by Celia Aaron
He rolls over and goes right back to snoring.
Oh no. I back away and turn toward the hall door. I have to get Ms. Martin. She’ll know what to do. I’m almost there when I remember I’m naked and clutching a too-small elf costume to my chest.
And that’s when I hear a smooth, booming voice that sends tickles of excitement up and down my spine. “Welcome everyone to this year’s holiday grand opening!”
A roar rises from the crowd, but then his voice comes back. They let the hot perfume salesman do the big presentation? Well, it’s a good choice, because he’s already got me in the palm of his hand, and I can’t even see him.
“I know we’re all more than a little excited to kick off this year’s season. That’s why Marley’s is open today. You can get some shopping done, go home and have your turkey, then come on back for a second helping of great gifts from all your friends here at Marley’s. And kids,” his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m certain I heard some sleigh bells only moments ago. You know what that means?”
“Santa!” hundreds of children yell at once.
That excited cry from children who believe in magic breaks the sexy-perfume-guy spell that had me transfixed. I turn and hurry back to the snoring Santa. He hasn’t moved, and I’m pretty sure the puddle of wetness spreading along his pants and on the concrete beneath him is new. Gross. That’s it. He can’t go out there. Not in this state.
I stuff my elf costume behind the changing stalls and turn to the Santa outfit.
“You wanted to be an actor.” I pull the costume down and say the words again, this time in a deeper voice. “You wanted to be an actor.” Once I have the suit on, I say it again, my voice deeper still, then I pull on the Santa beard and the white wig with the hat attached. The black boots are too big, but I honestly think they’d be too big for a man, too. They’re like clown boots, but serious ones.
Peering at myself in the narrow mirror that’s leaned against the dressing area, I’m thankful for the first time in my life that I have a fuller figure. The suit is filled out, but maybe a little top heavy.
“This could work,” I whisper to myself. “I can do this.” Reaching down, I grab some of Rudolph’s fluffy white innards—“Sorry, buddy”—and stuff it into the belly of the suit to give myself a little more heft. This time when I look in the mirror, I don’t see me anymore. I see the big guy, the one all the kids are waiting for.
“Ho, ho, ho.” Too high.
“Ho, ho, ho.” I deepen it more, and it’s almost right.
One more time. “Ho, ho, ho!” I cry as the storeroom doors burst open.
Ms. Martin rushes over to me, expertly picking her way through the mess. She gives me a sharp look, and I know she’s about to bust me.
What will I say? “The other one was drunk and my elf costume was built for a pixie so I decided to cross dress as Santa?” Seems legit, right?
But she doesn’t bust me at all. She points toward the hall door. “Mr. Marley is waiting! Come on, come on. Hurry up, he’s about to introduce you.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes narrow.
I adjust my voice deeper. “I mean, okay. Santa’s on time. Don’t worry.” I button my lips. The less talking, the better.
“Hurry.” She snaps her fingers at me like I’m an unruly dog, and I hustle after her and out into the bright store.
“As promised!” The handsomest man who ever manned speaks into a mic and shoots me something verging on a sexy glare. “Here is the star of the show. Santa Claus!”
The crowd goes wild. Like, literally wild. Kids rush up to me, some of them reaching out to touch my beard. I put a hand up and wave my white glove as I walk with a Santa swagger, belly first, and smiling a big smile.
“I love you, Santa!” A cute little girl in braids calls.
“I love you, too!” I respond in Santa-voice.
Dozens of others profess their love, and I return it until I clamber up the stairs and stand beside the sexy cologne salesman and another man, this one extra pretty with kind blue eyes. Sexy hands the mic to the blond guy, and turns to me, teeth clenched. “You’re late.”
“Santa’s got a lot on his plate, mister,” I intone.
