Ho, Humbug, Ho
KATE ANGELL
Chapter One
Santa wore a smirk that could set Christmas back eleven months.
He had the shoulders of a linebacker.
Black hair that curled at his collar.
Ice blue eyes.
A Rogues tattoo on his left biceps.
And abs that would never shake in laughter like a bowl full of jelly.
Confined to a dressing room at the back of the Jingle Bell Shop, Holly McIntyre faced off with Alex Boxer. He was six feet of aggravation. His testosterone set her teeth on edge.
“Here’s your Santa suit.” She draped the outfit over a straw reindeer statue, soon to be displayed at the front of the store. “You dress and I’ll—”
The man had no modesty. He’d tugged off his navy T-shirt and shucked his jeans before she finished her sentence. He stood in front of her now, wearing black boxer briefs and a naughty grin.
He’d tried to shock her. And he had. They stood so close, his body heat pressed her breasts, nestled into her cleavage. She blushed.
Unable to avert her gaze, Holly took in the sight of him. His chest was deep and well-defined. His chest hair arrowed low and a Batter Up tat was visible at his groin. His legs stretched long and muscled, the swell of his package fully loaded. She forced herself to blink, to swallow, to breathe as he stepped into the red velvet Santa pants, trimmed at the hem with fake white fur.
Alex was six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than the previous year’s Santa. The pants fit snugly. The red jacket set off his six pack. There was no room to stuff a pillow. Santa looked tall, fit, and North Pole hot.
Any woman would love to have him drop down her chimney, with or without presents.
“I’m going to bust a seam.” His expression was dark as he bent in an attempt to pull on a pair of black boots. His feet were big and brawny, and his heel crushed the patent leather. “Too damn small.” He kicked them aside, went back to his Nikes.
Santa in sneakers—they’d moved beyond the traditional image. There was nothing apple cheeked, warm, or caring about this man. He was anti-Christmas spirit.
She held up a wig and eyebrow set, complete with wired mustache and full, fluffy beard. “Elastic straps go over your head.”
Alex frowned. “That’s got to itch.”
Holly was prepared; she’d brought baby powder. She tapped talcum onto her palm, then proceeded to pat the powder onto his face. His cheeks were angular, his nose ran blade straight, his mouth set full, yet masculine.
His skin warmed, and his lips parted beneath her touch. Talcum soon whitened the afternoon shadow on his chin.
A hint of powder collected at one corner of his mouth.
Holly tapped the excess with the tip of her finger, and his breath broke against her palm, hot, moist, and triggering shivers.
She pulled back, annoyed that such an irritating man could raise goose bumps. Visible bumps, which turned his gaze a wicked blue. He knew he’d affected her. And took pleasure in her discomfort.
She dusted off her hands, her voice stern. “Put on the wig set.”
Alex took his sweet time. He fit the short white curls over his head, sneezed into the mustache, and adjusted the beard along the rigid set of his jaw.
“Glasses, stocking cap, and gloves.” She handed him each item.
He squinted behind the round, wire-rimmed glasses. “My vision’s blurred.”
“The previous Santa was near sighted,” she explained. “I had prescription lenses put in the glasses.”
“Where’s the old Santa now?” he asked.
“He’s, um, dead.”
His sharp exhale bristled every fake hair on the Santa beard. “I’m wearing a dead Santa’s suit?”
“The man didn’t die wearing the suit,” she assured him. “It has been dry cleaned.”
Alex shoved his hands in the white gloves. Gloves that didn’t stretch to his wrists. “Damn, I’m squeezed into red velvet, have fake mustache hair in my mouth, and can’t see beyond my nose. An unfair punishment for driving fifteen miles over the speed limit.”
“You were in a school zone,” she reminded him.
“It was Sunday.”
Judge Hathaway protected his own, Holly knew. Hathaway hadn’t cared that it was Sunday and the entire town sat in church. Alex Boxer had been busted for speeding. His good cheer had been left on the outskirts of Holiday, Florida.
The judge had ordered Alex to pay a substantial fine, then tacked on forty hours of community service during Christmas week.
The service would be playing Santa Claus at Wilmington Mall. Alex had growled his objection. The hotshot baseball player had called his attorney, who’d argued with the judge.
In the end, Hathaway’s ruling stood.
Alex’s Saleen S7 had been impounded. The lowslung silver sports car with the gull-wing doors had quickly become a local attraction. Law enforcement opened the compound twice daily. The Salvation Army set up a stand and rang the bell for donations. Money rolled in at Alex’s expense.
The one hotel in Holiday had been booked for the season, which forced Alex into the loft above the Jingle Bell Shop. The one bedroom was small, cramped, and jammed with Christmas decorations. He’d complained his feet hung over the end of the bed. And that the pillow was sized for an elf.
The small Florida town faced Christmas with a scowling Santa. There was no ho-ho-ho in this man.
Holly watched as Alex fought with the stocking cap. It was too tight. The pom-pom swung, bopped him on the nose.
Alex ripped it off. “Not going to happen.” He looked around the shop, found a long red bandanna, which he wrapped as a skull cap. There was no cuddly softness to this Santa; he looked street-corner tough.
“A couple of rules,” Holly went on to tell Alex. “Be gentle when you hoist the children on your lap. Keep smiling even if they pee, whine, tug on your beard, or burst into tears.”
“Pee on me?” That caught his attention.
“Children get scared,” she explained. “Peeing is a natural reaction to fear. Not every child loves Santa on his first visit.”
His mouth thinned beneath the mustache. “Can the kids sit beside me and not on my lap?”
“Not an option.”
“This job sucks.”
“Volunteer Santas are jovial,” she stated. “They embrace Christmas and bring hope and joy to children.”
“I’m not a volunteer, I’m court ordered,” he ground out. “I should be in Miami by now. I was supposed to meet up with my teammates to celebrate winning the World Series. Warm weather, cold beer, and a pair of hot twins. Time to cut loose.”