Naughty & Nice: A Holiday Storybook Novella

by Angelique Jurd

  Naughty & Nice

  A Holiday Storybook Novella

  by

  Angelique Jurd

  Naughty & Nice – A Holiday Storybook Novella Copyright © 2019 by Angelique Jurd. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by May Dawney Designs - https://covers.maydawney.com/

  Edited by Penny Tsallos, Small Black Cat Media

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Angelique Jurd

  Visit my website at www.angeliquejurd.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Small Black Cat Media

  2019

  DEDICATION

  For Penny & Lauren,

  without whom none of this is possible

  PROLOG

  “Oh crap,” Agnes mutters. “He does not look like he’s in a good mood.”

  Trying to ignore her elbow in his ribs - does she sharpen those things? - Lars finishes pouring the glass of beer without looking up. He sweeps a blade over the foaming head, wipes off the edge of the glass, and sets it on Sven’s tray. Enjoys the way his red tunic flips up as she turns away then turns his gaze to the door. Agnes isn’t wrong. He does not look happy, standing by the fire, stomping the snow from his boots.

  “Go get his coat and hang it out back. The last thing we need is someone going through his damned pockets again.”

  Agnes runs her fingers through her hair, smacks her lips, and trots out from behind the bar. The jingle of the bells on her shoes floats across the noise of the Inn and several patrons look up to see what’s happening. When they see who is at the fireplace, conversation drops to a hush.

  He is impressive, Lars will give him that. Thick iron-gray curls fall over the collar of his green sweater to his shoulders. His beard, trimmed short, is the same shade of flint with little flashes of silver and does little to hide strong bone structure. Neat silver brows above piercing indigo eyes. Six feet six of solid muscle, but Lars has known him long enough to know that his heart is as soft as an ermine underneath it all. For the most part, the big guy is a marshmallow. Tonight does not appear to be a ‘most part’ kind of night. He reaches beneath the bar for the bottle of ‘special recipe’ Schnapps that he keeps there for him and begins pouring a shot.

  “Long day, Boss?” He pushes the shot glass across the counter.

  “You can quit that shit right now.”

  Lars watches, bottle in his hand, as he swallows the clear liquid and slams the glass back down. Fills it up without a word. There’s no point when he’s in this kind of mood.

  “What happened?”

  “Fucking network shat itself.” The second shot disappears as fast as the first. “This never used to happen with the old system. Fucking technology.”

  “Get it fixed?”

  “Do I sound like I got it fixed?” He twirls his finger over the shot glass. “Keep ‘em coming, Lars.”

  “You sure?” A glare is the only response. Sighing, he tips the Schnapps bottle up again. For a big guy, he can get tipsy pretty fast but… he can also smash a counter pretty fast too, and Lars has just had this one installed.

  “I hate fucking computers.”

  Lars grins in spite of himself. “Yeah, I know you do. Necessary evil in this day and age, unfortunately.”

  A tall, thin man with spiky blue hair and a somewhat drunken sway to his gait approaches the bar and drops a small pile of coins in front of Lars.

  “Rorik, old buddy, old pal. How’s it hanging?” He slaps the bigger man on the shoulder, belches, and hiccups. Lars shuts his eyes and prays that Rorik will let Jack live. “You still bangin’ that chick from accounts? Or was it the guy from accounts – no, the guy was from logistics, wasn’t he?”

  Damn it, Jack! He just got the place fixed up from the last brawl and he likes how it’s looking. The only way Rorik isn’t going to use Jack’s face to destroy the place is if he, Lars, does something fast.

  “Why don’t you go sit back down and Agnes will bring you your drink. And some of the gateau she’s got out back. On the house.”

  Jack sways and belches again, then grins. “Sounds like a plan.” He weaves his way back to his seat at the far end of the Inn.

  “Asshole.” Rorik glares at Lars. “I hope you took the keys from that death trap he’s taken to riding.”

  Lars fishes the snowmobile keys out of his pocket and shakes them in the air. Jack’s harmless enough; he just loses what little filter he does have when he has a drink.

  “Since you’re clearly not going to let me have any more of the good stuff, do you think I could get an Irish coffee? And don’t be stingy with the whiskey.” Rorik drags his fingers through his hair. “You got anything other than gateau out the back? I’m starving.”

  Lars smirks. Rorik didn’t try to shove Jack in the glass sterilizer - it wouldn’t have been the first time if he had - so his mood probably isn’t as bad as they’d feared. “Fresh cookies?”

  Rolling his eyes, Rorik points his finger at Lars. “See, I know you think you’re funny, but the truth is you’re not. And just because I’m too fucking tired to shove one of your cookies up your cute little ass, that doesn’t mean I’m not too tired to tell my brother you were checking out Sven’s cute little ass.”

  “Alright, alright.” Lars goes to the kitchen door and asks for a plate of roast lamb and vegetables to be brought out. When he comes back, Agnes is topping the Irish coffee with whipped cream. Rorik takes it and smothers a yawn.

  “Santa needs a nap,” Lars quips, wiping down the countertop. Why he’s bothering he does not know - especially at this time of the year. But you know...standards.

