Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  “And that we saw eight tiny reindeer,” I say, watching as Don Juan and Nutquacker disappear into the trees.

  “Not tiny, I wouldn’t say.”

  I glance up at him in the near darkness. “I mean, like the Christmas poem. Santa has eight reindeer. And there were eight reindeer outside. In the middle of Georgia. Where there are usually no number of reindeer. At all.”

  Clint mulls that over for a moment before snuggling me closer. “Well, I saw a ghost last Christmas. Guess Santa wouldn’t be all that crazy.”

  “Except that it would be,” I say, grinning.

  “Yeah, it would.” He beams down at me. “Butter and truffle salt on that popcorn?”

  I immediately begin to drool. “Yes. Please. That sounds heavenly.”

  And it is.

  So is sharing the last two months of my pregnancy with family and friends.

  And delivering my gorgeous daughter one day behind Hope’s handsome son, ensuring years of double birthday parties with twice as much cake and as many presents.

  “She has your eyes,” Clint says, beaming down at our sweet bundle. “I was hoping she would.”

  “And your big hands,” I murmur, exhausted but happier than I can remember being in my entire life.

  “Good,” he says. “The better to scare the boys away until she’s at least twenty-seven.”

  “You’re still not twenty-seven,” I say, laughing.

  “I’m mature for my age,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You did good, Cupcake. Thank you for our beautiful baby.”

  “Thank you for this beautiful life,” I say, and then I start crying because—hormones.

  “Aw, no, don’t cry.” He climbs into the hospital bed beside me, holding me and Samantha Jane in his arms until we both start to drift off, secure in the knowledge that all is right with the world.

  “The delivery room doesn’t spook Clint O’Dell, Clint O’Dell spooks the delivery room,” I murmur sleepily, making his chest vibrate with soft laughter.

  “Nah, you’re the hero this time, baby. You get the meme.”

  “I don’t need a meme,” I say, yawning. “I just need you.”

  “And you’ve got me. Forever.”

  Forever. Sounds like almost long enough.

  Epilogue Two

  Nutquacker

  Another year later, Christmas time…

  She’s in league with the big guy.

  Got a direct line to the man in the red hat.

  She might have the rest of them fooled, but you have to get up pretty early in the morning to school this goose.

  Noelle O’Dell is an undercover Christmas elf, and I’m going to get her to hook me up with Santa if it’s the last thing I do. She can run, she can hide, she can toss sugar cookies at my beak and act innocent until the reindeer come ’round for another visit, but I will not be swayed.

  I’ve got what it takes to join Santa’s team—I’ve actually got wings, for Rudolph’s sake. I won’t even need holiday magic to fly that sleigh across the sky. And I look magnificent in any and all holiday attire.

  I was born for this job.

  But how to convince this duplicitous elf to quit playing games and give up the goods?

  Chasing her hasn’t worked.

  Neither have hisses or threats.

  Or showing her how cute I look in an elf hat.

  Or causing a scene at the petting zoo to demonstrate my lack of fear around hooved animals.

  Or taking a few well-aimed pecks at her man’s family jewels—gross, but usually effective in getting people to see things my way.

  And last year’s attempt to follow Don Juan to the secret reindeer meet-up in the woods was a bust. Those dang deer are just too fast.

  I’m running out of ammunition, but I’ve still got one ace up my sleeve.

  Craning my neck around the corner toward the town square, I spot Noelle in the line to pick up a caroling sheet, her baby elf strapped to her chest.

  Though the baby might be fully human. It’s awfully big for a human baby, let alone an elf. Her mate’s fault, clearly. He’s too big for his britches, that one.

  And a serious threat to my operation.

  Which means I have to get in and out before Clint’s through the hot cocoa line or this mission is a bust.

  Steeling my resolve and fluffing my feathers beneath my candy cane-striped jacket, I round the corner and charge across the square, dodging children in bulky coats and clumps of people huddled to chat in the cool winter breeze. Dimly, I hear Hope call out my name—she’s been looking for me since I escaped my pen this afternoon—but I ignore her and run faster.

  Hope’s a good egg, but she doesn’t know what it’s like to have a dream deferred.

  She’s living her dreams.

  Now, it’s time for me to live mine.

  I’m almost to Noelle—her baby’s vulnerable feet in my sights, and my plan to nip at Samantha Jane’s shoes until Noelle gives up the goods on Santa firm in my brain—when my nemesis appears out of nowhere, his beady eyes glittering in his black fur mask.

  George Cooney.

  He’s foiled me before, but not this time.

  I dart left and flap right, but before I reach Noelle—or her stupidly enormous human child—George wrestles me to the ground, his big furry rump pinning my neck to the cold earth.

  “No one eats O’Dell babies,” George says in his husky voice. “Not on my watch.”

  “I wasn’t going to eat her, jerk face,” I hiss in response. “Just chew on her a little.”

  “No chewing either.” He lifts a paw, motioning to Hope that he’s got me under control.

  “As if,” I squawk. “I’ll never be under control. Not until I join Santa’s team.”

