Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
When I shove back the person stealing my ultimate Christmas wish, I’m glared at from all sides. I didn’t push Peter out of a situation he no longer belongs in. I shoved the Santa who’s been stalking me all over Ravenshoe.
“Santa,” I murmur when he sways like a leaf on a hot summer’s day.
“Ho, ho… ho.”
When he collapses at my feet while clutching his heart, I shout, “Call nine-one-one.”
15
ZANE
When the click of designer heels sounds through my ears, I raise my eyes from the phone screen, which displays all the messages I’ve sent to Kelsey over the past three hours that have gone unread, and drift them to the noise.
Dr. Jae, the head surgeon at Ravenshoe Private, hands her clipboard to a nurse at the nurses’ station before joining me in the waiting room of the ICU. She looks as drained as I feel, but I doubt her exhaustion is because a charity Santa wouldn’t let go of her hand while he was loaded into the back of an ambulance and driven to the hospital in peak hour traffic.
It took Jae prying my hand from Santa’s before I could begin explaining to Kelsey that things weren’t as they seemed.
I have proof I never accepted Peter’s request to hire me. It just took him exposing the proprietary limited name he used while I was performing CPR on Santa to realize who Emma refunded this morning on my behalf.
Peter was the client who wouldn’t quit harassing Emma this week—the douche who wanted me to break the rules for him. But I was clueless because every inquiry he made was under a company name, and he paid under the same guise.
Between reviving Santa and waiting on news of his prognosis, I haven’t had time to work out all the details, but I am assuming when Peter saw me with Kelsey, he believed I had accepted his proposal, so he forwarded the fifty-thousand-dollar fee in good faith.
When Jae’s exhaustive sigh tickles my cheek, I ask, “How is he?”
“He’s doing okay.” Her giggle is unexpected. She was always the strait-laced one at our study sessions in college. “His recovery is occurring remarkably fast. It’s almost a miracle.” Her eyes pop. “A Christmas miracle.”
Confident there’s no such thing after the day I’ve had, I ask, “Is his family on their way?”
I feel like a dick seeking a way to skip out on my obligations, but the quicker I get Santa’s collapse off my conscience, the faster I can return to Kelsey’s apartment to grovel.
“Excluding ‘made by Mrs. Claus’ stitched on the inside of his suit, he has no other form of ID. We don’t know who to call.” She rolls her eyes. “But I’m sure once word gets out that we have a sick Santa in our ward, a news crew will soon show up. It isn’t the best way to get a formal identification, but it is better than having him spend Christmas here alone.” I stop nodding in agreement when she nudges her head to the double doors she recently walked through. “You can go sit with him if you want. I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”
“Is that allowed? I’m not exactly family.”
“Are you sure about that? You seem to have forgotten that I know your last name.” She barges my shoulder like I don’t hear every joke on the planet about my surname a million times each December, before she gestures for me to follow her. “I’ll never do my rounds if he’s left alone. It doesn’t feel right so close to Christmas, so you’d be doing me a favor if you sat with him.”
When she walks me into a curtained-off room, my heart sinks. Santa looks tiny out of his suit and strapped to a bed next to monitors.
I wait for the ICU nurse to leave before I ask, “What’s his diagnosis?” I planned to be a heart surgeon in college, but my roommate’s gratitude for assuring his girlfriend her chances of a happily ever after significantly improved when she walked in on him with her best friend altered my plans.
I still work on hearts, just not with a scalpel.
“The original diagnosis was a heart attack, but we think there’s something wrong with the ECG machine. It’s been on the fritz since he was admitted.”
When Jae switches on the electrocardiography to record the electronic signals of Santa’s heart, my shocked eyes rocket to her.
His heart is beating out the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
“You’re an ass,” I mutter under my breath when Jae bursts out laughing before exposing she’d placed one of the pads on her iPhone speaker.
“Don’t be mad. It’s Christmas.” After dragging over a chair to the side of Santa’s bed, she tells me she will be back in an hour to check on him. “If you need anything before then, hit the buzzer on your right.”