Page 27 of Santa's Baby

But then a tiny scrap of a thing, who introduces herself as Bertie, sits down next to me, in a real settling in kind of way, and explains she’s ninety-one years old and she won’t be rushed.

Neely smothers a grin. “I think that’s my cue to go get more presents from the office. Take your time.”

“And what do you do when you aren’t playing Santa?” Bertie asks, her eyes sharp and curious.

“I run the lighthouse just up the road.”

She winks. “I once dated a lighthouse keeper. Silent fellow. Patient. Had the stamina of an ox.”

I choke on what I was going to say next.

“Are you lonely over there?”

I think she’s teasing me. Pretty sure she’s joking.

I lower my voice so she’s the only one who can hear me. “Not anymore. I have a special someone now.”

“A Mrs. Claus?”

“We haven’t had that conversation yet.”

“What’s your hold up?”

“She’s younger than me.”

A sly smile spreads across her face. “How much younger? Is it our Neely?”

We haven’t talked about taking our relationship public, but I can’t hide how I feel about her. “Bertie, you’re going to get me in trouble here.”

“She looks happier today than she ever has in all the time she’s worked here.” Bertie stands up. I hand her a book, and she presses it back at me. “No, thank you. That little tidbit is all the gift I need this morning. I adore a secret love story.”

Neely arrives back, her arms full of presents, as Bertie strolls away whistling. “What did I miss?”

I straighten my suspenders. “She thinks you look happy this morning.”

“And did she correctly guess that you put this smile on my face?” Neely giggles. “I forgot to warn you that some of them are quite naughty.”

Another older lady sidles up beside my little elf. “That we are, Neely. That we are.”

“Darla, have a seat next to Santa.”

“Hello, Santa,” she purrs.

I grin. “Hello, Darla. Have you been a good girl this year?”

ChapterTwelve

Neely

By the timewe get back to the lighthouse, I’m aching to be back in Ford’s arms. It’s so hard to be on my best behavior when all I want to do is climb him like a Christmas tree.

He takes off my coat, then goes to shrug off his suspenders.

“Hang on,” I say. “I haven’t sat on Santa’s knee yet.”

He points to the couch. “There?”

I shake my head. “Upstairs. That armchair you were in last night.”

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