Chapter 28
Eben and I spend the whole week leading up to the pageant basically inseparable.
On Monday at five sharp, I jog out to his car in the shortest skirt and highest knee-highs I can excavate from the bottom of my closet, lugging an overstuffed bag of sexy goodies, toiletries, and a change of clothes.
We squeeze in one Costco run for six poinsettias.
We barely get them into the truck bed before his hands are all over me.
We barely make the twenty-minute drive back to his place, making out at stoplights the whole way.
Only one dirty look from an older woman in a Kia Sorento, so I’m counting it as discreet.
He pulls into the garage, yanks me onto his lap, pushes my panties aside, and sinks into me so deep I swear I can feel him in my ribs.
We already talked—I’m on the pill, we’re both tested, neither of us is seeing anyone else—so condoms are off the agenda.
He keeps his promise: by Tuesday, I can barely walk. I work from his bed, take Zoom calls with wet hair and no pants, and spend my lunch break with Eben’s head between my thighs (just until our Subway sandwiches arrive).
By Wednesday, we’ve finally worked enough lust out of our systems to focus on Missy’s to-do list. We reserve a hot cocoa machine from a party rental shop, drop Mr. Simmons’ Elvis Santa suit at the dry cleaner, and whip up the pageant program in Canva with a glittery gold template that I’m pretty sure gives Ally hives, all before our weekly check-in with Missy.
At the meeting, we break the news that only half the list is checked off. Missy gives us a look like we’ve personally set fire to Baby Jesus. Ally gives Missy a stern reminder that we’re unpaid volunteers. That seems to shut her up.
Usually, I’d care about disappointing Missy. But with Eben’s hand on my thigh under the table, inching higher and higher until I’m biting my lip to keep from climbing in his lap—I barely hear a word.
We must be more obvious than we think because Edna wheels up behind us and stage-whispers, “Twenty bucks. One hour.” She points down a hallway and gives us an arthritic thumbs-up.
Eben and I trade a look, and Ally rolls her eyes. Missy is too busy spiraling over the news that the Christmas King is making an appearance Saturday to notice Edna trying to pimp out the supply closet.
On Thursday, I introduce Eben to my holiday lingerie collection, and I think I manage to sway him—just a little—on the whole anti-Christmas issue.
He’s especially fond of a red-and-green velvet “sexy elf” set I exhume from the bowels of my closet.
I take a break from Mrs. Claus to be Santa’s not-so-good little helper.
By Friday, the community rallies. Missy reports a flurry of festive donations: the Cherryville Elementary choir offers to perform, a nearby farm volunteers ponies in Christmas sweaters for rides out front, and the downtown bakery promises to drop off trays of cookies—freeing Eben and me for more… intimate acts of service.
A Christmas miracle, truly.
By Saturday, I’m so blissed out and sexually satisfied, I genuinely believe nothing can ruin my mood.
Cue the jingle bells of disaster.
“Places, places, please!” Missy yells, but the nervous chatter drowns her out.
I’m anxious, standing “backstage”—which is just the medical hallway behind the main community room—wrangling the seniors for the opening number.
My head splits with dance recital flashbacks, and it hits me: today I’m a dance mom for the over-eighty set.
The seniors buzz like wizened bees whose hive just fell out of a tree.
Everyone’s looking for something: lipstick, a hairbrush, denture glue.
I bump into Edna, who’s frantically rummaging through her purse (and any purse within reach).
“Lose something?”
“Just my marbles, honey.”
Millie shuffles up behind her and scowls. “She can’t find her scratch-offs.”
“Oh.” I exchange glances with Millie, who’s exasperated that her friend wasn’t ready for the performance at least half an hour early, like she was.
“We’ve got about ten minutes until showtime,” I say. “Edna, why don’t you go get your angel wings on, and I’ll help you look for your tickets later.”
“You’re going to ruin all our hard work because of a gambling problem,” Millie hisses. “She’s trying to resell them to that big fat crowd out there.”
“They’re rich!” Edna snaps.
“If they’re rich, they won’t be buying lottery tickets you stash in your bra.”
A lightbulb goes off. Edna reaches into her shirt, relieved, and pulls out a short stack of scratch-offs like a wad of Benjamins.
Millie groans. “She’s a real alley cat, this one. And then wonders why her kid loves the ponies.”
I watch, horrified, as Edna hikes up a leg in her chair like she’s going to kick Millie in the shin.
