Accidental Santa Read online

  Wherever you’re going. “HR.”

  “Oh, you work here now?”

  “Yep. Just got hired.”

  “Congratulations.” He says the word, but somehow it sounds like a threat more than a high-five. Sexy is what it is. Maybe living in New York has twisted what I find attractive, because his demeanor isn’t a turn off. Just the opposite. Then he steps around me, and I get a whiff of his cologne. I think it’s called “rich, hot male with a thick dick and tongue skills.” Actually, I’m certain it’s called that.

  I turn as he strides away toward the main area of the store. Why is he walking away from me when I really, really want to stare up at him some more? So, of course, desperately, I call in my most helpful tone, “Oh, um, watch out for that Mr. Marley. I hear he’s a real hardass.”

  He pauses and turns his head just a bit, giving me the sexiest side-eye I’ve ever seen, then resumes his steps toward the showroom.

  “That man.” I take a deep breath and try to calm my ladybits down by informing them that no, he didn’t ask for my number, and no, we can’t stalk him, find out where he lives, and show up there wearing nothing but a trench coat and a smile, mostly because it’s probably some sort of a felony.

  His cologne still lingers and whispers ‘rich and sexy’ in notes of mahogany and money as I hurry toward HR. When I enter, a woman is crying to my right, her face in her hands as an older man with a white mustache tries to comfort her with awkward—yet gentle—pats on the back.

  “It’s not your fault, Becca. It truly isn’t. You know how he is. He comes and looks for someone to find fault with. Today, it just happened to be you.”

  “Oh, no.” I sit next to her and drape my arm over her shoulders. “Was it that Mr. Marley guy? Is he here?”

  She nods and sniffles, too distraught to even ask who I am or what I’m doing here. I’ve been sacked enough times to know the sting, though I admit I don’t take it nearly as hard anymore. Not like poor Becca here.

  “There are so many amazing jobs out there. I promise. This is just a bump in the road to success.”

  “Fired.” She sobs. “Fired.”

  “It’s okay. Really.” I pull her into my arms, letting her rest her head on my big boobs. I don’t know why, but they have a calming effect on women. Men, not so much.

  But eventually she stops sniffling and the white-haired man gives me a thankful look.

  “Now, cheer up, Becca. You’re going to land on your feet. I just know it. Plenty of spots open this time of year. And maybe Mr. Marley will realize you’re irreplaceable and bring you back.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure. A gal like you? He’ll be cursing the day you walked out the door. No way to find another worker as good as you.”

  “Yeah.” She sits up a little straighter. “You’re right. They’ll miss me when I’m gone. Irreplaceable, like you said.” She wipes her mascara-stained cheeks and peers at me. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, um … New hire,” I whisper.

  Her face crumples, and back on the boobs she goes.

  Chapter 3

  Crane

  Firing the perfume saleswoman perked up my morning, but meeting my newest hire was an added bonus. The way she rambled, the silly-yet-sexy clothes, and the curves that had my mouth watering—she’ll be a fun one to torment. I wonder how long she’ll last?

  I stride through the men’s department, everyone already on high alert as they stand with their backs straight or fawn over customers. It’s not unheard of for me to fire two or three in a single day, depending on my mood. But, lucky for them, I ran into that sexy brunette. She’s put me in a rather gracious mood. I think I’ll stick to the one firing and perhaps only dress down a handful of employees.

  They fear me, but I can sense their anger percolating beneath the surface. Apparently, working on Thanksgiving has caused quite a mass of grumbling from my workforce. That’s why I stopped by today, to remind them that I am the one in charge and they are nothing but names on a tally sheet.

  “Mr. Marley.” One of the salesmen nods respectfully as I walk past. I remember his face. He’s been here for probably two decades, but I still don’t know his name. I don’t need to.

  I do the circuit around the store, then find myself returning to the administrative section. The woman isn’t in the hall this time, and when I turn the corner toward HR, I don’t see her there, either. The girl I fired is still blubbering, so I turn on my heel and decide to call it a day. There are plenty of people at corporate in need of my guidance, and I’ve terrorized the staff enough . . . for now.