  “Santa,” Rorik says through a mouthful of whipped cream, “needs to get laid.”

  Rorik

  Actually, Lars isn’t wrong. I could use a nap. Just a quick one - for like maybe a month. It’s the time of year; I hate this time of year. Not the day - that day - obviously because well that day is what it’s all about. I love it as much as anyone, probably more. But the weeks leading up to it are a pain in my ass - and not the good kind. And thanks to technology, it just keeps getting worse.

  Back in the old days - when my Dad wore The Suit and when I first took over - it was crazy busy, but since the arrival of emails and text messages and social media, it’s insane. People leave everything until the last damned minute then Tweet me for the latest shiny gadget. What am I? Fucking Dumbledore?

  Some days I wish I’d never given Jack Dorsey that damned computer back when he was twelve.

  Lars slides a plate of food across the counter. “So, Jack was right? Nobody on the go at the moment?”

  “Fuck off.” Ignoring his smirk, I shovel in a forkful of roast lamb and mashed potato.

  Lars and I have known each other our entire lives and he’s always been an annoying son of a bitch. Knowing who is doing what and where and to whom and always offering a sympathetic ear or helpful advice. Never giving away secrets because of barman confidentiality or something. Okay, so maybe he’s not really annoying so much as a good friend but some days, I swear the only reason I don’t punch him in the throat is that he’s married to my brother. I don’t even know how that hap
pened, but Lars is the only person in The Grove who can diffuse one of Otto’s infamous meltdowns. I tell you, overdramatic elf is sometimes very overdramatic. The only one who can handle him is Lars, so I roll with it. And if they like to add an extra set of elf boots beneath the bed from time to time, who am I to judge, right?

  Our families have always held a certain position in The Grove. His, because it’s always owned and run The Laughing Troll. That ability to listen and not judge is a big deal in a community built on diversity and difference.

  As for my family, we’re kind of like a Royal Family except we’re not royal. Some days we’re barely a family - but what can you do? Being Elves, we don’t need royalty - not like the Fae. For them, Royalty is everything - Elves are happier with a sort of rough hierarchy that operates under a cloak of organized chaos - and the family with the red suit does the organizing. Arrogant? Eh... maybe. I don’t make the rules… well actually, yes, I do, but that’s not the point.

  The point is that it’s the second day of December and my fucking network is out again. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why does Santa need the internet? Couldn’t I just use magic?

  First of all, don’t call me that. I only use that when I’m on official business or trying to impress a date. The rest of the time I’m Rorik. It means red and it’s supposed to identify me as the guy who wears The Suit. Anyway, the reason I need the internet is that The Humans use it to email me. And Tweet me. And send Facebook messages. There’s a rule - not one I set I’d like to point out - that says I can’t use magic to check the letters sent to me. No matter how they come, I have to check them all. Personally. There’s no loophole either - trust me, I checked. Of course, when I say no magic, that doesn’t apply to the magic that comes from The Grove itself that sort of stretches time and space and means I can actually read all the damned things.

  Once we got hooked into The Human system, everyone here wanted to keep it and use it. Now we have an entire building dedicated to web design and database management and data analysis and social media marketing. Apparently, it makes use more efficient.

  When it’s actually… you know… fucking functioning.

  “I’ll have another Irish.” I tap the side of my goblet. I’d really like another Schnapps, but I can’t afford a bender or the hangover that follows. Lars knows it too damn it because he puts a lot less whiskey in this time. I push my empty plate away and signal Agnes for some gateau. “Fucking Internet.”

  “No, you don’t.” Lars hands me my drink. “You like online shopping in Human stores.”

  “Well, I kind of stand out if I go in person.”

  “Uh huh. You like Pinterest.”

  “I do not.” I do. It’s awesome, but I’m not telling him that.

  “Oh, so EdelRed69 with an entire board devoted to Matthew Gray Gubler isn’t you?”

  “No!”

  It is, but I’m not admitting to that either. In my defense, have you seen Matthew Gray Gubler? Dude is hot!

  “I’ll let Otto know.” His smirk is back. “You like their porn.”

  I’ll give him that one. I do like the porn. We have porn here but while Edelweiss Grove isn’t small, it doesn’t exactly have a huge population so the chances of seeing someone you know - or worse, are related to - are pretty high. Even higher are the chances you’ll see that annoying little shit Pascal Hare, and frankly, I do not need to see him or his cock, thank you very much.

  I’m trying to scrub that unwelcome image from my brain when the sound of bells fills the air. What the hell? Where is that coming from? Fuck that’s an annoying sound.

  “You’re ringing,” Lars says.

  “What?” I’m what?

  Looking bemused, he leans across the bar and pulls my cell phone from my pocket. Oh. I’m ringing. Right. The name Basil flashes on the screen. Crap! I’d almost rather see Pascal’s cock than have to answer this call. Almost.

  “Hello Basil. Have you fixed -” A string of very loud and very vivid curses, most of which invite me to shove my network somewhere painful, are flung down the line at me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. If my hair hadn’t been gray at birth, it would be turning it now. Apparently, the problem is something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand, has no intention of ever trying to understand, oh and one more thing…

  “I quit!”

