Chapter 2 #2
The thought registers somewhere in the back of my mind, distant and irrelevant, because holy hell, this man knows what he’s doing.
His mouth moves against mine with devastating confidence, like kissing is an art form he’s perfected.
One hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, angling me exactly where he wants me.
The other hand settles on my waist, broad and warm even through my dress, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against solid muscle.
I should stop this. Pull back. Say thank you and deal with Scot and salvage what’s left of my professional reputation.
Instead, I kiss him back like my life depends on it.
My hands slide up his chest. Damn, he’s built, nothing but hard planes under that ridiculous costume, and he makes a low sound in his throat that short-circuits every logical thought in my brain. Everything about him is intoxicating, and I press closer, inhale deeper, drown in his scent.
Nobody kisses like this.
His tongue sweeps against my bottom lip, question and demand all at once, and I open for him without thinking, without hesitation. The hand in my hair tightens just slightly, possessive, and I make a sound I’ve never made before—I purr against him.
This is insane. This is a stranger. This is Santa Claus.
I don’t care.
I kiss him back with everything I have, weeks of stress and tension dissolving into pure sensation. His mouth is hot against mine, demanding and giving at the same time, and I’m drowning in the taste of him, something dark and slightly sweet, addictive.
When we finally break apart, I’m gasping, dizzy, my lips tingling and my brain struggling to come back online.
I stare up at him.
That’s when reality crashes back in.
The Santa beard is hanging loose around his neck, forgotten, and the face above me makes my breath catch for an entirely different reason.
This is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not Declan.
This man is gorgeous in a way that should come with a warning label. Sharp jaw covered in dark stubble. High cheekbones. A mouth currently curved in a smirk that leaves me buzzing. And his eyes focused on me with an expression that’s equal parts amused and heated.
His dark hair falls across his forehead as if he just rolled out of bed. Combined with the Santa suit straining across his shoulders, it’s absurd and unfairly attractive all at once.
“You’re—” My voice comes out rough, and I have to clear my throat. “You’re not the Santa I hired.”
His smirk deepens, and there’s pure male satisfaction in those green eyes. “Definitely not Declan. Though I have to say, that’s one hell of a way to say hello. You make a habit of kissing strangers like you’re trying to set them on fire?”
My face goes nuclear. “I… that wasn’t… I needed—”
“YOU BITCH!” Scot’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
I spin around, and the expression on his face makes my blood run cold. Fury and humiliation twist his features into something ugly, something I’ve never seen before. People are staring now, conversations dying as heads turn in our direction.
“Scot.” I step toward him, hands raised, trying to de-escalate. “Keep your voice down. Let’s go talk in private, as we’re at an event.”
“I don’t give a shit about the party!” He’s swaying, whiskey and rage making his movements jerky, unpredictable. “You won’t kiss me, but you’ll kiss some random asshole you don’t even know?”
My stomach hurts. “We’re business partners. That’s it. I’ve told you that repeatedly.” I reach for his arm, trying to calm him, trying to pull him away from the growing audience. “Scot, please, not here.”
He shakes me off hard enough that I stumble, catching myself on a nearby table. “Business partners? I brought you into this company! I vouched for you when my uncle wanted to hire someone with actual experience! And this is how you repay me?”
Santa moves closer behind me. I sense him there, solid and protective, a physical barrier between me and Scot’s escalating anger.
“Scot, you’re drunk. You’re making a scene.”
He takes a step closer, and several guests quickly move out of his way. “You’ve been stringing me along for months. Making me believe we were building something together, and not just the business. And now you humiliate me?”
“I never strung you along. I’ve been completely clear about boundaries from day one.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out slurred. “You smiled at me. You laughed at my jokes. You worked late with me. What the hell was I supposed to think?”
“That I was being professional!” My voice rises despite my best efforts. “That I was being a decent colleague! That doesn’t mean I want to date you!”
“We’re done.” Scot is backing away now, pointing at me with the hand still holding his glass.
Whiskey sloshes over the rim, spattering on the floor.
“You hear me? Done. Find yourself a new business, because I’m out.
