What can only be presumed as the new assistant District Attorney plops her worn leather satchel bag down on the table and quickly organizes papers in two nice, neat piles. Waves of springy blonde curls fall into her face as she arranges her paperwork and prepares to do battle against one of the top defense attorneys in the fine city of Springfield, Illinois.
Me.
Familiarity sweeps through my blood as her slender fingers grip that luscious hair, moving it out of her face and behind her shoulders. It falls forward again, like unruly ringlets of sunshine. Even in profile, I can tell she’s beautiful, and I’ll be damned if my dick doesn’t take notice. Her body is slim, fit, and looks amazing in the red business suit. The skirt conforms beautifully to her heart-shaped ass, and it takes everything I have to suppress the groan of lust, anxious to slip out. Even the gaudy Santa head pin on her lapel doesn’t dim the need I suddenly feel.
“No problem, Miss Winters. It was a wonderful luncheon today. Didn’t you enjoy Congresswoman Jeffery’s speech on raising a family and still giving one hundred percent to the constituents?”
“I did,” the blonde says, nodding her head fanatically. “When she talked about spending time with your family during the holidays, it really drove home her point about still remaining a family woman who serves the public.”
Unable to hold back, I groan in annoyance. Unfortunately, Judge Battleax hears me and turns her narrow eagle eyes my way. I can practically feel her contempt for me all the way across the courtroom. “Ahh, yes, Mr. Frost. When Judge Walker called me and asked me to fill in for him this afternoon, I was a little reluctant to end my Black Friday, which included some shopping for deals and a powerful women’s luncheon. But once I arrived and saw your name on the docket? And as the defendant? Well, let’s just say that my day started to look up rather quickly,” Judge Holiday says with a bright smile beaming with mirth.
Shit.
“Miss Winters, are you ready to proceed?”
“I am, Your Honor,” the blonde says before turning her blue eyes on me.
Eyes that I’ve seen before. Eyes that I used to get lost in almost nightly in another lifetime. Eyes that, to this day, haunt my dreams. And right now, they’re laser-sharp and piercing me like tomahawks in battle.
Noel Winters.
“Well, double shit.”
Blast From The Past
I knew that seeing him for the first time in five years was going to be difficult. Like that moment you sit down to take the Bar exam and everything you’ve learned in the last three years flies right out the window. Yet you have to power through the complete memory loss so that you don’t screw up your big chance to become the one thing you’ve always wanted to be.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the crazy bolt of lust that swept through my body when our eyes met.
Brandon Frost is still as gorgeous as I remember. Brown hair, hazel eyes that change to a fierce green when he’s aroused (trust me, I know), shoulders and abs that make a woman sit up and beg, and an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of.
He’s exactly as I remember him.
Dammit.
Why couldn’t he have lost all of his hair? Perhaps an ugly comb-over toupee was too much to ask for? Maybe gain about forty pounds and have a potbelly hanging over his belt?
But no, the years since we’ve parted have been good to Brandon, just like I suspected they would be. Even seated, he’s lean, tone, and dominating in his charcoal gray suit and striking green tie. I recall every bit of his six-foot-one body, as it towered over me while he kissed me silly in the snow until my lips were numb. His hands gripped my face and he held me tightly like he was afraid I would run away.
Stupid memories.
Anger is a powerful thing, and it’s time I grabbed a hold of the emotion that has carried me through the past half-decade when I think about Brandon. I’m here to do a job – a very new job, at that. Today is my first official solo case as assistant district attorney for Sangamon County, and I’m determined to do it well.
And what would be better than taking down Brandon Frost?
Nothing, that’s for sure.
It would be the highlight of my life and my career.
“Then, let’s proceed. Mr. Frost, you have decided to represent yourself today,” Judge Holiday says, glaring at Brandon over the top of her glasses. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Amelia doesn’t care for Brandon in the least.
Interesting.
