Chapter 19
“Mom?” she says, eyebrows pinched.
He rolls his lips and strokes a thumb over her knuckles before saying, “I’m your son, Eben.”
“My son?” she asks, still confused.
“Your one and only,” he nods.
“Who did I have a son with?” she asks, tilting her head.
He sighs—deep and regretful. “Ronnie Golding.”
Her eyes flash with anger. Her lips curl into a snarl. “Ronnie Golding? That rat bastard.”
“And there it is,” he says with a nervous laugh.
“Lying, cheating, no-good, piece-of-shit, son of a bitch—”
I blink. It’s wild hearing so much venom pouring out of such a tiny, grandmotherly-looking woman. Her big, blue eyes—Eben’s eyes—narrow into sharp little slits as she eviscerates the so-called King of Christmas. No wonder Eben hates the holidays. It’s in his DNA.
“Where is he?” she demands at the end of her tirade, little fists balled up like she’s ready to throw down. Eben wraps his big hands around both of hers.
“He’s not here, Mom,” he says softly.
“He’s with that whore Rebecca, isn’t he?” she says.
Ouch. I see spit fly when she says it.
“Nope—and we don’t say that about women,” Eben says. Then adds, almost to himself: “If anyone’s the whore, it’s Dad.”
She scoffs, clearly not thrilled at being corrected, but not arguing either.
Eben clears his throat and steps aside. “Uh, Mom, this is Melody. She’s my, uh, Mrs. Claus.” He looks at me apologetically.
I step forward, unsure if I should shake her hand, hug her, or drop dead on the spot. Eben’s mom gives me a look that could curdle eggnog.
“Honey, why are you dressed like that?” she says, her brow wrinkling in disapproval.
My face heats up faster than a mug of mulled wine. Eben touches my elbow, a gentle anchor in the awkwardness.
“Sorry,” he whispers, “she doesn’t have a filter anymore.”
“What are you saying about me?” she snaps.
He sighs. I laugh, because what else can you do? “It’s so nice to meet you…”
“Anne,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Anne,” I repeat. My brain, bless it, decides that instead of a standard greeting, I should curtsy. I actually curtsy.
Anne stares. “Oh,” Anne says, then glances at Eben. “She’s weird.”
“Okay,” Eben says, chuckling as he steers her toward the door. “They’re going to leave without you.”
“She’s pretty, but weird,” Anne adds. Eben throws me an apologetic look over his shoulder. I stand there, stunned, watching him guide her to the bus. The moment they’re gone, I collapse into a chair, burying my face in my hands.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter into my palms.
A few minutes later, Eben returns.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, yanking a chair toward me with his foot and sitting so our knees touch. “I was going to tell you, but I was trying to find the right time.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “I think I just made myself look like a giant moron in front of your poor mother.”
He pries my hands away gently. “Don’t worry,” he says with a half-sad, half-teasing smile. “She won’t remember.”
I groan and drop my head between my knees. “That makes it worse.”
He laughs. “Why?”
“Because I guarantee I’m going to make an idiot of myself every time I see her,” I sigh.
He smiles, squeezing my knee. “And I guarantee she’ll forget every time.”
I look up and really see him: this man, comforting me after I made a fool of myself in front of his mother, is also losing a parent to dementia. I meet the sad glacier-blue eyes he shares with her.
“You do all this for her,” I say, gesturing at the Santa suit.
“It’s easier to pretend to be someone else,” he admits quietly. “I can introduce myself as Santa Claus instead of the son she doesn’t remember.”
“She seemed to remember you today.”
“She has moments of clarity.” He leans back, stretching out his legs so they bracket mine. “But she never forgets Ronnie Golding.”
That name again. It hangs in the air like a ghost of bad Christmases past.
“Your dad never comes to visit her?” I ask, doing my best not to stare at his chest through that criminally thin undershirt. Not the time to ogle a man baring his soul.
“Not once,” he says with a shrug. “Which is probably for the best. My mom would definitely rip his dick off.”
“Oh my God,” I laugh, startled. “Your dad’s… kind of problematic, huh?”
Eben winces. “Understatement of the century.”
“Why do you work for him?” I ask.
He shrugs and leans forward, his fingertips fanning over my bare knee—slow and soft—I instantly forget my question.
“You ready to get out of here?”
It’s a noticeable change of subject, but the half-smile on his face holds the promise of so much more—and yes, I’m very ready to leave. Maybe find a bed. Or a couch. Or the back of his truck. I’m not feeling picky.
“Not so fast,” Missy says, sweeping in with a clipboard and shit-eating grin.
I jerk upright and tug my makeshift dress down as far as it will go. Eben leans back, and I mourn the loss of his hands on my skin.
“I’ve got a list of errands for the pageant,” she says, passing him the clipboard.
He glances down and groans. I tilt it toward me to assess the damage.
“That’s… kind of a long list,” I say, already winded.
“And aggressively Christmassy,” Eben adds with a grimace.
“Good thing you two are getting along so well,” Missy says, with a glint in her eye, then pivots on her heel. I can practically hear the ba-dum-tss as she waves over her shoulder and marches out to chaperone the seniors to their field trip.
Eben and I sit in stunned silence, staring dumbly at the giant list: craft fair runs, hanging flyers, baking hundreds of cookies.
“Should we divide and conquer?” I ask, eyeing his frowny profile.
He whips toward me, scandalized—eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Real panic. “Oh, hell no. I’m not doing this Christmas shit by myself.”
I suppress a grin. He’d rather suffer through this list with me than without me. As for me, I secretly swoon at the thought of running errands together.
“Fine.” I sigh theatrically. “We should start with the cookies. They’ll take at least three days.”
“Three days?” he says, hating his life.
“If you do them right,” I say smugly.
“Can’t we just buy them?” I swear I hear a whimper.
“Better not pout, Mr. Claus,” I sing-song, wagging a finger.
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like he’s still pouting. I press a finger to his lips to shut him up.
“Way ahead of you, Kris Kringle.” I puff my chest dramatically. “It’s time you were introduced to the—drumroll, please.”
Eben blinks.
I clear my throat and plant my fist at my waist. “The Christmas Palace!”
“The Christmas Palace?” His eyebrows shoot up. He looks equal parts intrigued and terrified.
“For approximately eleven months a year, the Christmas Palace moonlights as a normal one-bedroom apartment belonging to a single woman who needs to muster up the guts to ask her boss for a raise. But in December, it’s magically transformed into—”
“A place where Christmas obsession and cult trauma meet?” His eyes twinkle with mischief.
I glare. He’s ruining my vibe.
“No, a place where all your Christmas dreams come true!”
His grin goes crooked. “All of them?”
My cheeks burn Santa-suit red. My mind flashes back to the night before. I shake it off. “Come on, Santa, we’ve got a lot to do.”
As I march toward the door, I hear him sigh behind me. He’s morphed from sexy-Santa stud muffin to pouty little kid in two seconds flat.
“Coming,” he says at last, dragging his feet.
I finally have this man right where I want him—balls deep in Christmas shenanigans with no way out.