doing me any favors these days. It put me in crippling debt without any available positions for me to land so I can pay back my loans before I die.
Ah, well.
At least there’s the coffee shop to help me scrape by for now. Tips are usually pretty decent during this time of year.
My tips! Maybe I can afford to stream a cheesy holiday movie with a handsome hero and plenty of swoon-worthy kissing to take my mind off losing Snowflake.
I lunge for my jeans and rummage through the stiff denim with one hand until I yank a wadded ball of bills with a core of coins from the pocket.
As soon as I toss it onto my bed, I realize something’s not right.
Instead of assorted change and a couple of singles like usual, there’s a no-longer-crisp hundred sitting on top. “What the heck?”
I set my paper cup on my garage-sale-find nightstand and reach out shaking fingers toward the money.
A little something extra for the holidays.
Cole! It had to have been him.
But that’s a whole lotta something.
Oh no, what if it was a mistake? When I grab the bill and realize there are several more just like it folded in half so they stick together, I freeze.
You might drop one in there thinking it was a ten, but five of them?
Good grief, they must love their coffees.
Or their business—whatever it is—had an exceptionally good year. I sometimes overhear their animated conversations about marketing plans, reinvestment, and growth strategies.
No idea what it means, but it sounds positive.
I unfold the stack, flattening the cash as best I can.
Running my fingers over it, I sigh knowing Cole touched the same spot earlier.
If they hadn’t already been my favorites, my regulars certainly sealed their place at the top forever after tonight. Not because of the money—my landlord is going to appreciate that more than me—but because they were so dang generous, helpful, and protective.
Snowflake might be the lucky one.
As I’m imagining her snuggling up on Pax’s pillow instead of mine, something else falls out of the tips.
A thick, gold-foiled business card.
On the front, red lettering spells out OnlySantas.com.
What the crap?
I flip it over.
Free Trial Code: SitOnOurLaps
I wonder who put that in the jar.
So many customers swarmed the counter during the peak shopping hours this evening, I couldn’t keep my eye on them all. Probably a practical joke.
Still, what else do I have to do that’s more entertaining than see what this is all about?
Free is free, after all.
Type in the address. Hit enter. Create an account to start a trial.
Promptly lose control of all the muscles in my face.
My mouth gapes open. My eyes bug out.
It’s a freaking cam show site themed for the holidays. Of course it is!
OnlySantas. I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand.
Does anyone actually find that sexy? I’m about to click out of there at the speed of maybe-my-browser-history-won’t-register-this-if-I-leave-fast-enough, when something catches my eye.
The headline performance for the night features not one but three masked men.
My nice-list status is officially in jeopardy.
Because instead of bailing, I figure…what could it hurt to take a quick peek?