“These charges are bogus, Ma’am. The defense calls to dismiss,” he says, that cocky smile I used to love ever present on his smug face.
“Denied,” I state. There’s no way I’m dismissing charges on a man who assaulted a little old woman who was trying to cross the street with her Christmas purchases.
“Listen, your honor, we could go round and round all afternoon. The facts are this: I was driving down the street and a woman walked in front of me. While in the street, she dropped a package, so I got out and helped her collect her belongings,” Brandon says.
“You called her an old bat and insulted her Christmas sweater.”
“That’s hearsay.”
“Would you like me to call to the stand the woman who says you ran over her great-grandson’s Batman walkie talkie gift? She’s just a phone call away, you know,” I taunt him, reaching for my cell phone as if I were really going to call sweet Mrs. Horner.
“It fell under my tire,” he retorts firmly.
“Convenient for a man who hates Christmas,” I seethe, keeping my eyes locked on his. That’s how I don’t miss the direct hit my comment made. Brandon’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare before they squint into little slits.
“I do not hate Christmas,” he states, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You’re under oath, Brandon Frost.” Saying his name is like chewing on Christmas lights. It’s painful and cuts deep.
Spinning to face the judge, he continues. “Listen, your honor. I was trying to help her out of the way. The woman stopped in the middle of the street and spilled her Christmas packages. I was merely trying to be a good citizen.”
The judge starts laughing.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, waving her hand in front of her face to mask her laughter. “Good citizen. That’s not exactly a term I’d use to describe you,” she mumbles, sending eye daggers his way.
Adjusting my favorite Santa head pin on the lapel of my suit, I smile. Even the prospect of going head-to-head with Brandon Frost hasn’t dimmed the excitement I have for my favorite holiday, Christmas. Even after he devastated me five years ago, at said holiday, I was able to keep my feelings for him separate from the date on the calendar.
Love Christmas.
Hate Brandon.
Even after seeing him in the flesh after five years, I still get giddy excited at the prospect of leaving work and putting up my Christmas tree. The only reason I didn’t do it last night was because I didn’t get home until after nine from my parents’ house. But now I have something to look forward to when I get off work.
And can push all thoughts of Brandon Frost out of my mind.
“Double parking, jaywalking, and assault of a little old woman and a peace officer,” I state for the record.
“I did not assault that police officer,” he seethes through gritted teeth, turning to face the young officer who’s seated behind me.
“You threw a package of tinsel at him and called him a hobbit, Scrooge,” I add.
Brandon scoffs and shakes his head. “I tripped over the Barbie doll that was still in the road!”
“Heaven forbid you pick it up and place it back in the shopping bag.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“That’s what I was doing when the cop showed up and accused me of mugging her!” he hollers.
The pounding of the gavel draws our attention back to the judge. “That’s enough,” she says, rubbing her temples as if to fend off a headache. “What does the state have in mind, Miss Winters?”
“Simple, your honor. Community service,” I tell her. Internally, I smile when I see Brandon’s shoulders relax at my suggestion.
“Community service? That’s it?” Judge Holiday asks, unable to hide her own shock.
“Yes, ma’am. The state has the perfect punishment for a criminal like this,” I offer sweetly, knowing that this judge is practically eating out of the palm of my hand.
“Proceed.”
“The state recommends thirty hours of community service,” I start before being interrupted by the man to my left.
“What?!”
Ignoring his outburst, I continue. “For the next five Saturdays, Mr. Frost will serve as Santa Claus at the Springfield Youth Community Center for five hours per day, from now until Christmas, as well as five hours on Christmas Eve.”
“Hell no!”
“Mr. Frost, would you like to be held in contempt?”
“The State feels this punishment fits the crime perfectly, your honor. Mr. Frost hates Christmas, but more than that,” I say, glancing at the man standing across the aisle, “he hates children.”
And that is what I like to call retribution.
Game. Set. Match.
You Want Me To Wear What?
