Santa’s Curvy Bride-to-Be (Mercury Ridge Christmas #3)

Chapter 1

One

Mitch

The opening notes to All I Want for Christmas is You blast over the speaker, and I suppress a groan. Karaoke night at Mercury Slice is never my favorite—but at Christmas, it’s downright painful.

I pull my Santa hat down to cover my ears, but it’s no use. The woman’s pitchy voice comes through loud and clear. Unfortunately, it’s a voice I know all too well.

Selene is a local who lives within walking distance of the pizzeria. So, she’s here a lot.

And she has a thing for me.

That’s why it comes as no surprise when she points a finger at the bar as she hits the chorus. “All I want for Christmas… is Mitch!”

I wince but try to hide it beneath a forced smile before turning my attention to the people seated at the bar.

I pour a few shots of tequila for a group of college-aged women, deliberately putting on a show.

I twirl the bottle like I’m Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

The women eat it up, giggling and batting their eyelashes.

I spare a glance back at the stage and immediately wish I hadn’t. Selene is looking at me like I kicked her puppy.

I don’t want to hurt her feelings or publicly embarrass her, but she simply won’t take no for an answer. I’ve told her repeatedly that I’m not interested, but she refuses to listen, no matter how many times I say it.

The thing is, despite her atrocious singing, there’s nothing wrong with her.

She was the prom queen in high school and won the Miss Mercury Ridge pageant several years in a row.

Most of the men in town have fantasized about taking her to bed more than once—and she knows it.

So, she can’t fathom why I won’t bite the bait she’s slinging.

And man, oh man, does she sling it. Full throttle, in my face, nearly every day.

To be honest, it’s a little hard to resist sometimes. I’m pretty sure she’d be an excellent lay. She’s certainly eager, which is always fun in the sack.

But I learned long ago that one-night stands with local women are a bad idea—especially when you’re a bartender at the town’s most popular restaurant. There’s no way to avoid blowback from the woman’s friends and relatives.

And a one-night stand is all I could ever give Selene.

Lately, I’m starting to think it may be all I can give any woman. Whichever gene makes other men want to settle down with a wife and kids seems to be missing from my DNA.

So, I make it a rule to only hook up with out-of-towners. Like the gorgeous brunette that’s sliding onto a stool at the end of the bar right now.

I suddenly have the urge to whistle appreciatively—a barbaric act that I’ve never been tempted to do before.

But damn. This woman is a knockout. TKO. I’m down for the count.

She’s clutching her cell phone, her forehead puckered in thought as she uses both thumbs to type out a message. A rush of irrational jealousy surges through my body. I want this brunette beauty to stop focusing on whoever’s on the other end of the text message and look at me.

Adjusting my Santa hat, I swagger over to her, giving her my most charming smile. “I’m Bartender Santa, and I’m here to make your Christmas cocktail wishes come true.”

Without a pause in her texting or so much as a glance in my direction, she says, “Gin and tonic, thanks.”

Ouch.

As I make her drink, my gaze continuously darts toward her, desperate to make eye contact.

She finally finishes typing her message, but instead of looking at me, she turns to face the karaoke stage.

The Mercury Ridge High School football coach is giving 110% to his Frosty the Snowman performance.

Normally, I like Coach Scroggins. He’s a nice guy, bald as a cue ball and just as round, one year away from retirement and ready to spend it with his wife of thirty years.

But right now, with the knockout’s eyes on him, I’m a jealous caveman who wants to annihilate every other man in the room.

This is absurd. I am not the sort of guy to be green with envy, nor am I a man who fixates on one woman. There are plenty of fish in the sea. That’s always been my motto.

But this woman is different. I’m not sure why, exactly. Yes, she’s gorgeous, with chestnut curls tumbling to her shoulders, big, hazel eyes rimmed with dark eyelashes, and plump, kissable lips. And she’s got curves for days, with enough flesh to grip between my fingers as I plow into her.

Fuck. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

But my dick would be happy with any of the giggling girls with the tequila shots at the other end of the bar… so why am I so drawn to this woman? Maybe it’s a pheromone thing?

I reach out to tap her shoulder before setting her drink on the bar. She spins around and her eyes meet mine. They widen, and I’d swear her pupils dilate with attraction.

