Accidental Santa Read online

  Accidental Santa

  Celia Aaron

  Accidental Santa

  Celia Aaron

  Copyright © 2019 Celia Aaron

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.

  Cover ‘Crane Marley’ © David A. Lojaya

  Contents

  Accidental Santa

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Also by Celia Aaron

  24. Bonus Scene

  About the Author

  Accidental Santa

  by Celia Aaron

  Working as an elf during the holidays isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I moved to the big city to be an actor, but when a job at Marley’s Department Store opens up, I take it. I’m supposed to be an elf, but I discover I’ve got bigger shoes to fill when I find Santa passed out drunk as the kids are lining up to see him. Someone has to play Santa. That someone is me. But when I meet the ‘mean’ Crane Marley, will I be able to keep up the holiday charade?

  This company is a chain around my neck, but at least I’ve found one jewel in it. Lindsay, a new holiday hire, is making me feel things other than my usual greed, disdain, and irritation. She’s my employee, but the moment I see her mouth-watering curves and get a taste of her quick wit and charm, I ignore the handbook and do everything I can to get her under the mistletoe.

  Has the mean Mr. Marley finally met his match?

  Chapter 1

  Crane

  “We’re already in the black, sir. Nationwide, the Marley’s stores are all running at a profit, and we haven’t truly entered the buying season yet.” Higginbotham taps his sheaf of papers. “This extra push for the holidays—while excellent at maximizing profit—is going to be a real imposition on all the staff. They expect usual operating hours. After all, your father never made them work on Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.

  The rest of the boardroom is utterly silent, my executives smart enough to keep their mouths shut. But Higginbotham has never been smart. After all, he’s sitting here right now bringing up the ghost of my father. Worse than that, he’s second-guessing my plans to wring every single dollar from the foolish holiday shoppers who fritter away their money on all the merchandise I can stuff into my stores.

  All eyes are on me as I stare at Higginbotham, at his okay suit and expensive glasses, at his neatly handwritten notes and thinning hairline. My father hired him. He once worked on the sales floor at the New York Marley’s two streets over. Head of toys, I believe it was. So typical of my father to promote an uneducated rube to the executive suite.

  I finally move, but only to drum my fingertips on the conference table.

  Graves jumps, then clears her throat to hide her fear. She’s one of my hires. A good lap dog, she does as I instruct, no questions asked. Higginbotham should’ve taken notes from her, not come up with his own.

  “Tell me, does anyone else agree with Mr. Higginbotham?” I keep my voice low. I don’t yell. I don’t have to. Everyone’s already wincing from nothing more than my tone.

  I look at each of them in turn. A dozen minions, all eager to please.

  Then I turn back to Higginbotham. “I’m afraid your suggestion is one that I simply can’t agree with. The shareholders have put their trust in me to make sure this company is profitable.”

  “But your father—”

  “My father,” I say sharply. “Is dead. I run this company now, and I say that Marley’s will open early on Thanksgiving. We will lure shoppers in with deals, and keep them here to buy all those silly little items they don’t need. And then on Christmas Eve? We’ll do the same. Last minute shoppers will have no place to go except here, where our friendly staff will load them up with gifts that their loved ones neither want nor appreciate.” I stand.

  Higginbotham holds up a finger. “It’s just—”

  “Now, as we have no other business to conduct, I have appointments. Graves, bring me ad copy by the end of the day for Thanksgiving and Black Friday. Also, hire the usuals for the Santa display downtown. We want those children coming to Marley’s for their Christmas pictures with Santa. Nowhere else. And don’t let them out the door until their parents have grabbed up whatever trinket catches their eye.”

  Turning, I open the door. “Book the Santa now. I don’t want to end up with the drunken one from three years ago. Litigation is still ongoing.”

  “Yes, sir.” She scribbles down everything I say.

  “A word, sir?” Higginbotham hurries after me as I stride down the hall to my corner office. “I just think that our employees are the best in the business, and we should reward them with Thanksgiving with their families. Why not open on Black Friday the same as always, but maybe an hour earlier? That way they have time with their loved ones and can show up to work the next day full and happy.”

  “Happy?” I stop at my office door.

  Beverly gives me a sideways glance, then focuses on Higginbotham.

  “What on earth does being happy have to do with it?” I turn and peer down my nose at him.

  His mouth opens in dumbfounded confusion. “Happiness is why we get together for the holidays, why we celebrate, why we put presents under the tree. Happiness, sir, is why we do what we do. Your father knew that.”

  I push through to my office and turn. “As you may have noticed, Higginbotham, I’m not my father.”