I have no words. I’m physically unable to speak at the moment as I stare at the only woman I’ve ever loved and she uses the biggest guns she possesses to wield my punishment. Five years hasn’t diminished the anger and hurt still very evident in those hypnotic blue eyes. They’ve always been her best feature, not quite as deep as the ocean or as brilliant as a cloudless sky. Just a unique shade of sapphire that I’ve never seen again.
Now those eyes that had always reflected so much love and adoration only shine with so much pain.
And I did that.
“That’s an interesting choice of punishment, Miss Winters,” Judge Ratchet says with a smile. But it isn’t a friendly smile. She glances my way before returning her gaze to Noel. “I like it. The court agrees to the terms of the state’s offer.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, unable to stop talking.
“Then the court will suggest jail time. Striking a peace officer is a serious offense, Mr. Frost. But I’m sure you already know that.” Again, the old woman gives me a smirk, reminding me to always verify the identity of the women I sleep with to ensure they’re not the daughter of the one judge who despises me with a passion.
It’s as if all of my energy just drains from my body. I feel defeated, but resolved to accept my punishment. Playing Santa for some snot-nosed kids couldn’t be so bad, could it? Because the alternative – jail time – sounds a hell of a lot worse.
I can do this.
I was in the top five percent in my graduating class in law school. At twenty-two I ran the Chicago Marathon for the first time and clocked a personal best time. I once went on a date with Miley Cyrus to a charity event back when she was riding wrecking balls and shaving her head. So if I can do all of that shit, I can surely play the fat, jolly man in a red suit and itchy beard for a few hours, right?
I pull my Mercedes into the first parking spot I can find. Even though every bone in my body is telling me to be fashionably late (or not to show up at all), I don’t want to give Cruella and her evil prosecuting attorney minion any leverage they need to revoke the terms of this arrangement. And while I’m not the least bit happy about it, the alternative isn’t something I plan to do in this lifetime, so I might as well suck it up and deal with the…kids.
Groaning, I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are slightly bloodshot and the bags beneath them are big enough to look like suitcases. I blame Noel for that. She invaded my thoughts and eventually my dreams last night, even when I didn’t want her to. But after seeing her as the fierce prosecutor I always knew she’d become, there was no way I could get her out of my head. She’s taken up residence there, and unless something happens, I don’t see myself evicting her from my brain anytime soon.
Same thing happened in college. After the breakup, for months, I saw her everywhere. In every class (even though we only had one together), in the store, in the library. Hell, I even saw her in the courtroom when I was shadowing a well-known defense attorney in Chicago. But it was never her, just some poor blonde replica of the woman I loved and lost.
I can say it took me months to get over her, but that’d be a lie. It look me years.
If I ever really did…
And now here I am, getting ready to step inside the community center to play Santa. Frickin’ Santa Claus, of all things. And she’s the reason why. She knew just where to strike that would inflict the most pain and cause the most damage. She knew because she knew me. Better than anyone.
Since our breakup, I’ve never let another woman get remotely close. In my bed, sure, but never anywhere near my heart. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Hit it and quit it. Hump and dump. That’s my style, and for five years that’s worked well for me.
And I’m the best option for portraying Santa to a bunch of kids?
The sad thing is that now I can’t picture anyone in my bed but her. That’s the real reason I couldn’t sleep last night. The thought of calling up any one of the numbers I have in my phone just made me nauseous. Instead, I pictured my hands tangled in soft blonde curls and the most hypnotic blue eyes staring up at me. I was hard and throbbing until there was nothing to do but take care of the problem. And even after a quick solo performance in the shower, it wasn’t enough to wipe away the images of her naked in my bed.
I’ve been a walking hard-on ever since.
Very un-Santa like.
Hey, kids! Come on over and sit on Santa’s lap. What’s that? Oh, that’s just the baseball bat I keep in my pants. Don’t mind me.
Christ, why is this happening to me?
