by Tawna Fenske
I can relate, though not for the same reasons. Let’s just say I didn’t have the best early experiences with the opposite sex. Besides, getting Jingle Bell Ranch up and running is my number one priority, so I sure as hell don’t have time for dating.
Amber’s distracted watching Sydney and Edward—stage names Prancer and Cupid—try to rub velvet off each other’s antlers, so I nudge her with my elbow. “So what’s the deal with Santa?” I ask. “Did you land that old guy from the bank with the big white beard and the weird halitosis?”
“Ew, and no.” She makes a face. “Even with a box of Tic Tacs, that guy was like a fire-breathing dragon.”
“Dragon Santa.” I shake my head and shove the snippers into the pocket of my Carharts. “Not the marketing hook we want.”
“Plus, he wanted twice what we’re willing to pay,” she says. “Told me the authentic beard was worth more than a fake one, and he should get the same sort of bonus strippers get for real boobs instead of fake ones.”
“That’s a thing?”
Amber shrugs. “How should I know? We didn’t cover stripper economics in my business classes.”
“That’s a shame. Might be a good fallback career.” Randy, one of this season’s reindeer calves, comes wandering up to sniff my pockets for apples, and I give him a scratch behind one stubby antler. “So who’s Santa? Don’t tell me you picked that other guy—the one with the résumé covered in little foil bells who said he’s trying to change his legal name to Saint Nick.”
“Ugh. His background check came back with three counts of indecent exposure and anyway, ew—no. Come on, Jade. Are you going to let me tell you, or are we going to play guessing games all day?”
“I was kind of enjoying the games,” I admit. “Fine. Who’s Santa?”
Amber smiles like a cat stealing licks from the butter dish and tosses her long, dark hair. “Brandon Brown.”
I laugh and rummage through my pocket for a baby-sized apple as Randy noses me again. “That’s funny, I went to school with a Brandon Brown. Remember how the football announcer yelled his name through the PA like he was proclaiming a God’s descent from Mt. Olympus? ‘Now taking the field, quarterback Brandon Brown. All hail!’”
The mental picture of Wonder Boy Brandon Brown strutting across a football field with a ball under one arm and a Santa hat on his head makes me laugh out loud.
It takes me a second to realize Amber isn’t laughing.
“Um, yes, actually,” she says, scuffing her boot through the dirt. “Same guy.”
I stop laughing. “You can’t be serious. He’s our age, not Santa material.”
Amber rolls her eyes at me. “He was a senior when you were a freshman and I was in grade school, but why the hell does that matter? Kids aren’t going to check his ID.”
“Santa’s old,” I point out, pretty sure I’m arguing the wrong point. There’s a damn good reason I don’t love the idea of inviting a former king of the jocks to my ranch, and it has nothing to do with Santa’s age.
“That’s what they make fake beards for,” Amber says. “And strap-on bellies. I already ordered one for him.”
I close my eyes and count to ten, but only make it to four. “Please tell me you read the product description instead of googling ‘Santa strap-on.’”
“Will you relax? Jeez, I learned my lesson with the leather harness that turned out not to be for reindeer.”
“Yeah, Blitzen’s still pissed about the ball gag,” I mutter. “Did you seriously hire the king of the asshole jocks to be Santa?”
“It’s been thirteen years since he graduated,” she points out. “I’m guessing he’s gotten over himself being in the Marines for more than a decade.”
I consider pointing out that I’m not entirely over the mean-spirited teasing hurled at me by the jocks and princesses in Brandon’s circle of friends. Five years younger than me, and blessedly spared the baby fat that clung to me through my teens, Amber was unaware of the torment I endured in my high school years. I’d just as soon keep it that way.
“Why Brandon Brown?” I ask. “Why not get someone who looks the part?”
“Oh, he looks the part, all right.” Amber grins. “He looks like a freakin’ Chippendale dancer.”
I stare at my sister, not sure whether to box her ears or whack her in the arm with a sock full of hot nickels. “How is this helpful? You think a bunch of people want to show up and gawk at Old Saint Nick, who, by the way, is some stupid-hot Marine who couldn’t look less Santa-like if he tried?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I realize that’s exactly what my sister thinks. And that she’s convinced it’s a good thing.
“Come on,” Amber says. “Who usually brings the kiddies to pet the reindeer and see Santa? The moms, right?”
“Right,” I say slowly.
“Rumors spread fast around here,” she points out. “Once word gets out that Santa looks like Chris Hemsworth, we’ll have every mommy in a sixty-mile radius lining up to sit on his lap.”
“You mean put their kids on his lap,” I grumble. “This is a family attraction, remember?”
“I know, I know.” She waves a dismissive hand like that’s a minor detail, which maybe it is according to her plan. “But you asked me to help put Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch on the map. To make us super-profitable in the winter months so we can keep these guys in apples and hay for the rest of the year, right?”