“On behalf of the Marley family.” The blond pats Sexy on the shoulder. “My big brother and I want to give you …”
His voice faces to the background of my mind, and I swallow, my mouth suddenly very, very dry. If they’re the Marley brothers, and the blond cutie is the younger one. That means … I do my best peripheral vision stare at the tall, dark-haired sex-bomb … that means the cologne salesman isn’t a salesman. He’s the one who fired poor Becca. He’s the mean Mr. Marley. It’s not some wrinkled old prune with a vicious streak, no. It’s the man with the deep green eyes and panty-slaying smirk. The one I drooled all over in the hallway a few days ago. He’s the frickin’ boss!
I’m. So. Fired.
“From Crane and me and the entire Marley’s family, we wish you the very merriest of all holiday seasons. And we are open!” The blond rings a silver bell, the Christmas trees lights in a mass of white sparkles, and the crowd applauds while simultaneously dispersing, shoppers hurrying here and there for whatever caught their eye during the presentation. A line of kids has already formed and winds around the podium where my elves hand out candy canes and smiles.
Sexy—errr, Crane Marley—shoots me a withering glower. “No funny business this year. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your performance a few years ago. I’m still paying legal bills. You’re lucky the good Santa was already reserved.” With that, he stalks off and disappears behind the display.
“I guess I’m the bad Santa now,” I murmur to myself and grip my shiny silver belt buckle.
Ms. Martin stands below me and snaps those skinny fingers again, so I back up and, with a deep breath, lower myself into Santa’s seat. It should feel blasphemous. Wrong. Traitorous, even. I’m no Santa. I’m just a failed actor who couldn’t fit into her elf costume.
But when the first lady in line hands me a sweet little baby girl no older than a year who grins up at me, I can’t help but coo in Santa-voice, tell her she’s beautiful, and smile for the camera.
Chapter 5
Crane
“Where’s Lindsay?” I corner Ms. Martin in the back hallway.
“Who?” She tries to keep her chin up, but her eyes dart nervously toward the showroom full of people.
Fear isn’t helping her focus. I back up a step, and she takes a breath.
“Lindsay Fairchild. The woman you hired to be an elf.”
“She’s not out there?” She tangles her fingers together. “She came in, so she must be.”
“She’s here?” I turn and try to see the elves through the crowd.
“Yes. I saw her, Mr. Marley.” She nods emphatically.
My Georgia peach is here, safe and sound under my control. Something inside me relaxes, and I take another step back.
Ms. Martin gestures toward the sales floor. “I should—”
“Go, yes. Ensure everyone has a chance to make a purchase. If anyone steps out of line and attempts to leave, make sure you have someone offer them a swifter checkout elsewhere as well as an upsell.”
“Of course, sir.” She turns and marches out, shoulders back and capitalism mode on.
I stare into the mélange of middle-aged parents, squealing kids, and lone shoppers doing Santa’s work unbeknownst to their children at home, but I don’t see Lindsay. It sets off an itch inside me, and I move onto the sales floor to get a better lay of the land.
“Mr. Marley?” An older woman walks up, her Chanel scarf perfectly arranged and her hair neatly done.
“Yes?”
She smiles. “I’m Gertrude Uline. I used to work for your father here at Marley’s. I was so sorry to hear of his passing.”
“Thank you.” I go to step past her, but she blocks my path.
“I only came out today to let you know that opening on Thanksgiving like this
ought to be criminal, and your daddy is rolling in his grave at what you’re doing to your employees.”
I didn’t see that coming, but I don’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Uline, but I must inform you that your opinion of my business decisions doesn’t mean much to me. Thank you for your condolences. Please excuse me.”
“It’s Mrs. Uline. And that’s your problem, young man. When your father ran this place, he cared what the employees had to say. Listened when they had ideas. You are nothing like him.” She gives me a fierce look, the earlier smile completely gone.
I lean down, not quite in her granny-lotion-scented face, but close. “And that, Mrs. Uline, is exactly why Marley’s danced on the verge of bankruptcy for decades. It’s why my father was rarely home, why he sent my brother and mother and I on vacations without him, why he poured his love and time into this place instead of his family. But no longer. Now, all of these employees have job security because of me. Because of my methods. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep doing it my way.” I leave out the part about the employees I fire for the fun of it. Honestly, most of them are short-timers anyway.
