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)
Her reply strokes my ego, but I play it cool. “As much as I want to take credit, that wasn’t me.” I spin my phone screen to show I hadn’t gotten further than opening the Safari app. “They must have realized…”
My words trail off when a familiar jingle rattles through Kelsey’s apartment. “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas.”
Kelsey’s eyes bulge before she races for the far wall of the apartment. She leans out the window facing the street just in time for Santa to hit her with a frisky wink before he disappears around the corner.
When she cranks her neck back to me, her expression shocked, I say, “Maybe you’re not on his naughty list after all.”
7
KELSEY
With my bladder on the verge of busting, I toss off the bedding wrapped around me like a cocoon and slowly shuffle to the bathroom. I should feel like shit. I’m not a cocktail drinker in general, let alone a daytime drunk, but I feel decent.
My teeth need a scrub, and my underarms need to be groomed with more than a razor, but I’m presentable, nonetheless.
The positive outcome after a night of drinking is more thanks to Zane than me. He forced me to drink a gallon of water before tucking me in like I wasn’t throwing out a million sexual insinuations.
My ego should be as beaten as my temples, but his promise to be less ignorant once I’m not drunk saved it from being pulverized.
He was a total gentleman, and the remembrance has me doubling the length of my strides when I recall him telling me he’d sleep on the couch to make sure I didn’t try to get back on Santa’s naughty list without him.
My shower routine is quick, but like my hangover, decent. Since I am unemployed, I leave my hair out to dry after washing off the smoky plume of the bar we spent a fortune in last night and keep my makeup palette neutral.
I said I’m feeling decent, not spectacular.
The odds of wonderful drastically improve when I exit my bedroom. Zane is awake—with how bright the sun is, I understand. He’s in the kitchen, making breakfast.
“Morning.”
He grins at the croakiness of my greeting before setting down a mug of coffee on the island separating us. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Um…” It isn’t too early to have this conversation. I’m simply struggling to think straight since he’s wearing nothing but the jeans he wore last night.
He’s barefooted, and the top button of his jeans is undone. I don’t know about you, but that is as much a turn-on for me as a man rolling up the sleeves of his pricy dress shirt, so I won’t mention his six-pack abs and mouthwatering V-muscle. I don’t want you to get jealous.
Zane places two sunny-side-up eggs onto buttered toast before locking his eyes with mine. “Any preferences?”
One serving of you, please! “Ah… over-easy will be great. Thanks.”
Did I wake up in an alternative universe? This can’t be reality. Peter never once made me breakfast. He wasn’t even considerate enough to make sure he left enough coffee in the pot for me if his shift started earlier than mine.
“Why are you doing this, Zane?”
Don’t misconstrue my question. I love that he’s here, but we only met days ago, so it isn’t his responsibility to clean up the mess I made before we met. Also, no one wants to be the rebound guy. Unless they’re my father, the odds rarely swing in their favor.
Zane flips my eggs in a way that would make Casey proud before he answers, “You asked me to stay.”
“I also asked you to screw me senseless, and that didn’t happen.”
When his eyes shoot to the living room window that faces the street, I release a girlie giggle. He did the same thing multiple times last night. His gawk always followed a familiar Christmassy chant.
I can admit it was odd that Santa’s greetings only seemed to occur while I was trying to lure Zane into a trap by pretending I wasn’t drunk, but I brushed it off as a coincidence.
Zane didn’t seem convinced by my verdict. After a second bellowing chant, he yanked my hand out of my panties, dragged up the blanket from the foot of my bed, and tucked me in like my father did every Christmas Eve since I was three—in a straitjacket design I couldn’t escape from until the morning.
“You do know he isn’t watching you twenty-four-seven, right? He has millions of children to check off his list each year.”
He swirls the frying pan to loosen up the eggs before sliding them onto two slices of toast. “I might have believed you if that fu…”—he freezes before picking a better word—“that Santa hadn’t been following me all over Ravenshoe.”
I laugh so hard I snort. “He’s not the same Santa. They’re charity Santas who get their suits at the same store.” When not even my hungover head can take my tone any other way, I murmur, “Right?”