My uncle’s going to hear about this. You’ll be finished in this town before New Year’s.
Mark my fucking words, Hannah. You’re going to regret this. ”
“Scot, wait…”
But he’s already turning, shouldering past confused guests who scramble out of his path, heading for the exit. I stare at him leaving, my partnership and my future walking out the door.
The room has gone quiet except for the music. Everyone is staring. The perfect evening I crafted is crumbling in real time, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
My throat goes tight. My eyes start burning.
I’m going to cry. Right here, in front of everyone, at the most important event of my career.
“Hell of a first impression.” The voice behind me is low, rough around the edges, unexpectedly gentle. “I feel like I just kissed my way into a soap opera.”
A laugh escapes me, half sob, completely genuine. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You okay?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice, and turn to face Santa.
“Come on.” A hand, large, calloused, surprisingly careful, wraps around my elbow. “Let’s get you out of the spotlight.”
He guides me away from the main room, somehow making it look casual, like we’re just moving through the party instead of fleeing the wreckage of my professional life. The crowd parts easily, people stepping aside for him without seeming to realize they’re doing it.
We end up at the bar tucked in the southwest corner, partially hidden by decorative pine garland. The bartender takes one look at my face and starts making me something without being asked.
Santa positions himself between me and the rest of the room, blocking me from view, giving me space to fall apart in private.
The drink appears, hot cocoa, but when I take a sip, there’s definitely whiskey in it. Maybe rum. Something strong enough to burn on the way down.
“Figured you needed it,” he says.
I drain half the mug, feeling warmth spread through my chest, loosening the panic squeezing my lungs.
“Breathe,” Santa says, his tone steady, like he does this all the time. “In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth. Again.”
I follow his instructions, dragging air into my lungs, forcing it out slowly. Once. Twice. Three times.
The hyperventilating eases.
My hands stop shaking.
“That’s better. You’re okay.”
“Not really.” My voice wavers. “I just destroyed everything. My partnership, my career, probably this entire event.”
“Look at the room.”
I glance past him. The party is still going. Conversations resumed, and the quartet never stopped playing. People are eating, drinking, laughing.
“Nobody cares,” he says. “Ten minutes from now, they’ll forget it happened. Drunk guy caused a scene, got shut down, left. That’s it. The event’s fine.”
“Scot’s not going to forget.”
“He’s a jackass who can’t handle rejection.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s simple math. “That’s his problem, not yours.”
I sigh. “He’s my business partner. Was my business partner. Now I don’t know what he is.” I laugh, but it comes out broken. “God, this is such a disaster. Six months of work, gone. Giuseppe is never going to sell us the company now, not after this mess. Scot will make sure of it.”
Santa is watching me with those intense green eyes, and I notice for the first time how he holds himself, weight balanced, ready to move, like someone who’s used to things going sideways fast. There’s a stillness to him that’s almost predatory, but somehow it makes me feel safer instead of scared.
“Who are you?” I finally ask. “And where the hell is Declan?”
His mouth quirks, and I catch the hint of a dimple. “Funny story, actually. Your Santa, Declan, turns out he’s wanted for arson. Two cabins, nearly killed a family. Also, attempted theft, battery on a cop, and skipping bail. Twice.”
I blink. Process. “What?”
“My partners and I picked him up this afternoon on Main Street. He was outside your sister’s bakery in a Santa suit, eating cookies like he didn’t have a care in the world.
” He crosses his arms, and the Santa suit pulls tight across his chest in a way that’s deeply distracting.
“We were hauling him into our truck to take him in when your sister… Lily, right? She came running out, panicking about the party having no Santa. She wouldn’t let us leave until I agreed to fill in so it didn’t ruin your event. ”
I stare at him.
He stares back, waiting.
“Hold on.” I lift up a hand, my brain struggling to catch up. “You’re telling me you’re not an actor. You’re not a performer. You’re, what, law enforcement?”
“Bounty hunter.”
“You hunt down criminals for a living?”
“Yep.”
“And Lily convinced you to play Santa for me?”
“More like guilt-tripped me into it, but yeah, basically.”