Accidental Christmas Daddy (Unintentionally Yours #11)

Chapter 1

Riley

“Can someone open the door please!” I shout as I bang on the window of the french doors.

But it’s no use.

No one can see me.

No one can hear me.

I am trapped on the rooftop of a hotel event room, ten stories high.

It’s December and even though we are on the San Francisco Bay, it’s cold. While everyone else is inside sipping spiked cocoa and hot toddies, I am stuck outside on a roof in the sky and I’m cold.

And to ice the metaphoric Christmas cookie that seems to be my life right now, I’m in a slutty Mrs. Claus costume. Because with the way my life is going, why the hell wouldn’t I be?

I do the only rational thing I can think of and pound on the glass again, two fists this time, yelling at the top of my lungs like a frozen, red velvet clad lunatic.

“Hey! Someone! Let me in!”

After I’ve done enough cardio to earn me one–or five– of those frosted cookies sitting on a table right on the other side of the glass, I give up.

My shoulders slump in defeat and I walk over to the metal patio chair and plop down.

Immediately, I regret my choice (as I am regretting many choices right now) because it too is freezing and my ass is probably stuck to the slats like that kid on A Christmas Story got his tongue stuck to a frozen pole.

“I guess this is it,” I say, picking up the cup of punch I grabbed right before I got social anxiety induced claustrophobia and snuck out here.

“This is how I die. A popsicle on the top of a hotel, at a costume party charity event I planned but know nothing about, sulking in the corner while all the rich people and doctors and skinny girls drink and be merry.”

I raise my glass, cheering to me and me alone, and take another sip.

This would be how my evening would go.

As if it’s not bad enough that I came here without a date.

Not that event planners usually go to their events with dates but everyone else has a date.

All I have is a third a glass of wine in my hand, goosebumps on my legs and frostbite on my hiney.

Suddenly, the door opens and I jump up.

“Thank god!” I gasp, peeling myself off the chair. “I thought I would never be rescued.”

The man, who is dressed in a Santa Clause suit (did I mention it’s a Christmas themed costume party? Like why couldn’t it just be an Ugly sweater party?) stands in the doorway looking back inside.

He raises his glass to no one in particular before saying, “Cheers, assholes. Thanks for nothing.”

With that, he turns around.

And as he does… he lets go of the door.

“Wait! Don’t let it close!” I cry out. I’m running, leaping, practically diving to grab the door before it closes.

But as I land on the ground, I am an inch too short. “It's…locked.”

“Shit,” Fake Santa says. “If I’d seen you there I would have held the door for you.”

“That would have been ideal,” I mutter as I look up at him.

“Your ass is hanging out,” he nods down at me and I’m pretty sure my cheeks are the same color as my dress.

As I scramble to my feet, he tries to help me but I swat at him.

That’s when I notice his face.

Fake Santa isn’t bad looking. And by not bad, I mean…damn.

He’s definitely older than me, I’d say early forties.

Even under his hat that is too big (must be a rental) his hair is dark but peppered with silver. He’s also got light brown eyes, warm and flecked with something wild and lips that curve up even though he isn’t smiling.

Or is he?

I brush myself off and remind myself of the words my best friend Amber never says– never trust a smirk.

Clearly, Amber has never seen this man’s smirk.

“Not enjoying the party?” he asks.

“I needed air,” I tell him.

“Looks like you’ve had your share,” he nods at me and I look down to find that my cold, hard nipples are budding under the velvet in my dress. “So why don’t you go back inside?”

My eyes widen at his ignorance. “Why? Because! It’s locked!” I grab the handle and give it a dramatized full body hank.

“You sure?” A dark and silver streaked set of eyebrows furrows and he steps over, grabbing the handle and tugging on it himself. “Damn. You’re right. It’s locked.”

“No shit Sherlock!” I let out as I throw my hands in the air and walk towards the banister.

“Santa Clause,” he says and I hear the ice in his glass clink as he takes a sip.

“Excuse me?” I ask, turning back around against my better judgement. I’m a Californian born and raised and I think the below 50 temperature is starting to get to me.

“You called me Sherlock. I’m Santa Clause,” he motions down to his suit which is very fitted to his annoyingly toned body. Forty something or not, the guy is stacked. It’s obnoxious.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you patronizing me?” I ask, my tone brimmed with venom.

“I was trying to make you smile. Did it work?”

“What do you think?” I spit out.

“I’m going to go with no.”

He walks over and rests his arms on the banister before slowly turning to look at me. “You come here often?”

When I nearly explode, Fake Santa chuckles, putting his hands up defensively. “I’m sorry. It was a clean shot. I had to.”

“Well, I might have to throw you over the edge,” I snap back.

He stands up straight and looks down at me. Even in my heels he’s got at least six inches on me.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I swallow. “Yeah…”

After a moment, he leans on the banister again, taking another sip of what looks like the punch. “If it makes you feel any better, my night has been shitty enough that being locked out here is better than being trapped in there.”

“That’s one thing we can agree on,” I say softly, still very much annoyed.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

I snort. “I haven’t had enough to drink to talk about it. And I regret to inform you that if you’re drinking the punch, you haven’t either. It’s not spiked.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“Because. From the location to catering to the open bar. And the punch is booze free.”

His lips tip upward and my god. They’re even more lethal in a full blown smirk. Not only that? The man has dimples. Dimples! “The bowl may be virgin but I’m not…”

My eyes widen. Then he tips his glass to me. “My drink. I boozed myself.”

With that, he reaches into the pocket of his Santa pants and presents a black flask.

