Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“No.” Mac only says the one word before he folds his massive arms over his chest.
“Aren’t there sites just for older men? Sugar daddy something?” I snap my fingers. This is brilliant. Mac snatches my phone out of my hand.
“You’re not going on a dating app,” he grumbles. The grumpy look on his face has me pulling him down for a kiss. I’m glad I’m not the only one around here getting jealous.
“Are you jealous of the idea of me on a dating app?”
“Yes.” His answer is instant. “You’re mine, and I don’t share.”
A thrill runs down my spine at his possessive words. He leans down and grabs the Santa hat off the couch. I watch as he puts it on. We both stand there and wait for something to happen. Some sort of wild magical explosions or bursts of Christmas energy. Nope. Nothing.
“I don’t think you’re old enough? Or gray enough,” I point out. He looks too sexy to be Santa. “Maybe I could try it on Carl when he brings the mail tomorrow? If he brings it.” I glance out at the falling snow. “Or we could, I don’t know, go to the diner and try it on every old guy who walks through the door. Or maybe we—” The doorbell rings, making me let out a small scream of surprise.
“It’s only the door, lil bit.” He chuckles and drops a kiss on top of my head before he walks over to the door and looks out the peephole. “No one’s there.” He flips the lock and pulls it open. A bunch of white boxes sit on my porch. First the sacks of letters and now this. I’m going to run out of room in my house at this rate.
“They’re addressed to Santa, but there isn't a physical address on them.” I look up and down the street to see who dropped them off, but there’s no one in sight. Mac pulls the lid off one of the boxes. I reach in and grab the paper on top that says The List in big bold letters. It’s then I see all of the names in neat lines underneath.
“That little prick Johnny Greenwood isn't getting anything.”
I turn my head to look up at Mac who’s reading the names on the list over my shoulder. “Tomas is good to go this year. Think he learned his lesson from last year.”
“You know them?” I ask. Mac opens his mouth and then closes it. I put my hand over my mouth. “Santa?”
15
SANTA
“That was just a lucky guess.”
“Two lucky guesses?” Jocelyn looks up at me. “Do you know any of the other names?”
I glance down at the long ream of paper, one of many in the boxes on her front porch. Yes, I know every name I see. In fact, I have the distinct urge to take a pen and mark through the naughty children, ensuring that I don’t accidentally include them on the Nice list.
“Mac?” She reaches up, her hands going to my dark hair.
“Yeah?” I flip through some more pages, still recognizing every name. “This can’t be right,” I mutter.
“Your hair.” She strokes through the strands.
“Hmm?”
“It’s turning white.”
“What?”
I tear my eyes away from the list and find her. “White?”
“Yeah.” She nods slowly. “Come on.” She takes my hand and pulls me into her house, then points at the mirror in her entryway. “See?”
“Holy shit.” I swipe the hat off my head and watch as my hair turns silver, the strands almost metallic. My beard does the same, filling in with silver as we both stare, open-mouthed at my reflection.
“Finally!” A shrill voice cuts through our amazement, and we turn to find a small man with a sharp nose, velvety green vest and short pants, and sparkling red shoes upturned with bells on the tips. “Santa.” He gives me a deep bow.
“The fuck?”
He snaps back to a standing position. “Your predecessor was fond of salty language, too.” He tweaks his nose with a knowing grin.
“Predecessor? You mean Santa?” I have to kneel to get a better look at the guy. He comes to my knee.
“You’re Santa now. I need you to report to the North Pole immediately. The workshop needs marching orders. The reindeer are restless. Time is ticking away. Christmas is almost here!” His singsong voice is like a needle in my ear.
“I’m not Santa.” I shake my head.
“You are.”
“No, I’m a retired bruiser with a long line of mistakes behind me. And now I’ve finally found the one good thing in my life—”
“Yes!” the elf exclaims. “Being Santa is a good thi—”
“I’m not talking about Santa!” I bark. “I’m talking about my lil bit.” I take her hand. “I’m not Santa. I belong here.”
She beams at me, her eyes watering. “Really?”
“Really.” I rise to my full height. “I love you, lil bit. I’ll never love anyone else but you.”