  Slamming the door in his face should be satisfying. And it is, but there’s something missing. Something that bothers me deeply, getting under my skin as I look out onto the sunny city from my corner office. I walk to my desk, and I’m about to sit down when I realize what the problem is.

  “Beverly,” I call, a smile turning my lips. “Bring me the executive bonus list. I have a deletion to make.”

  Chapter 2

  Lindsay

  “You can’t just take any job you see.” Grant frowns.

  “I can, and I will.” I stretch out, my hands magically existing in both the bedroom and kitchen of our tiny New York apartment at the same time.

  “I can make rent this month.” He shimmies out of the bathroom.

  “I can’t expect you to pay all the time. Besides, you can’t afford it.”

  He plops onto his futon bed and sighs. “I’m going to nail this audition for that A Midsummer Night’s Dream reboot show that’s off-off-off Broadway. They need a singing, dancing fairy? I’m their guy.” He nods, then yawns.

  “Exactly. You need to focus on that instead of worrying about me failing at life.” I flip through job postings on my phone. “And you work too much. All these shifts at wh
at, is it four restaurants now?”

  He groans. “I’ve already worn out the bottoms on that last pair of sneaks I bought a couple months ago.”

  “That’s how you stay so lean. All those tables. Dantonio’s was tiny, so I didn’t have far to go to serve the customers.”

  “Did he really grab your ass?” Grant runs a hand through his platinum-blond hair.

  “Yeah.” I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit. Then again, after I slapped Mr. Dantonio and told the nearest guests what he’d done, I probably wasn’t going to be named employee of the month anyway.

  “I want to say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I could tell he was a sleaze the second I walked into that place. Pizza was good, though.”

  “It was,” I agree and pat my belly. “And the free pizza every time I worked wasn’t so bad, either. Though I may need to go up another size the next time I can afford clothes.”

  “Cushion for the pushin’ as they say.” He lets his false New York accent go and lapses back into the country twang of our Georgia hometown.

  I keep scrolling. An acting job isn’t happening. Not a real one, anyway. I’ve been an extra plenty of times, but a speaking role is my dream. It’s why I’m in this huge, rude, delightful, ugly, beautiful city. Grant and I made a promise to each other we’d get out of the backwoods. He’d be famous on the stage, and I’d be on the screen.

  The band starts up at the dive next door, some sort of drum-heavy metal that I’ve managed to get used to over the past few months.

  “Ah, culture,” Grant says and presses his pillow over his head.

  I keep scrolling, refusing to do another stint in the Times Square tourist magnets or anything that looks remotely sketchy. My finger slides up my screen so fast that I almost miss the Marley’s ad. I stop and click on it.

  Holiday Help Wanted: Santa’s elves and Santa. Acting experience preferred. Good with children a plus. Knowledge of digital photo equipment and cash wrap required. $20 an hour plus tips. Must be jolly. Apply online.

  “Steady holiday work, decent pay, and it’s an acting gig. Yes.”

  “Found something?” Grant mumbles, already half asleep.

  “I think so. I’m going to be an elf.”

  “Sounds good, Buddy.”

  “Elf puns.” I roll my eyes.

  “Something-something singing loud for all to hear. . .” He fades off into a snore.

  “It’s the fastest way to spread Christmas cheer,” I whisper to myself and click the apply button. A few taps later, and I lie back and pull my blankets—all three of them—over me, then reach for the space heater, tugging it closer to me now that Grant’s asleep. He won’t miss it. Half the time, he passes out with nothing more than his coat draped over him. Then I have to tuck him in and pile him with his granny’s quilts. He works too hard. Always trying to keep us going and following our big dreams. But now it’s my turn to contribute.

  “An elf. For Marley’s.” I close my eyes and recall the big department store. We didn’t have one anywhere near our town in rural Georgia, but I visited the one in Atlanta a couple of times when I was a kid. The place was utterly magical. Big Christmas trees, bright lights, and they gave every child who visited with Santa a free photo and gift. Being an elf for the flagship New York store will be amazing.

  I just know it.

  The staff room at the back of Marley’s smells like coffee and Clorox. Not a wholly unpleasant scent, but not the faintly perfumed atmosphere the rest of the store presents.

  I sit at a large round table, the top gray and scratched in a few places. But it’s clean. A woman in a neat skirt suit sits across from me and reviews my application.

  “So, you’ve worked in quite a few capacities.” Ms. Martin looks up and blinks slowly. She’s probably twenty years older than me, but she carries herself with a nervous energy that reminds me of someone far younger. She’s like a loaded spring with resting bitch face and a penchant for Chanel No. 5.

  “Yes. Restaurants, bars, shops.” I smile. “I’m very New York on that score.”