I nod, though I’m not sure how that request translates to having Brandon Brown here on my ranch. We’re making good progress toward our goal of running a successful business, and I sure as hell don’t need some Wonder Boy ex-jock turning us into a beefcake circus.
“I thought he was on active duty somewhere,” I say.
“He’s taking some sort of extended military family leave thing,” she says. “I don’t know the details, but he’ll be home for a couple months.”
I sigh, not sure which of my objections to raise next. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I say. “But I don’t think Studmuffin Santa is the way to go.”
“Studmuffin Santa, huh?” The rumble of a male voice over my shoulder makes me spin around so fast I nearly twist an ankle.
But Brandon Brown is there to catch me, his musclebound arms looking like something he ripped off a life-sized G.I. Joe action figure.
I recognize him in an instant, even though I haven’t laid eyes on him for thirteen years. He has the same tousled mop of sandy hair and eyes like melty puddles of pine-green crayon that had all the high school cheerleaders lining up to toss their panties at him.
I was never a cheerleader. I was president of the Future Farmers of America.
Only, right now, I’m not feeling very presidential. I’m feeling unhinged. I’m feeling flushed. I’m feeling Brandon Brown’s hands on my arms and liking it a lot more than I should.
“You must be the boss,” he says with a voice that prompts swooning from every female in a ten-foot radius, reindeer included. “I’m Brandon, but I guess you should call me Santa. Or was it Studmuffin Santa?”
His eyes are teasing, and his hands are massive around my biceps. I swallow hard and try to find my voice.
“Studmuffin Santa,” I repeat. “Welcome to Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch.”
***
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Acknowledgments
I owe huge debts of gratitude to Fenske’s Frisky Posse for all the eagle-eyed reads, amazing reviews, and general cheerleading. You guys are the awesomest street team in the history of street teams (here’s where you gently point out that “awesomest” isn’t a word).
Much love to Kait Nolan for all t
he self-pub coaching and long-distance tea and wine drinking parties, not to mention sleeping with me in Denver.
Huge, humongous, ENORMOUS love to Linda Grimes for all the amazing feedback. Can I have your next book now?!?!
Thank you to Meah Meow for being the best combination author assistant/pet sitter/all-around awesome person I know. I couldn’t do this without you!
Much love and thanks to Susan Bischoff and Lauralynn Elliott of The Forge for all your hard work whipping this bad boy into shape. I’m also super-grateful to Lori Jackson Design for the fantastic teaser graphics, banners, and bookmarks.
Love and gratitude to my family, Aaron “Russ” Fenske and Carlie Fenske (and Paxton now, too!) and Dixie and David Fenske for always being there. Thanks also to Cedar and Violet for being badass amazing stepkids. And for enduring a stepmother who curses a lot and writes naughty books.
Thanks especially to Craig, who designs my covers, formats my newsletters, updates my website, makes my toes curl, and sends my heart racing on a regular basis. Love you, hot stuff.
About the Author
When Tawna Fenske finished her English lit degree at 22, she celebrated by filling a giant trash bag full of romance novels and dragging it everywhere until she’d read them all. Now she’s a RITA Award finalist, USA Today bestselling author who writes humorous fiction, risqué romance, and heartwarming love stories with a quirky twist. Publishers Weekly has praised Tawna’s offbeat romances with multiple starred reviews and noted, “There’s something wonderfully relaxing about being immersed in a story filled with over-the-top characters in undeniably relatable situations. Heartache and humor go hand in hand.”
Tawna lives in Bend, Oregon, with her husband, step-kids, and a menagerie of ill-behaved pets. She loves hiking, snowshoeing, standup paddleboarding, and inventing excuses to sip wine on her back porch. She can peel a banana with her toes and loses an average of twenty pairs of eyeglasses per year. To find out more about Tawna and her books, visit www.tawnafenske.com.
Also by Tawna Fenske
The Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Series
Studmuffin Santa
Chef Sugarlips
Sergeant Sexypants
Hottie Lumberjack (coming March 1, 2019)
Stiff Suit (coming soon!)
* * *
Standalone Romantic Comedies
At the Heart of It
This Time Around
Now That It’s You
Let it Breathe
About That Fling
Frisky Business
Believe It or Not
Making Waves
* * *
The Front and Center Series
Marine for Hire
Fiancée for Hire
Best Man for Hire
Protector for Hire
* * *
The First Impressions Series
The Fix Up
The Hang Up
The Hook Up
* * *
The List Series
The List
The Test
The Last (coming soon!)
* * *
Schultz Sisters Mysteries
Getting Dumped
The Great Panty Caper (novella)
* * *
Standalone novellas and other wacky stuff
Going Up (novella)
Eat, Play, Lust (novella)