Getting out of the car, I head towards the front of the building. It’s a brisk fifty degrees today and it’s as gloomy as my mood. It must be symbolic. I open the glass door and am instantly assaulted by the sounds of screaming kids. Dozens of kids. Hundreds of kids. Hell, probably even thousands of them. The only good thing about it is it’s killed the boner I had from my earlier thoughts of Noel.
We’ll chalk that one up on the plus side.
“We Wish You A Merry Christmas” is piping through speakers I don’t see as I drudge down the hall towards the chaos. A middle aged woman with tan pants and a big fluffy red and green sweater with a big Christmas tree and some sort of weird gold tinsel weaved through it stands by the door. What is it with these sweaters? They’re ugly as hell!
“Are you Brandon?” she asks, her pink painted lips smiling widely.
“I am.”
“I’m Sheila. We’re so glad you’re here! Even though Santa doesn’t arrive for fifteen minutes, there are several families already here and ready for a visit.”
“Great,” I mumble sarcastically.
“Isn’t it?” she exclaims, mistaking my comment for enthusiasm. “Anyway, you’re scheduled for the next five Saturdays from ten until three. The Santa Lunch is at noon and story time at two.”
“Wait. Story time?” I must have heard her incorrectly.
“Sure. Each day at two, Santa and Mrs. Claus read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to the kids,” she says with glee. Apparently Sheila’s been hittin’ the eggnog a little too hard.
Rubbing my suddenly throbbing temple, I ask, “And this lunch?”
“Oh, it’s an open house for supporters of the program to come and eat lunch with the kids, play games, and take photos with Santa.”
Santa. That’s me.
“This sounds so…awesome.”
“Doesn’t it?!” Sheila exclaims once more. “The kids always look forward to this every year. The program continues to thrive, which is why we’ve added programs like the story time this year. For the last several years, we’ve only hosted the meet and greet with Santa and Mrs. Claus, but we’ve seen an influx of financial support, as well as area families who are taking advantage of the services and programs offered t
hrough the community center that we’ve been able to increase our efforts during the holidays.”
Kill me now.
“Oh! And of course, there’s the extra Christmas Eve event. Movie with Santa and Mrs. Claus will start at one o’clock, and all of the children are invited to the auditorium to watch the Christmas movie with you. We’ll serve cookies and milk for all the kids, and they’ll all leave with a final gift from Santa.”
“Thrilling,” I mumble, glancing around at the colorful turkeys made out of construction paper and traced from little hands. The sight of those little hands actually makes me pause for a moment.
“Let’s get you outfitted with your new suit,” she says, leading me towards a small office.
Inside, I stare at the bright red outfit hanging from a rack. My stomach drops to my Italian loafers as I face my doom. Yes, maybe a tad dramatic, but what can I say? I’m not exactly thrilled to be here.
“The glue is on the table. It takes about thirty seconds to set, but you should be good to go for the entire five-hour shift without having to reapply.”
“Glue?”
“You know, for the beard and eyebrows? We have to glue on the fake hair nowadays. Those little stinkers are always tugging at Santa’s beard. We don’t want it to slip down, do we?”
Yes, maybe we do.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, here it is. The padding is in the bin on the floor. We had it dry cleaned after last year’s Santa. He was a sweaty man,” she informs before plastering a big smile on her face. And then she turns her head, making the jingle bells in her ears ring. “I’ll just wait in the hallway. We’ve got seven minutes,” she adds before slipping out the door.
When I’m left alone, I turn my attention back to the offensive suit. It’s hanging there all merrily, mocking me with its bright colors and jolly disposition.
“You really fucked yourself this time, Frost,” I mumble as I start to undress.
Six minutes later, I’m fully dressed in the still smelly fat suit, the Santa outfit, and a beard that itches the fuck out of my face. I can’t believe I have to do this. Out of all the possible punishments in the world, I get stuck with the criers and the overzealous monkeys who only want to use my lap for a jungle gym.
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