  “Your accent isn’t.” She says it with a slight smile, but I can’t tell if it’s a barb or just an observation.

  I roll with it. “I’m a Georgia transplant. But I’ve lived here for almost a year.”

  “Figured you’d be on the big screen by now?” She reels off some of my gigs as an extra. “Seems like you’ve had every part except one where you actually get to … act.”

  Now I know she’s just being rude. If she thinks she’s the first person in this town who’s condescended to me based on my accent, I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell her.

  Even so, I keep my smile fixed on my face. Because I need this job. Because Grant needs to be able to take fewer shifts so he can practice and get that role in the Shakespeare show.

  “I want to act, yes. Big screen, small screen, any screen really. But I don’t mind starting small. And what’s smaller than an elf?”

  She nods, the chill not falling from her entirely, but at least I seem to be making progress. “I think you’ll be a good fit. Someone the basic clientele can identify with and the higher end customers can be amused by.”

  Way to damn me with faint praise, lady. I think that was a line in one of the plays I helped Grant rehearse for, but I can’t remember.

  “We will, of course, provide an appropriate costume.” She looks with open disapproval at my only-slightly-wrinkled blue top. Thank heavens she can’t see my red combat boots beneath the table.

  “When can you start?” She makes some notes on the top of my application. “Photos with Santa begin on Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanksgiving?” I swallow hard.

  She cuts her eyes to me. “Is that a problem?”

  I waver for a moment, thoughts of Mama’s angry face dancing through my head. But dad will understand how important this is for me. I need the money, and I need to give Grant a chance to live his dream. Dad will just have to explain all that to Mama while I’m safely a thousand miles away.

  “I can start Thanksgiving. Sure.”

  “Good.” She turns the page on my application with an irritated flick of her wrist. “Now that word has come from Mr. Marley that we all have to work the holiday, I expect you to fall in line with those expectations, even if you’re just holiday help.”

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Marley, now would we?” I do my best commiserating chuckle.

  She turns her birdlike eyes back to me. “No. You wouldn’t.”

  I bet he's old and mean and positively pickled from swimming in oodles of cash his whole life. If I see him, I'm going to hide in the ladies room.

  Standing, she motions toward the door. “Take a left and walk down to HR. Sandy will get you set up in the system.”

  “Thanks.” I’m internally squeeing in spite of Ms. Martin’s disdainful look.

  “And Ms. Fairchild?”

  “Yes.” I hesitate in the hall.

  “Watch what you say about Mr. Marley. He likes to inspect this store frequently, and there has never been a single visit when he hasn’t fired someone. Take care that someone isn’t you.” She turns back to the table and shuffles some papers, then calls “next.” Another elf hopeful trudges past me as I hurry toward HR, feeling like Charlie with the golden ticket to the chocolate factory.

  Turning the corner, I run right into someone, my progress halted as if I’ve run into a wall.

  “Yikes.” I steady myself on the man, grabbing his forearms as he grips me in return. “Wow. You work out.” I look up into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “If you’re finished falling all over yourself, I’d like to continue on my way.” Is that a sneer? Is that what he’s doing? Sneering at me?

  “Whoa, look buddy, I don’t know who the hell you think you are. Just because you have a nice suit and gorgeous eyes and lordy you are tall and have a great, great body, and that hair—is that like black or blue black? It’s so, so shiny.” I shake myself, trying to stop the verbal diarrhea.
As Mama would say, the horses are already out of the barn on that score. “Doesn’t matter. As I was, um, saying—”

  “As you were saying?” He lifts a brow, the sneer still in place.

  “I was saying…” What was I saying?

  He gives me an apprising glance, one that sends a tingle to parts south. “If you’re done, I’d like to be on my way.”

  “Then be on your way. Makes no difference to me,” I huff. Why am I huffing? Are there like, toxic fumes in the air here? Is that why I’m suddenly acting 15 and confused?

  He steps closer, and I have to crane my head back to look into those beautiful green eyes. “You’ll have to let go of me first.”

  “Oh.” I laugh the laugh of the utterly embarrassed. “Oh, right.” I disengage from his forearms, but not before I notice that he’d still been gripping me, too. “You’re free. Totally free. Go on your way. Sell some cologne or designer goods to the rich folks. You definitely look the part. Like that guy from American Psycho, who was that?”

  “Christian Bale,” he offers.

  “Yes. Like him. But dark hair and those crazy green eyes.” I stare up at him, completely unable to turn off the foolishness that runs from my mouth like water from a well.

  “Thank you for these highly insightful observations, Ms. …” He lets it linger, a question in the air.

  “Fairchild,” I offer.

  “Ms. Fairchild, where are you going?”