“You’ll reap what you sow, Mr. Marley. Believe that.” She says it almost pityingly, then turns and shuffles through the crowd, disappearing amidst the masses who are adding to the company coffers by the second.
“I’m sewing success, so I’m more than happy to reap it,” I say it more to myself than her.
“Hearing voices?” Henry appears at my elbow. “Might want to get that checked out.”
“Go sell something.” I walk away from him and try to find Lindsay. A green elf hat jingles a few feet ahead of me, but the moment I see a mop of red hair beneath it, I know it isn’t her. Where is she?
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa calls and pats his lap for another child.
The drunk is doing a surprisingly good job this year. He must be off the sauce. The kids are beaming, the photos are going to turn out well, and even the parents seem quite happy with all of it. If my eyes could change to cartoon dollar signs, they would.
When Ms. Graves told me the good Santa had already been reserved, I didn’t overreact. I simply made the only business decision I could—I hired the bad Santa on the off chance he might be able to stagger through the Christmas gig without catching another lawsuit. It looks like that gamble paid off.
I suppose it’s too bad I already fired Ms. Graves.
Chapter 6
Lindsay
I slip back into my street clothes, then carefully hang the Santa costume on the side of the changing area. When I walk to the rear of the storeroom, the Santa actor is gone, though his pee spot is still there. Yick.
The other elves have already changed and left. I took my time so no one would see the switcheroo. It seems to have worked, because I entered the changing stall as Jolly St. Nick, but stepped out as just little old me. I snag the elf costume from where I’d hidden it, fold it, and stuff it into my tote. We may not have room or money for a sewing machine, but Grant can sew a seam straighter than a honeymoon dic—err, I mean, an arrow—even when doing it by hand. He’ll have this elf costume let out for me in no time.
I heft my tote onto my shoulder and head to the door. Tired, yet satisfied, I think this was probably the single best day of my working life. All those happy kids telling me the dearest desires of their hearts—it was magical. I hope there’s a real Santa out there somewhere and that he can hear their wishes. That would be lovely.
The administrative area is quiet as I trudge down the hall and into the store proper. The tree is still sparkling as employees straighten and restock under the managers’ watchful eyes.
“You must be an elf.” A man walks up to me from between the racks of clothing.
“Yep.” I nod and realize it’s the other Marley brother, the one with the blond hair and blue eyes.
“Tired?” He leans on a mannequin, which then starts to fall over.
I reach for the arm, grabbing it, but it comes right off and the mannequin topples.
“Damn, sorry honey. Didn’t think you’d fold on me like that.” He picks the mannequin up as I laugh and re-attach the arm.
We both stand back and look at it.
“I think her arm is backwards.” He taps his chin.
“No way. I did it right.”
“Then why’s her thumb wonky?”
“I think maybe she’s just a wonky sort of girl.” I shrug.
He turns to me, eyes bright. “I’m Henry.”
“Hi, Henry. I’m Lindsay.”
“Very nice to meet you.” He offers his hand.
“Same.” I shake. “Thanks for letting me elf for you.”
“Sure thing.” He holds my hand for a split second longer than necessary.
“Well, I’m off.” I step back. “I need to be up bright and early for my morning elfing.”
“I can get you a ride home if you—”
“She’s taken care of.” Crane sweeps in, his angular face verging on ragey.
“She is?” Henry’s brows draw together.
“She’s my hire. I’ll take her home.”
Henry’s brows pop up at that. “The new hire. Ahaaaaaaaa.”
“Yeah, the new hire.” Crane’s severe look is like a laser, one prepared to bore through his brother’s skull.
“What?” I can’t be sure we’re speaking the same language, because they seem to be having a mutual stroke and repeating the same phrase.
“I’ll take you home.” Crane grabs my elbow gently and motions toward the door.
Henry takes a step back. “It’s cool. I’m pretty sure this mannequin and I were having a moment.”