Good. She’s not completely immune to my charms, after all.

She licks her lips, and my eyes greedily take in the sight. Jesus, I want this woman.

“Thanks, Santa,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.

I smile at her. “Is there anything else Santa can do for you, sweetheart?” A roll in the hay? Multiple orgasms, guaranteed?

She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “Um…”

Her phone rings, interrupting her. I curse under my breath as Mr. Jealousy rears his ugly head again. I want to throw that phone in the sink…

“Adam,” she breathes, relief evident in her voice. “I was starting to worry.”

I turn away from her, pretending to wash an already clean glass so that I can eavesdrop on the conversation. I should move to the other end of the bar to give her more privacy, but I can’t bring myself to put that much distance between us. What is wrong with me?

Adam dominates the conversation while the brunette unsuccessfully attempts to interject with mono-syllabic words. “But—oh—I—no—please.”

It’s obvious that Adam is giving her news she doesn’t want to hear. On the one hand, I hate that she’s upset. On the other hand, I’m high-fiving the universe. She and Adam clearly aren’t a match made in heaven, and that means I have a chance.

A man with greasy hair and a goatee walks up to the bar, staring at me expectantly.

As much as I’d rather listen to the woman’s conversation, I can’t ignore him.

I take his order, hastily pouring the overpriced craft beer he requested.

He throws a ten-dollar bill on the bar, leaving me mere pennies for a tip. Asshole.

“You can’t do this to me,” the brunette hisses into her phone. “You promised you’d be here. You’re my plus-one!”

She ends the call and releases an impressive stream of expletives that seems out of place coming from such a sweet mouth.

The greasy-haired man takes a gulp of his beer and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sounds like you just got dumped,” he says to her.

My defensive hackles go up immediately. As a bartender, I’m used to defending and protecting female patrons, and I’m pretty good at spotting the slimeballs.

She frowns at him but doesn’t respond. Her phone rings again, and she looks at it with such hope that my heart aches for her. I can practically read her thoughts. She’s hoping it’s Adam calling back to say, “Psyche! I was just kidding.”

Her face falls when she sees the caller’s name on the screen. With a deep sigh, she answers. “Hello, Mother… yes, I’ll be there tomorrow… my plus one?” Her face grows pink as the conversation continues. “Of course, he’ll be with me. Why wouldn’t he be? As a matter of fact, Adam and I are engaged!”

This time, when she ends the call, she buries her face in her hands and moans.

The slimeball with the beer sidles up next to her and pats her arm. She bristles, pulling away from him.

He doesn’t take the hint, brushing her skin with a fingertip. “It’ll be okay, sugar. How about I buy you another drink?”

Red hot fury temporarily blinds me, and I lean across the bar, shoving the man away from the brunette. “Leave the lady alone,” I snarl.

He staggers back a few feet, catching himself on the nearest table. “What’s your problem, man?”

A muscle in my jaw clenches. “Move to the other side of the bar or get the fuck out.”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” he splutters.

I raise a menacing fist. “Actually, I can.”

“I’d kick your ass,” he blusters, “but you’re not worth it.”

I keep my eyes on him as he walks to the restaurant’s exit. Then I turn to look at the brunette. Her attention is finally where I want it: on me.

She stares at me with wide eyes. “You own this pizzeria?”

“Nope, but the owner is a badass woman who has no love for assholes who make unwanted advances on her pretty patrons.” I smile kindly and extend my hand. “I’m Mitch, but you can call me Santa.”

She shakes my hand, and when our palms connect, the rest of the world fades away. I’m hyperaware of her, noticing the hitch in her breath and the way the hair stands up on her arms as if she’s been zapped by a bolt of electricity. So, I’m not the only one feeling sparks between us.

“I’m Allison,” she says. “About your question earlier…”

My forehead knits in confusion. “My question?”

“When you brought my drink, you asked if there’s anything else Santa can do for me,” she reminds me.

I grin. “Santa’s at your service. Just tell me what you need.”

“Well, Santa,” she says slowly, chewing on her bottom lip, “I seem to be in need of a fake fiancé—ASAP.”