  The line goes dead. I’m not especially worried by Basil quitting; he quits at least twice a week. His mother is an Elf, but his father was a Leprechaun, and frankly, he makes Otto look calm. I am however worried that he can’t fix the network. Basil insists he can fix anything computer related. I may have a problem.

  I drop my phone on the countertop then rest my forehead next to it.

  “He fix it?”

  “Nope.”

  “He quit?”

  “Yup.”

  He raps his knuckles on the bar. “Look, I might know someone who can help okay? But if I send them over tomorrow, you have to promise you’ll behave.”

  I lift my head up to glare at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damned well what it means, Rorik.” Lars levels his index finger at me. “You cannot fuck with him. He is not one of your conquests.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. I can have someone over- looking at the setup in the morning but if you mess with him, I will set Otto on your ass so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

  “Okay, okay. Just tell me who it is.”

  “My cousin’s kid, Boden.” Oh, a kid. That’s not so bad. “He’s a computer whizz. Took himself off to one of the Human schools to learn about computers. He has a nifty little business taking care of IT. I’ll give him a call.”

  If he wasn’t my brother-in-law, I might be inclined to kiss him.

  “And you’re sure he can fix it?”

  Lars shrugs. “No idea. But he can take a look and you won’t be any worse off than you are now. Just… behave.”

  “You know, it’s kind of insulting the way you keep saying that. Anybody would think I’m as bad as Pascal the way you’re carrying on.”

  “No comment.”

  Rolling my eyes, I place my hand on my heart. “I solemnly swear I will not hit on your nerdy little cousin.”

  Then, because I feel so much better than when I walked in, I order a second slice of gateau.

  ***

  “You said he was a kid,” I hiss into the phone the next morning. I lean around the door just enough to be able to look at the guy currently pulling apart my computer network. I’d been expecting some precocious, pimply little nerd in heavy hornrims and snow pants. Not... not… that!

  “No, I didn’t. I said he was my cousin’s kid.”

  “Asshole. You could have warned me he was hot.”

  “I told you to behave, I thought it was implied.”

  “Asshole!” I repeat and peek around the door again.

  Lars’ cousin is not at all how I imagined. He’s in his early thirties by my guess and has scruffy blond hair that at the moment is pointing in about a dozen different directions at once, hinting that he has the most divine bedhead first thing in the morning. Instead of pimples, he has scruff a shade darker than his hair that looks so out of place it suggests he simply forgot to shave this morning. Can’t be much more than five feet nine or ten. Slender beneath what looks like three sweaters and heavy woolen slacks - not snow pants - and bright blue eyes that definitely checked me out when he arrived.

  He crouches to poke at something in the mess of wires and parts that make up the main server’s innards, and the way his slacks stretch over his ass explains why Lars made me promise to behave.

  Damn it!

  BODEN

  It takes me way too long to realize that the address Lars has given me – 25 Poinsettia Place – is, in fact, well… 25 Poinsettia Place. Maybe if I had had time to have a decent cup of coffee I would've clicked sooner, but Lars dragged me from a war
m bed and a very pleasant dream. I'd been teaching Jason Momoa about… you know what? Not important. What is important is that he didn't tell me the name of the client. Simply barked the address at me, told me to get my ass over there, and hung up.

  I'm seriously considering killing him right now - even if he is my mother's cousin. I'm pretty sure I could get away with it under Grove Law. Waking me up at stupid o'clock to go tramping through the snow to fix some friend’s network is bad enough. Neglecting to tell me that the friend in question is Rorik Eskildsen – or if you prefer his official title, Santa fudging Claus – surely constitutes "extreme provocation".

  I didn’t even shave since he made it sound so urgent. Heck, I’m not even sure I dressed properly. I check my clothes as I hammer on the front door - please tell me that’s not egg on my sweater. The door swings open and a wall of warm air hits me. Hoping the smear of egg yolk isn’t as noticeable as I think it is, I glance up. I’m not sure who or what I was expecting but do know it wasn’t Rorik with water dripping down his chest and wearing nothing but a red towel slung low over his hips.

  I can’t seem to stop staring or remember how to breathe. A second ago, I was worrying about a sweater stain and now I'm staring at Rorik Eskildsen’s left nipple and losing a battle of wills with my cock. I have no clue where Humans got their image of Santa from but the only ones who come close to the truth are the romance writers and a few porn movies. Think Santa is all twinkling eyes, fluffy beard, and a big soft belly? Try salt and pepper scruff and washboard abs! The twinkling eyes thing is right though, but that’s not the point. The point is, who in the hell opens the door to a stranger dressed in nothing but a towel? In the middle of winter. Dressed in nothing but a towel. With a wet chest. And nipples.

  “Uhhh…” Eloquent, Boden. Eloquent.

  “Let me guess - you’re Lars’ cousin, Boden.” His gaze wanders over me, the tip of his tongue flicking over his lip before he heaves a heavy sigh and smiles. Why do I feel like I’m missing something? Did I do something wrong? He steps back and gestures for me to enter. "Come on in."