Chapter 10
My job is excruciating this week. One of my clients was not satisfied with the final designs for her new house, and she happens to be a top executive at one of our major corporate partners.
A lot was riding on this one, and I botched it. In my defense, she said she loathed modern, so I opted for a classic French Provencal style—antique accents, a touch of shabby chic, and pretty pastels.
Her aversion to modern design was a seething animosity toward egg-shaped chairs.
In reality, she wanted modern farmhouse—like every other nouveau riche white woman I’ve had the pleasure of picking out barn doors for.
A rookie mistake. Let’s face it.
Deb and Don were chill about it, despite their twin lobster tans after snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef. But now I’m balls-deep in a redesign of an 8,000-square-foot mansion that’s making me want to gouge my eyes out with the wrong end of a wooden spoon.
So. Much. Beige.
My spare moments not spent drowning in Interia renderings (a program so slow and glitchy it makes me want to pull my hair out) are devoted to classic Christmas films and gorging on peppermint bark until I’m sick to my stomach.
I also obsessively keep checking my phone.
For no reason in particular.
Okay—so Eben hasn’t said anything since our Sunday pseudo-date, and I desperately want to say hello, but I hate to be the first one to text. Call me old-fashioned, but if a guy is interested, he should be the Text-in-Chief, not me.
Right?
Just say hi, Ally texts. You’re so archaic it’s almost anti-feminist.
I hate to initiate, I text back while White Christmas dazzles on the TV. If he’s interested, he’ll take initiative.
Sounds like a line out of a bad female dating strategy book, Ally replies.
I hesitate and then start typing. For your information, I’ve been flipping through Never Chase Men Again.
Nooooo, God, she fires back.
Me: What?
Ally: We do NOT under ANY circumstances read FDS books written by MEN.
I bite down hard on a hunk of peppermint bark. The satisfying crunch is an addiction—an outlet for whatever repressed rage lurks deep inside me.
I sigh and stare at my phone for a long time before clicking on Xmas Hater (my contact name for Eben; “Santa Claus” was just too weird).
Hi, I type.
And immediately hate myself.
Goddammit, Ally, I text.
You did it, didn’t you? You texted him. I can practically hear her giggling through the screen.
Now I’m going to obsess over this all night, I say, ready to pull my hair out.
My phone dings—and it’s not Ally.
Eben: Hey :)
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG, I type—triple-checking that it’s going to Ally.
Ally: He texted back?
Me: Yup :D
Ally: OMG YOU ARE FINALLY GOING TO GET LAID!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Ok. Shut up.
Ally: Well, we’ve been worried.
Me: WHO IS WE.
Ally: Me and Teddy, ofc.
Me: A big FU to both of you.
Ally: We love you too. Gonna finish the dishes and hit the sack. Enjoy your new boy toy.
She ends with a kissy face and a bunch of hearts with arrows—brief pause, then an eggplant and some water droplets. I send back a tongue-out emoji; she replies with an angel.
My phone dings again.
Eben: How are you?
Oooh, a complete sentence. No “r” and “u.” Whew. Gets me all hot and bothered.
Me: I’m good! Just eating peppermint bark and watching White Christmas. You?
Him: Oh, nothing. Just sipping hot chocolate out of an “I <3 Christmas” mug and singing carols by the fire, dressed in traditional Victorian garb.
Me: Can’t resist a man in a frock coat.
Him: I’ll have to remember that.
I blush head to toe on the couch while Bing Crosby serenades Rosemary Clooney with “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep.”
Him: So what are you wearing?
I nearly dump my entire box of chocolates—quick save. I frantically type.
Me: Beg your pardon?
Him: I’ve made an internal bet that it’s either candy cane pajamas or a nutcracker onesie.
I look down at my red-and-white striped silk pajamas. I’m a walking candy cane.
I can’t tell him the truth.
Me: Just a T-shirt and some underwear.
Him: Is that right? Minimalist. I like it.
Me: That’s how I roll.
There’s a long beat before my phone dings again.
Him: It’s a total lie, isn’t it?
Me: How dare you.
Him: Thought so. See you tomorrow?
I’d almost forgotten about tomorrow’s pageant meeting. Ally already told me she can’t go this week because of a work event. It’s just me and Eben. Well, and Missy.
The thought of seeing him makes my stomach do flip-flops.
Damn it.
Me: I’ll be there with (jingle) bells on.
Him: Ha. Goodnight, Mrs. Claus ;)
Oh my God. For anyone else, being called Mrs. Claus by a potential suitor might be annoying—maybe even weird. For me, the Christmas-loving nutball? Hoo boy. I just had to cross my legs. That’s dirty talk, baby.
I go back and forth on what to text back. Should I call him Santa? Just Eben? I settle on the obvious.
Me: Goodnight, Mr. Claus <3
When I wake and glance at the ancient digital clock by my bed, it’s three a.m. I swear I hear rustling in the living room—and the faint jingle of… bells?
I throw back the covers and stumble out.
In the dark, a flash of red catches my eye. I don’t try to turn on any lights; no need to alert the intruder to my presence.
I tiptoe toward the Christmas tree. I don’t remember having a fireplace, but a very tall man with a full beard rises to his full height. He looks right at me through oval spectacles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Santa Claus?” I whisper. But he’s too slim—and too deliciously sculpted beneath the thin red velvet—to be the real Santa. And even through the full beard, I can see plush lips, a straight nose, and twinkling blue eyes. There’s something familiar about him—
“Honey, I’m home,” he says with a big, sweet grin. He looks me up and down. “Wow.”
I look down. I’m in a skimpy red teddy. A red Christmas bow ties over my chest.
“My little Christmas present—ready to be unwrapped.” His hands skim my hips, slide to my waist, gripping and molding my curves.
Heat pools low in my stomach. I brace my palms against a solid chest and look up—the beard, spectacles, and ridiculous hat are gone, revealing glacier-blue eyes, a clean, strong jawline, and soft, smiling lips.
“Eben?” I whisper.
“Shhh,” he breathes, hands sliding down to cup my ass. I gasp as he lifts me until I’m straddling his waist, arms looped around his neck as he carries me to the bedroom.
He lays me on the bed and climbs over me. I’m breathing hard, my legs parting to make room for him. He smiles against my mouth.
“Shall I unwrap my gift now?” His fingers toy with the bow, and I feel the slow slip of silk as it loosens.
His gaze tracks his fingers as they trail from hips to waist to ribs to chest. His thumb ghosts over my nipple, and I buck.
“I’m going to make you scream, Mrs. Claus,” he whispers in my ear before his head dips.
My eyes shoot open. I jolt upright in bed. The room is dark and tragically empty. I’m sweating, my whole body aching with desire.
I sit there, breathing, letting the dream dissolve—then open my bedside drawer and rummage for something to take the ache away.