  Climbing off my neck, George shoots me a sideways look as Hope gathers me into her arms, disabling me as surely as a lack of holiday cheer grounds Santa’s sleigh. I can’t bite Hope. I just can’t. She’s been too good to me, and even geese have limits.

  We are a fierce tribe, but we honor those who rescue us from terrible owners.

  I was a combat goose in my early life, raised to fight other geese for money.

  Which, now that I think about it, might explain why I try to solve all my problems with violence…

  “Thank you, George,” Hope says, before tipping her head my way. “And bad boy, Nutquacker. I don’t know why you have it in for poor Noelle. She’s the sweetest.”

  “The sweetest little liar,” I honk in response, but obviously Hope can’t understand me. Only Clint speaks goose, and not very fluently. Though of course, he remains very impressed with himself, strutting over to wrap a protective arm around his wife and child and shooting me a look like I’m the one who’s keeping deep, dark, peppermint-flavored secrets.

  “Chill out, Nutquacker,” he says. “She’s taken, man. You’re two years too late.”

  I’m about to give him a beak-full of my mind, but George stops me with a paw and a soft, “Meet me behind the clown college tonight if you want to meet Santa. Midnight. Wear your elf hat.”

  I perk up, but almost immediately my eyes narrow. “This a trick?”

  George shrugs as he plops down on his round bottom, picking some leftover popcorn from his fur. “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. You’ll never know if you don’t show.”

  And with those cryptic words, he waddles away, leaving me to be bundled into Hope’s truck and warned to “be good” while she and Blake and baby Baxter join the caroling.

  But come eight o’clock I’m back in my cage in the barn. And by eleven-thirty, I’m out and about again, flapping through the darkness to the edge of town, where I find someone waiting for me.

  Someone I’ve been hoping to meet for a very long time.

  Someone who insists I change my wicked ways if I want to be part of the big magic.

  And the first step in changing my ways is to learn when to keep a secret.

  So, sadly, I can’t tell you about how I was adopted by Santa Claus and be
came an honorary elf. How I worked my way through the ranks until I scored an audition for the reindeer team.

  Or how I became the first goose in history to pull Santa’s sleigh.

  I can’t tell you any of those things, but if I could, I would assure you that they’re true.

  Every. Last. Word.

  P.S. If you’re reading this, Noelle, sorry about the misunderstanding. Turns out you aren’t an undercover elf, after all. Oops. My bad. Much love and no hisses, Nutquacker.

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  Sneak Peek from Lili Valente

  Check out this HOT new friends with bang-i-fits read from Lili Valente! THE BANGOVER is available now!

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  It started with too much whiskey, and ended with two plane tickets to Vegas and a make out session with my best friend, renegade rock star, Colin Donovan.

  Kill me now…

  No, seriously, kill me now. I’m begging you.

  ‘Cause there’s no way I’ll make it through this Best Buddy Festival of Fornication with my dignity intact. The moment Colin and I do more than kiss, he’s going to realize that my feelings for him run so much deeper than just friends.

  I intend to fly back home as soon as our plane touches down—I can’t risk losing Colin, not for all the Big O’s in Sin City.

  But then we run into his evil ex, inciting a series of events that includes chaos, dancing at midnight, more chaos, a cat in a purse, a mirror on a ceiling, multiple conspiracy theories, yet even more chaos, and Colin in my bed.

  Yes. My bed.

  And he’s everything I’ve dreamed he would be, and more.

  Maybe the high will be worth the fall.

  All I know is that by the time we’re done, we’ll both have one hell of a Bangover.

  Excerpt from THE BANGOVER

  I wake up with no feeling in my right arm, my face smashed into an unfamiliar pillow, a case of cottonmouth any stuffed animal would be proud of, and the disturbing realization that I can’t remember where I am or how I got here.

  I can’t remember, but I instantly know Colin is involved.

  I am not a rock star.

  I do not do rock-star things like stay up all night burning old love letters or go skinny-dipping in the ocean at midnight or drink so much whiskey after a show that building a pack of vampire snowmen in the town square at three a.m. sounds like a good idea. But under the influence of too much Colin Donovan, I have done all of these things and more.

  And apparently, our latest case of shared insanity has landed me on a plane. There’s no mistaking the lingering smell of jet fuel or the dull roar of the engines churning away on either side of this soaring death pellet.

  I crack open my lids, and yes—there’s the overhead bin, dull gray and sad in the dim light of the darkened cabin. But instead of the usual packed sardine tin of people on either side of me, there’s only a fully-reclined seat arranged head-to-toe with mine, a quaint swiveling bedside table, and gray plastic walls that grant this little cubby-for-two almost complete privacy.

  There is, however, no sign of Colin.

  But I wouldn’t put it past him to talk me into buying a first-class ticket to somewhere and then drop me off at the airport before skipping off to do more exciting things. He knows I hate planes. I hate them so much that I usually have to be drunk, drugged, or both to force myself down the Jetway and into my assigned seat. But I’ve never booked a trip while under the influence. I make travel plans, arrange my life accordingly, and then I pop a Xanax like a civilized person twenty minutes before boarding.

