Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She lets me take the lead, gripping my fingers as I march us through the mall on a mission. I can blank out happy kids’ faces for the sake of hers.
The queue at the grotto is so bloody long, I almost suggest we go for midday cocktails instead, but I don’t do it. We’re surrounded by kids desperate to see Santa Claus, but none of them are as desperate as Ella is. Santa’s little home has a cute path leading up to it with artificial grass and snow, and she’s virtually jumping on the spot every step of the way. She fans her face as we get close to the grotto doorway, mouthing to us just how nervous she is as she steps inside. Her excited O M G lights up her whole face.
There is no doubt Santa remembers her, because it’s nearly ten minutes before Ebony gets called in for her turn. It’s supposed to be five minutes tops in with Santa. A lap sit, a quick convo, a hug for a pic, and then out the other side like a conveyor belt, but not for Ella. He’s probably been drooling all over her – charitable saviour or not. I stare at a plastic Rudolph figure while Eb has her go, getting my cash ready for the donation at the door, but Ebony’s must be an especially quick visit, because I’m called in after her in a flash. I regret my decision to visit Santa myself when I have to duck and squish past cardboard to make it through the doorway. I practically fill up the entirety of this cosy grotto with my massive curves. It’s a much smaller little house than it looked from outside.
“Hey there, Santa!” I smile at the man sitting in the sleigh chair. He’s a convincing actor, with a thick beard and a padded red suit, and he can’t be all that intimidated by my size, because he taps his knee and beckons me over. “Sure,” I say. “You can have my butt, if you insist.”
It’s when I drop down into the natural straddle that I get shivers up my back – tiny whispers of WTF that give me goosebumps all up my arms. I drop my ass onto Santa’s thighs, and his knees dig up into the back of mine in a very memorable fashion – even through my jeans. It’s weird. Really fucking weird. But it’s not just that which has my memory on autopilot, it’s the way he shifts. It’s the way he positions his hands on my waist and tugs me back against him. So distinctive… even at the slightest touch.
No.
It can’t be.
“Have you been a good girl this year?” Santa asks me, and my heart thumps so fast it feels like I’m having palpitations. I must be breaking a sweat.
The way his thighs feel under mine, and the way he shuffles, and the way his hands sit could be written off as coincidence, maybe, but some things can’t…
His voice can’t. Not in that tone.
I know it so well I struggle to breathe.
He pulls me backwards, and the tiniest bounce is enough for another slammer of recognition.
I’ve been sitting on Santa’s lap plenty of times outside this grotto… I just didn’t know it…
“Don’t be coy,” he chuckles. “Have you been a good girl this year, or a naughty one? Let me guess. You’ve been a naughty one, haven’t you?”
His tone cracks, just a touch, and it’s one of those crazy moments of you know that I know that you know. I must be open mouthed as the camera flashes. I twist around in the damn sleigh seat and stare into the eyes of the bearded man I should never have crossed paths with. Not like this.
His eyes are dark, mahogany pools with a hint of green. His brows so heavy.
Eyes I’ve never seen before. Brows I’ve never admired.
“You’re right, I’m definitely on your naughty list,” I say, trying to stay as chill as possible. “You should know it though, Santa. You know which of my naughty boxes are ticked, don’t you?”
He plays it cool. Calm. Collected.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
My eyes bore into his, my voice barely a whisper. “You already know my name.”
Santa gives a ho, ho, ho for the guy behind the camera. What an apt expression. Fuck knows what the photographer thinks of this. I shoot him a glance, but it’s just a teenager on his phone, barely interested now that he’s flashed the snapshot. My picture is printing out on the table right next to him. Bizarrely, the guy’s lack of interest only adds to the intimacy in here. It’s baking hot.
“Ho, ho, no, Cream. What’s your actual name?” Santa asks me.
The thought of telling Santa my real name feels like a confession.
“Tiff,” I say.
“Tiffany?”
“Yes, Tiffany.”