I laugh.
Crane scowls.
Henry grins.
And then I’m being marched away from Henry and out into the chilly night.
I’m too tired to lodge much of a protest, though this doesn’t make any sense. “I’m lost.”
“You’re outside of my store.” Crane opens the rear door of a limo for me. “And now you’re in my car.”
“No, I mean, I’m lost about why you and your gorgeous green eyes are taking me home from work. Do you do this for all new hires?” No way. I may be from the country, but I’m not that naïve.
He follows me into the cushy car and closes the door. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He turns to the man in the driver’s seat. “Charles, Brooklyn.” Then he closes the window between the front and back seats so the driver has to mind his own business.
The limo pulls from the curb.
“Wait, how did you know I live in Charles? I mean Brooklyn?” I sigh. “I’m tired.”
He goes utterly still for a split second. “Just a guess. I assume the vast majority of my employees can’t afford a place in Manhattan.”
“Oh.” I’m not really sure how to respond to that, so I just stare at him instead. Actually, I’m perfectly happy staring at him and not talking, given the fact that, as it turns out, he’s the mean Mr. Marley I’ve heard so much about. Better for us to stay quiet and keep the illusion that he’s a nice, sexy man who smells delightful and has a kind heart beneath his stern exterior instead of the guy who fired poor Becca and rules with an iron fist.
He clears his throat. “How was your—”
“Shh.” I shake my head.
He turns to fully face me, consternation written in the wrinkles on his brow. “Did you just shush me?”
I put my index finger to my lips, and his eyes follow the movement. On a whim, I lick it. He swallows hard. I smile. Does he think I’m going to be his one-night elf? Who am I kidding, I’m desperate to be his one-night elf!
“Why didn’t I see you on the floor today? You were obviously at work.”
I see the quiet game isn’t going according to plan. “Were you looking for me, Mr. Marley?”
“Crane,” he corrects.
“Crane.” I warm at his invitation.
“Yes, I was, but I didn’t see you.”
“Really?” I look up
as if trying to think of a reason why he would’ve missed me. “I was the one in the costume.”
“Mmhmm.” He stretches his arm across the back of my seat, and I get a whiff of his cologne.
I scoot a little closer.
He notices. “What are you doing?”
“You smell good, and you’re warm.”
“You’re cold?” He pulls his arm back and strips his coat off, then drapes it over me. That scent envelopes me.
I wasn’t really that cold, but I’m not complaining. “Brrrr. Still frosty. Body heat?” I ask innocently.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and reaches down to crank the heat up. I’ll be sweating at this rate, but he gives good snuggles despite his prickly talk.
“Better?”
“Better.” I relax against him. “Now this is what I call a welcome wagon. I get limo service home on my first day? Wild.” I realize this is utterly strange, but so is playing Santa—effectively, I might add—for hundreds of children. This is pretty much Oscar-worthy over here. Joaquin Phoenix and Joker can suck a lemon.
He turns to me, his direct gaze like a touch. “Come home with me.”
I gasp, my eyes widening. “I can’t go home with you.” What foolishness is coming out of my mouth? Of course I can go home with Meanie Bigbucks.
“You can, and you will. If not today, soon enough.”
“You’re bossy.”
He smiles again, and I get the distinct impression of a wolf—a hungry one. “I’ve been called much, much worse.”
“Is this one of those things where if I say ‘I’m not that kind of girl. Take me home this instant!’ you’ll fire me?”
“Depends.” He pulls my thick self into his lap despite my squeak of protest.
“Depends on what exactly?” I lick my lips and wiggle into a comfy spot on his thighs.
“Will a threat get you into my bed? Or do you prefer honey? Sweet words for you, Ms. Fairchild?” He eats me up with those deep green eyes, then his eyebrows bounce just a hair. “You prefer the threat,” he says it with something akin to praise. His hand roves my backside while the other rests on my thigh. “You like being told what to do. It so happens, I rather enjoy telling others what to do, though I must admit, I’m going to enjoy it with you so much more.”