  My thoughts stray back to the woman. The girl? She didn’t look old enough to drink. Far too young for me. I may be a young CEO, but I still have ten years on her. Ten years of strength and knowledge, something a woman like her might appreciate. She certainly seemed to appreciate me. By the way she nibbled her lip as she looked up at me, the warmth in her cheeks and the touch of her hands on me—she felt it, too. After all, I’m not an unattractive man. I’ve been told my nose is too aristocratic and my eyes are too intense, but clearly my mother didn’t know what she was talking about. Plenty of women have thrown themselves at me over the years. But this one is different. Why? I don’t know … yet.

  What department will she be working in? I could ask in HR, but I don’t. No sense in starting idle prattle amongst the help. I keep walking through home goods and out to the waiting car, then tell my driver to take me to the office. Everything gets uploaded to the Marley’s system when we get a new hire. I’ll be able to find out all her details, right down to her address and phone number.

  Maybe I’ll turn my usual new hire pressure up a notch for her, see how long she can take the heat. After all, I’m not here to coddle anyone. Though coddling isn’t the word I’d use for what I want to do to that woman. No, indeed not.

  “Lindsay Fairchild.” I let her name roll off my tongue as I sip my bourbon. Generally, drinking during office hours is strictly prohibited, but I break the rules this one time. The corner office comes with perks.

  Clicking through her file and application, I see she hasn’t lived in the city long and is originally from some Georgia backwater. Makes sense. Her voice had a pleasant lilt to it, southern but not overwhelmingly so. Only a hint of peach, enough to make me want more.

  I look up her address on Google Maps. She lives in a sad building, likely in a one-bedroom mousetrap. Is she there now? I examine the faded façade and grubby windows.

  “Mr. Marley?” Beverly stands just inside my office door.

  “Yes?”

  “I called but you didn’t pick up,” she chides lightly.

  “You did?” I glance at my phone.

  “Distracted?” She crosses her arms. “That’s not like you.”

  “I’m not distracted.” I set my glass down and click away from Google Maps.

  “Good to know. Your brother is here.”

  “Why?” I down my bourbon in one gulp.

  “Probably wants money. You know, the usual.”

  “No.” I straighten my suit coat. “The answer is no.”

  “You should give it to him.” She rests her hand on the door handle. “It’s the only way to get rid of him.” She pauses. “Unless, of course, you’d like to keep him around instead of—”

  “That’ll be all, Beverly. Send him in.” I glare at her. My brother doesn’t want to work, doesn’t want to put in the time and effort to keep the Marley’s stores profitable. He’d rather fritter away his trust fund on women and parties, which is fine by me until he comes looking for a handout when his monthly allotment is up.

  “Crane, how’s it going, big brother?” He smiles as he walks in. Mother always said he was the handsome one, his open countenance and blond hair marking him the golden child. That designation hasn’t done him much good, I’m pleased to say.

  “You’ve used up your funds for the month already?” I shake my head.

  “No, actually, I haven’t.” He drops into the chair acro
ss from me. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been managing my money quite well over the past year.”

  “So, you don’t want anything?”

  He gives me the grin that’s charmed my parents and plenty of women. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m doing some very important business, Henry, so get to it.” I click on one of the tabs and pull up Lindsay’s Instagram. She has lots of photos of her on stage, other people on stage, and far too many with a particular man. I’ll have to look into him. She’s too young to be getting in with the wrong crowd. I can help her with that.

  “Crane?” Henry’s leaning forward, his light blue eyes on me.

  “What?”

  He glances at the back of my computer screen, then jumps to his feet and darts around my desk.

  I hit the escape key but not fast enough, because he crows behind me, “A woman! Oh my god. I’ve never seen you miss beat, but today something’s off, and look what it is. A woman! And you’re over here stalking her like a psycho.” He laughs and claps me on the back. “I love it.”

  I turn and stand, scowling at him. “What I do is none of your affair.”

