Chapter 3
Ifeel like I just got hit with a stun gun. A shock wave rolls through me, but I’m frozen in place. Hates Christmas? But he’s Santa Claus!
Okay, he’s not really Santa Claus, you idiot. Get it together.
I down the rest of my rum punch in one gulp.
“What’s wrong with Christmas?” is all I can manage to squeak out. Considering it’s my favorite time of year—
Something I was deprived of year after year, as a kid—
And may or may not be the reason I’m no longer speaking to my immediate family—
His comment lands like a literal shock to my system.
I don’t know why I assumed anyone outside a religious cult would love Christmas the way I do—maybe all the songs, like “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and “Joy to the World.” This poser is my first true Scrooge born outside Heaven’s Heralds (and, I guess, The Muppet Christmas Carol).
Eben plants his hands on his knees and stands. He’s well above six feet tall, which two minutes ago would’ve added to the sex appeal. But I’ve never had a jingle-bell boner dissolve faster than when a man tells me he hates Christmas.
Then it occurs to me: maybe he’s Jewish?
Or aggressively Atheist? He can’t be a Herald—donning a Santa suit, even to bring cheer to the infirm, is strictly a no-no.
Maybe another religion allows Christmas-adjacent activities.
Or perhaps this is community service for a DUI.
Who am I to judge his yuletide affliction?
“Sorry, it’s none of my business,” I say as he yanks the pillow from his suit and tosses it onto a floral couch.
“Damn right it’s not,” he says, stripping down to a plain white tee and the kind of chiseled torso that inspires wet panties.
Not me. I’m as dry as an old fruitcake.
Fuck you, dude. Okay, now it’s official. I hate nursing home Santa’s guts.
Unfortunately, I don't have a change of clothes. So I stomp across the room in my jingle-bell shoes, grab my now-empty cookie tray, and make for the door.
I’m about as intimidating as a mouse that wasn’t stirring in Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Before I can beeline out of there and never look back (I’m sure Meals on Wheels would still have me), Missy breezes in.
“Great work today, Mr. and Mrs. Claus!” she trills, cheeks flushed—spirits clearly lifting her spirits.
“The girls can’t stop talking about what a cute couple you are.
The guys—well, I won’t repeat what they said about you, Mrs. Claus, but it’s clear you’re both a big hit with our Forest Park family. ”
Eben and I exchange a look. I try to make mine sizzle with contempt. No idea if he notices.
“I’m so glad they enjoyed it, but I—” I start to say this Saturday is my first and last day—on account of Saint Dick-bag over here—but she barrels on.
“Is Wednesday at seven good for you both for pageant planning?” Missy asks, then adds: “It’s the highlight of my year!” She does a little clap and shakes her fists to punctuate her excitement.
Um.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. There’s a noticeable edge to my voice. Both sets of eyes flick to me. I must look pissed, because Missy’s jubilee fades back to stoic.
“It was on the listing that you agreed to. A Mrs. Claus to pass out Christmas cookies and cheer and plan the Fifth Annual Forest Park Christmas Pageant.”
Oh, cute. They’ve been doing this since the last time I got laid.
Curse me and my inability to read an entire ad before responding.
“Is Mr. Claus… going to be involved with the planning too?” I ask.
“He sure is!” Missy beams. Apparently, everyone here thinks Eben is a real headliner—everyone except me. I’m the lucky gal who gets to see the darker, yuletide-yucking side of Santa Claus.
Merry Christmas to me.
“Fine,” I sigh, clutching the empty silver tray to my chest without thinking. Cookie crumbs shower my dress; a rogue smear of chocolate streaks the velvet.
When I look up, Missy and Eben are blinking like I’m either on the verge of a breakdown or a cornered wild animal about to bite.
Lucky for them, I was raised in a cult. Even under scrutiny, I’m the picture of calm, cool, and collected. My cards are glued to my chest; I will never show my hand—even under duress.
Maybe why I can’t catch a dick, I don’t know.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I lie. “See you Wednesday!”
(Unless I hurl myself off a cliff first.)
My jingle bell shoes only add to my humiliation as I walk across the room like a merry maraca. I don’t give Eben a second glance, but I feel his eyes on me all the way out.
Inside my head, I rip off my jingle-hell shoes and hurl them at his pretty, stupid face.
On the way home, I swing by the Toasted Cherry—Cherryville’s cozy neighborhood roastery known for its seasonal drinks—to pick up my comfort beverage: a large Toasted Cherry Nog Latte with extra foam.
It’s got espresso (obviously), eggnog, and a sweet kick of toasted-cherry reduction.
Basically, a hug in a mug (well, red paper cup).