“There’s a lot of alcohol in there. Why do you need that?”

“Correction. There’s a lot of shitty alcohol in there. This is the good stuff.”

I stiffen at that. “Are you blaming the event planner?”

“I’m not blaming anyone for anything,” he says, those whiskey colored eyes of his shimmering in the moonlight because the sun is officially gone. And, as he takes my empty wine glass from me and fills it with a finger of what I assume is bourbon, my dignity is gone with it.

I take a sip, letting it burn its way down. “Do you know what it’s like being at parties all the time that you aren’t invited to?”

“Can’t be any worse than being obligated to go to parties you don’t want to attend,” he says, taking a sip. “So you’re here alone?”

I give him a look and he shakes his head.

“Not a line. Just trying to get to know the woman I’m stranded with. It’ll make the time pass until someone else needs a breather and opens the door for us.”

Suddenly I have a thought. One I should have come up with minutes ago. “Do you have your phone? We could call–”

But Fake Santa is already shaking his head. “It’s in my other pants.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter, taking another hot sip. At least it’s warming me up a little.

“Where’s yours?” he asks.

“My purse,” I admit.

After a beat, I open up a little more. I blame the whiskey. And the two glasses of wine I had before it. “To answer your question, I did not come here alone.”

“Oh? Hot date in there?”

“Not exactly. I came with my ex.”

He cringes. “Your ex is your date?”

“I said he’s not my date. He came with his girlfriend.”

“Your date brought a date?” he grins then tucks back a little.

My expression could kill. “My ex brought his new girlfriend.”

“I feel like I’ve already crossed a line so I figure I have nothing to lose. Why are you third wheeling with your ex?”

I sigh, lean harder against the railing. “Because we’re still friends,” I mumble.

“Is that actually a thing?” he asks.

“I wasn’t right for him. He wasn’t right for me. And he’s actually supposed to be at this party. He works in medical engineering and design.”

“Ah. So you’re not really here with him. You’re just here with him.”

“Yeah, something like that.” I look over at him. “What about you? Who are you when you’re not being Santa?”

“The son of someone more important,” he answers, taking another drink. “I’m here on his behalf.”

“Son of a doctor,” I nod.

“Yeah. But in all honesty, I hate parties.”

“Even charity parties for sick kids?” I tease. Because he started it. And because this bourbon really is stronger than anything I ordered for the pop up bar.

“I care about the kids. I don’t care about politics. These events are disguised to be about the kids but really, they’re all about the depth of those people’s pockets,” he says as he points back inside.

“Fair enough,” I say.

He looks over at me. It’s light enough from the city around us that I can make out his features but too dark to really see his face. Yet I can see enough to know his gaze is locked on me. I get a chill, though it’s probably because the temperature dropped again.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“I’m Mrs. Clause,” I answer. “Did the outfit not give it away?”

“Oh trust me, the outfit has given plenty away. Did you find it in a lingerie store?”

“Did you find that suit on the Chipendales wannabee website? Is it patched together with tear-away velcro?”

“You wanna find out?” he asks and I don’t have to be able to see his face to know he is smirking again.

“You wish.”

“Come on,” he presses. “It’s not like we are ever going to see each other again. Just a first name.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because the last thing I need is you trying to find me after we leave this party.”

He steps a little closer. “What makes you think I’d want to find you?

“Oh please,” I roll my eyes, turning away. “You’ve been ogling me ever since I skidded across the floor over there in an attempt to get out of here.”

“And you would only know that if you were looking at me too,” he says.

I open my mouth and close it again. Then I march over to the door and bang on it again. Just as I do, music fills the room behind the glass. The live band is starting, meaning we are really S.O.L.

“Fuck,” I snap, turning around and hugging myself. A breeze picks up and I am officially shivering.

“You cold?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“You’re shaking,” he points out.

“Yeah well, your costume has a furry coat. Mine is…”

“Lingerie,” he muses again and I flip him off.

“I’m sorry, I’m kind of an asshole sometimes,” he says as I walk over to the other side of the pre-lit, decorative tree because we are standing on a six by ten foot platform one hundred feet in the air and it’s the only way to put space between me and him.

Unfortunately he follows and when I turn to face him, he’s right in front of me and he’s shirtless.

My mouth unhinges as I mentally count his ab muscles and take note of a small tattoo on his ribcage.

“Here,” he says, draping his coat around my shoulders.

I am immediately thankful but also resentful for the warmth. “Now you’re going to be cold.”

“I’m fine,” he lies. “I don’t get cold easily.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“San Diego,” he says and I start laughing. I don’t know if it’s the booze or the cold or even just the insanity of the situation but I’m giggling and I can’t stop.

Then he laughs too.

We are both just standing on a locked rooftop laughing like two crazy people, half dressed and a little bit drunk and completely fucked.

“You think that coat is big enough to share?” he asks.

“I don’t know…” I say. I know what he’s trying to pull and I’m not buying it.

“I’ll be on my best behavior. Scouts honor,” he says, holding up the three finger sign.

“We’re you a boy scout?” I ask.

“No but I have sold popcorn for three times what it’s worth before. Charity event.”

I laugh and open the jacket. A moment later his body is pressed against mine. He’s chilly from his momentary nakedness. But within seconds, our body heat melds and we both relax.

“This is nice,” I admit.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he says and I roll my eyes.

Then, at the same time, both of us glance up.

Hanging on the wall, just above our heads, is a sprig of mistletoe.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I echo.

My eyes trail from the mistletoe to him and my face is still tilted up.

He looks down at me, his lips parting.

And the next thing I know, our lips are pressed together.