  “Don’t get mad, bro.” He holds up his hands. “I think it’s a good thing. Seriously.”

  “It’s nothing. Just checking up on a new hire.”

  “Uh huh.” He raises a brow. “You look at the Instagram accounts of all new hires?”

  “Just ask for what you want, then get out.” I point at my door.

  He walks back to his chair, still smiling. “So sensitive.”

  I move around my desk toward him, on the verge of violence.

  He laughs. “Okay, okay. Look, I only want two things. First, I’ve gotten some calls from employees, and they’re upset about the whole ‘working on Thanksgiving’ thing.”

  “Give me their names, and they’ll be gone in the morning. Next.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He scrubs his jaw. “Can you put the hardass demeanor aside for just a minute?”

  “It’s not a demeanor. It’s who I am.”

  “Okay, sure, but these people have families, and they want to see them on Thanksgiving. Can you reconsider that, or at the very least, Christmas Eve?”

  “No. What is the second item?”

  He sighs, the longsuffering sound my mother used to make when she couldn’t get me to compromise. “Well, the second thing was, can I do the official Christmas holiday opening with you?”

  “What? Why?” I cock my head. He’s never wanted to take part in the Marley’s holiday tradition of opening the store by lighting the Christmas tree in front of a crowd of eager shoppers. This year, it’ll happen on Thanksgiving instead of Black Friday, and I’m doing the honors.

  “I just figured maybe it’s time I took more of an interest in the stores. Dad always wanted me to be apart of it. But I was too busy—”

  “Carousing and starring on Page Six?” I fill in for him.

  “Something like that, yeah.” He steps toward me. “Dad wanted us to run these stores together, as brothers. And now that I’m a little older, I see why. Family’s important. Now that Mom and Dad are gone, we only have each other. And I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but—”

  “We’ve never seen eye-to-eye.”

  “Right.” He nods. “I mean, yeah. But maybe that can change starting with the Christmas season opening. What do you say?” His eyes are earnest, his words well-meant, but he doesn’t have what it takes to run this business. He’s too soft, too kind. But I can’t simply tell him that. After all, I’ve been telling him that for years, but here he is, thinking he can wear the big-boy pants. So, instead, I’ll show him.

  “You want to open with me on Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes.”

  “And work here in the office?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s time, Crane. I need to do something instead of just passing the time.” He’s eager, his posture tense. This is something he truly wants.

  The sadist in me wants to say no and watch him crumble. But I’m playing the long game. Once he gets a bellyful of real work, he’ll change his mind. So, I nod. “You can open with me on Thanksgiving, but I expect you in the office starting tomorrow morning at eight. Understand?”

  He smiles, his white teeth and dimples still maddeningly perfect. “Thanks, Crane. You won’t regret this.” He pulls me in for an awkward hug, then he steps away, cockiness back in his twinkling eyes. “Now, tell me about the girl.”

  “Piss off.” I wave him to the door, and he jogs off with a bounce in his steps at winning his spot at the Christmas season opening.

  Henry was right about one thing: I won’t regret it. But he certainly will.

  Chapter 4

  Lindsay

  “Break a leg.” Grant waves as we part ways in front of Marley’s. He’s off to the subway and a server job while I have to maneuver through a growing crowd that lines the sidewalk and spills into the department store.

  “Wow.” I didn’t expect this many people on Thanksgiving, but they’re all here. They must have gotten up early, popped the turkey in the oven, and set out to get their shop on. Kids are everywhere, their parents trying to keep them calm as they ooh and aah over the displays and the big, plush bench that’s waiting for Santa.

  A huge Christmas tree sits in the center of the store, and it’s decorated to the hilt but not lit. I guess when the store opens right at 8, there’ll be a lighting ceremony before the shopping carnage begins.

  Once in the back hallway, I see Ms. Martin. “Hey, good morn—”

  “You’re late!” she snaps.

  “It’s not even eight yet.” I hurry to her side, and she pulls me along the hall past HR.

  “You have to get your costume on. I don’t have time to help. Mr. Marley will need me out front to assist with the tree lighting.”