Living in Cherryville, Ohio, you learn to embrace the cherry of it all: cherry pie, cherry sundaes, cherry soda, cherry cocktails, even cherry chicken (don’t ask).
The town was founded by a Quaker man named John Cherry, and although I don’t think he had a particular affinity for cherries, the people of northeast Ohio are nothing if not literal.
Stick around for the annual Cherry Festival in mid-summer—just be prepared to park far away and walk miles in the muggy Midwest heat for melted ice cream covered in—you guessed it—cherries.
By the time I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, my giant coffee is just a pile of foam at the bottom. Doesn’t stop me from sucking down every last drop.
I jingle all the way up the stairs and get a few double takes from kids trying to scrape up what’s left of a recent snowfall, building the tiniest dirty snowman I’ve ever seen. I should snap a photo for the Guinness Book of World Records (is that still a thing?).
My front door is a Christmas explosion I can’t even stand to look at right now.
I unlock it and head straight for the bathroom, which is Christmas-decor free, except for a bottle of vanilla-cinnamon hand soap with a full-body vintage Santa on the label.
I turn the bottle so he faces the wall—I can’t let him see me like this.
I strip out of this Godforsaken Mother Christmas getup and hop in the shower, scrubbing off Bad Santa’s anti-Christmas ectoplasm.
It’s okay to like Christmas, it’s okay to like Christmas.
Nothing a little Christmas-cookie shower gel can’t fix.
After I feel thoroughly cleansed of the shame of my anti-Christmas past, I dig around in my closet for the most explosively holiday-themed loungewear I own: a bright pink set with giant winking Santa heads that Ally gifted me two years ago.
They’re not exactly my taste—I’m more of a classic-red, monogrammed-pocket kind of gal—but they’re perfect for the moment I’m in.
I plop down on the couch with a cup of microwaved cocoa and text Ally.
Me: I hate Santa Claus.
It’s only seconds before bubbles pop up on my screen.
Ally: Uh oh. Trouble in paradise?
I hit “Call.”
“Don’t tell me your scene partner is a perv,” she answers, already growling. “If he copped a feel, I swear to God…”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I say, trying to calm her down before she finds out his full name and address and drives to his house with her boxing gloves on. “But he has no business donning that sacred Santa suit.”
“Uh… Okay?” My love for Christmas far surpasses hers; she’s a casual Christmas celebrator. I don’t think she’d bat an eyelash if we decided to celebrate the winter solstice instead (although if you ask the Heralds, same diff).
“He’s a total Grinch,” I whine. (Sexy Grinch—I leave that part out.)
“Uh oh,” she says, humoring me. “Tell me what happened.”
And I do. I tell Ally about Eben (minus the tall-drink-of-water bit), how mean he was about Christmas, how it pinged all my family stuff, and the old guilt.
I tell her about the jingle bell shoe, the horny senior citizens who think we’re adorable, and the tipsy receptionist who’s forcing me to collaborate with this man on Wednesday at seven.
“That is… a lot,” she exhales, like she’s been holding her breath.
“Sorry to dump on you at…” I check the clock. “God, it’s only noon. I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in four hours.”
“That’s why we sleep in on weekends,” Ally yawns, “instead of volunteering at nursing homes.”
That’s when I get the best idea.
“You could come with me,” I say.
“I’m sorry, what?” She’s suddenly very awake.
“You love planning parties!” I say.
“For people under eighty,” she snaps. “And for pay.”
Ally is the youngest senior publicist at Cherry Haus Media, Cherryville’s most highly reviewed PR firm on Google.
She can make the driest accounting firm sound sexy, regularly lands local cookie shops and breweries in national magazines, and once pulled off a Hometown Hero fundraiser with a Guardians star pitcher, which I will never stop being jealous of.
I did, however, come away with a signed baseball, so—fist pump.
She does all of this for a sizable six-figure salary and generous benefits, so convincing her to volunteer for free will undoubtedly be an uphill battle.
Except, my secret weapon for getting Ally to do anything: dessert.
“I’ll make you your favorite…”
I can practically hear her eyes go glossy over the phone.
“Dirt cake?” her voice goes up a hopeful octave.
“Mmmhmmm.”
“But, but… that’s a summer treat!”
“I can add red and green food coloring.”
“It’s not even my birthday!”
“Do you want the damn dirt cake or not?”
“If there’s peppermint in my dirt cake, Melody, I swear—”
“Cross my heart.”
I hear Ally sigh on the other end. “I guess I’ll start scouring Etsy for printable holiday bingo cards.”
I flop back on the couch, kick my feet in the air, and let out a tiny, triumphant squeak.
Ally is in.