I step between them just as Missy appears with the dreaded rat-tail comb and starts fussing with their hair.
They both protest like kids in a school play, and I back away like someone just pointed a gun at me.
The rising hum of collective voices from the community room catches my attention. I peek my head out the door.
What the hell?
It’s standing room only. Every folding chair has a butt in it. The chatter is so loud that even Roger can hear it, and he dropped his hearing aids in Alka Seltzer last week.
Much to my delight, the first row (which Missy decided to sell at a premium rate for a “good cause”) is packed with Daddy Christmas groupies. I hear one woman say she drove up from Florida. Florida? As if they don’t have enough nursing homes to stalk down there.
Ally taps my shoulder, startling me out of my jealousy haze.
“Don’t be one of those people.”
I feign innocence, mostly to cover how embarrassing it is that I’ve gotten this possessive of “Daddy Christmas” in a matter of weeks.
About twenty-five residents are participating in today’s pageantry—mostly those who are still fairly mobile, and not suffering from debilitating osteoporosis or severe cognitive decline.
The rest sit in the reserved resident seating section along stage left.
Those who know where they are are cheering on their friends.
Mrs. Meyers—a tiny white-haired lady who refuses to sleep without curlers—made homemade signs from her grandkids' craft stash.
I spot Anne. Eben’s mom. Sitting quietly in the crowd.
A sharp pang hits my gut. I find Eben across the room. He’s nervous too, biting his nails like they’ve been dipped in butter.
He hovers near his mom in his Santa pants and a snug white tee that hugs his biceps—biceps that I know intimately now. He’s sweating, eyes darting like he’s had six shots of espresso.
He walks over to me and Ally. “Have you guys seen Ronnie yet?”
Ronnie. Wow. Even in absentia, the Christmas King can’t get a “Dad” out of his firstborn son—brutal, baby.
He sees the gears turning in my brain—the way my parents would’ve locked me in the attic for casually calling them “Bill” or “Dianne.” He lifts a brow.
“We work together. I’m used to calling my dad Ronnie.”
“Makes sense,” I say, cooler than intended.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Ally shoots me a stay-out-of-it look.
It should be easy to keep my mouth shut—Ally’s the meddling, opinionated one, not me—but I’m struggling.
Other than Christmas, family stuff is my only hot-button issue.
But this isn’t my family, and Eben doesn’t need a lecture on complicated fathers.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
I clear my throat. “No. Nobody’s seen him. Missy was asking twenty minutes ago.”
We’re minutes from curtain, and I need my elderly angels winged-up and ready. The crowd already sounds rowdy and impatient, so we’d better start on time.
I peek through the doors again. The TikTok fans wave “Santa Baby” signs, and at least two women rock red bras with white fur trim—full SantaCon energy (aka see you on the evening news) at a family-friendly nursing home pageant.
I’m a little shocked Missy let them in, but I guess she’ll take anyone’s money for a good cause.
Hey, at least they’re giving the blue hairs something to talk about. I spot Roger
ogling. I guess charity comes in all shapes, colors, and cup sizes.
“I’m just hoping my mom doesn’t recognize him,” Eben murmurs.
“How likely is that?”
He swallows. “Not very.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. There’s that familiar tug of guilt.
“Her nurse gave her a Lorazepam an hour ago,” he says.
“And all Santa Clauses look alike.”
He smirks. “No, we don’t.”
“Okay, fine. You Goldings are a special breed of Santa.”
My gaze drifts over his Santa-clad torso, and his eyes darken as he takes me in just as hungrily.
I’ve swapped my Mrs. Claus getup for something more formal: a long burgundy velvet dress with a high slit and a sweetheart neckline.
It hugs all my curves in all the right places.
Eben’s family plight momentarily forgotten, as his hand finds my waist and tugs me flush against him. His icy-blue eyes melt into mine.
He ducks his head to my ear and whispers, “You look good enough to eat.”
My lips part, my thighs clench, my hand skims up his chest, lingering on hard muscle beneath thin cotton—
—and that’s when Missy rudely claps a clipboard right between us.
“What are you two doing? Where are my angels? Showtime is in five minutes!” she barks, giving me a flashback to my chain-smoking ballet teacher from third grade. If she says pas de chat with a hard H and accidentally spits on me, we might throw hands.
“The angels are in hell,” Eben murmurs as Missy drags me away.