  “He’s here again?” I swallow hard.

  “Do your job, and you’ll be fine.” She pushes me into a stock room at the end of the corridor. “Get your elf costume on and come out front. The other elves are already waiting.”

  “Where’s Santa?” I ask, but she’s already hurrying back through the door.

  “Okay, sure.” I peer at the stacks of boxes, discarded tinsel, Valentine’s décor, Halloween items, and holiday sale signs. “This is a mess.” I follow the path through the junk toward the back, then veer right when I see a small changing area with curtains stretched across tiny stalls. A huge pile of white stuffing leaks from a large Rudolph plush, as if someone gutted the poor guy and left him behind. There’s a noise, like maybe a fan or something, that comes and goes rhythmically. Whatever it is, it’s busted, but that’s not surprising given the state of this store room.

  In front of the curtained stalls, a green elf dress is laid across a half-broken chair with my name pinned to it. I grab the matching green hat with the white furry edging and the bell on the fancifully curving tip. This will be cute, and the kids will love it. A big, nice Santa costume hangs on the side of the farthest stall, so I guess that actor hasn’t arrived yet. At least I’m not the only one who’s late.

  “Okay, creepy store room, keep your eyes to yourself.” Elf costume in hand, I step into the stall and pull the thin curtain. The rhythmic noise is louder in here. Weird.

  But everything seems to be junky and fine and only a little bit creepy, so I strip down to my tights and bra, then shimmy on the elf costume. It slides up my calves and makes it halfway up my thighs before tightening.

  “No.” I pull. The fabric barely moves, and there is zero stretch. “Oh, no.” Panic makes my heart flutter faster, and that familiar dressing-room feeling hits me. Humiliation.

  “Please, don’t do this to me, elf costume.” I give it another tug, but it won’t go any farther. “No!” I shuck it off, my cheeks burning. Maybe I didn’t have the zipper all the way down? That’s a desperate thought shared by fuller-figured women everywhere. I examine the back of the outfit. T
he zipper is, of course, all the way down. “Ugh!”

  I flip the dress up and shake it down onto my arms, poke my head through, then grab the waist of it and try to pull it past my breasts. “Who makes costumes with no frickin’ give!” The waistline has my boobs in a strangle-hold, and I know that even if I could get it past them, it won’t fit. My waist is more of a suggestion than a hard-and-fast rule. I can’t even take a full breath like this.

  Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I struggle out of the costume as I try to fight away my embarrassment. Peeking out of the curtain, I look for another costume, but there isn’t one. And if I can’t fit into this one? I have no doubt I’ll be fired, letting Grant down in the process.

  “No, no, no!” I yell. “Give me a Christmas miracle!”

  The rhythmic noise stops, and I could swear I hear a fart. A bubbly one that turns my stomach.

  I clutch the ill-fitting costume to my chest and look around. “Hello?”

  “Dicker, Dancer, Cunty, Pricks-in,” someone mutters.

  “It’s Dasher, Dancer, Comet, and Vixen,” I call, offended on the reindeer’s behalf.

  “Who’s there? The cops again? Sod off. I got a right to be … to be …” Someone coughs, his voice rusty, and then the rhythmic sound starts again. Snoring. All this time, some guy has been back here snoring. What the heck? Costume still clutched to my chest, I creep out of the dressing stall and look around. Edging toward the back of the room, I see a man on his side, his snores louder as I approach.

  Scraggly white beard, gray hair, dirty jeans, and a potbelly hanging out of a sloppy t-shirt—this must be the guy they hired as Santa. But the empty bottles of Jack lying next to him tell me he’s not ready to speak to—much less hold onto—any children.

  “Hey, mister.” I toe his leg. “Hey.”

  His snore turns into more of a chainsaw buzz, but he doesn’t wake.

  “Hey, there are hundreds of kids out there waiting on you.” I toe him some more. “Hey. You are going to ruin their day! Their parents took time out of Thanksgiving to bring them here just to see you.” I kick him harder.