  This impulsive gallivanting is unacceptable. I don’t usually do impulsive, not even in my work. I’m a plotter, not a seat-of-my-pants wordsmith. I know exactly how the vampire clowns became vampire clowns and who they’re going to kill—and why—before I type a single word. And if I deviate from my outline, I feel anxious, unsettled, unmoored until I find my way back to the path and tie up any loose ends I’ve created.

  I like the path.

  I like knowing what’s coming next.

  I like waking up in my own bed with my own pillow and all my memories of the night before.

  I like all of that…until I snap, decide I don’t like it anymore, and do something fucking crazy. The last time I snapped, I moved to a yurt in Tibet for a month. The time before that I went cage-diving with sharks. And before that, I bought a bed and breakfast at a repo auction, without even seeing the inside. All of those things turned out okay in the end—I learned to meditate in Tibet, conquered my fear of sharks, and set my sister up as proprietor of a profitable business with only a few bumps along the way renovation-wise.

  But I’m just waiting for the day when I do something impulsive that doesn’t have a happy ending. And perhaps today is that day.

  I have no idea what inspired me to drink such an inadvisable amount of whiskey. But as I reach for the water bottle on the table beside me, grateful my hangover doesn’t appear to be too vicious, I vow never to do it again.

  No more whiskey, no more pranks with Colin, no more…

  “Pranks,” I mutter as I twist off the cap and gulp down every drop of brain-restoring liquid. I remember hiding out under the back porch at my place for what seemed like forever, waiting for Shep to come outside so we could prank him. I remember Colin having an existential crisis about his inability to write songs, and then I remember…

  I remember…

  “Oh no. No, no.” I sink farther down in my chair, tugging my blanket up to my chin to hide my flaming cheeks seconds before a shadow appears at the entrance to the swanky first-class cubby.

  A shadow cast by the long, lanky, yet surprisingly well-muscled body of my best friend. A body I am well acquainted with seeing as I had my hands all over him last night. All over his chest, his biceps, his abs, his ass… The same lovely ass that moves across my field of vision as he climbs quietly over me to settle in his seat, clearly thinking I’m still asleep.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and fight to keep my breath slow and even, but I’m a horrible actress, and Colin has superhero-like senses and reflexes. If he weren’t a rock star, he could be a ninja assassin or a cat burglar or something more wholesome that involves a similar skill set, but which I can’t think of at the moment because my mind is not naturally inclined to weave wholesome stories and because I am dying of shame.

  Dying—my heart stuttering to a stop and my stomach turning to stone as Colin grabs a fistful of my blanket and tugs it down to reveal my face. “Hey there, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “How you feeling this morning?”

  I shake my head and tug the blanket back up.

  “That good, huh?” He chuckles and pulls it back down. “Don’t hide. Talk to me. How much do you remember?”

  “Nothing,” I lie, leaping at my one chance at salvation. “Nothing between going out to hide under the porch and waking up a few minutes ago. What happened? How did we get here?”

  Colin’s full lips purse, and his brown-and-amber-flecked eyes narrow. “Yeah? That’s all?” He brushes a thoughtful thumb back and forth along the line of his jaw, the pad making a soft shushing sound as it disturbs his morning whiskers. He’s rocking a seven-a.m. shadow that makes him look even more like a naughty rock star, but if memory serves, this time it isn’t Colin who can’t be trusted.

  It’s me.

  The killer’s call is coming from inside the house…

  He leans closer. “So you don’t remember kissing me last night?”

  I shake my head, wide-eyed in what I hope looks like innocence mixed with utter shock.

  “No? Really?” he murmurs, resting a hand on the curve of my hip, making my skin burn even through the covers and the long skirt I’m wearing beneath. “Then I guess you don’t remember dragging me up to your room, stripping off all of your clothes, and riding me like the la
st roller coaster left standing?”

  My eyeballs attempt to leap out of my skull, but thankfully there are muscles and ligaments in place to keep things like that from happening.

  There are not, unfortunately, muscles in place to keep my tongue from flapping. “I did not, you dirty liar.”

  “So you do remember,” he says, pointing a victorious finger at my face. “Now who’s the dirty liar, Larry?”

  The Bangover is out now!

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  Sneak Peek from Pippa Grant

  If you love SEALs and one night stand romances, read on for an excerpt of Pippa Grant’s The Hero and the Hacktivist…

  I swig my tequila off the bottle, fully aware of all the white sparkly lights and crinkly streamer crap strung up everywhere and the two other occupied tables out here, where guests are debating some shit about the Mets possibly trading Brooks and if Knox’s granny is really a secret romance author. I can still smell the roast beef from dinner mingling with the autumn breeze, and I know there’s nothing but night insects in the thin patch of trees behind me.

  All’s safe in this little part of the world. My sister is madly in love. Two of my three brothers are on their way to hook-ups.

  And I’m not getting any tonight.

  This is boring as shit.

  A flash of glittery color crossing the dance floor catches my eye, and I narrow my focus.

  The lone single bridesmaid.

  Eloise.

  She’s a nutcase. Squirrely, like she’s hiding something. Plays drums in Parker’s girl band. Heard from Brooks, who heard from Jack, who heard from Knox, that Eloise is some kind of heiress wasting her life playing computer games all the time.