Page 23 of Santa's Baby

I scurry past him and lock myself in the bedroom.

Then I press myself against the door, trying to listen for violence.

I hear nothing. No murmurs, no breaking of furniture, nothing in between.

I’m not really sure what Ford thinks I’m going to wear today. But then I see he’s hung up my dress, and when I take it off the hanger, I realize my tights are carefully folded there, too.

Will the residents notice I’m wearing the same outfit as last night? Maybe not if they’re dazzled enough by my hot, older boyfriend.

I wriggle into the tights, smooth on the white dress, and dig my booties out from under the bed. I don’t think Ford owns a hairdryer, so air-dried finger waves will have to do.

I take a deep breath and open the bedroom door.

Ford is nowhere in sight.

Neither is my dad.

My mom is standing by the window, looking out at the ocean.

“Hi,” I breathe.

“This is quite the surprise.” She glances back at me. “They went outside to talk.”

“Ford said he’d have to let Dad kick his ass.” I wince. “Is he?”

“Your father wouldn’t do that.”

“Mom—”

“How long, Neely?”

Is twelve hours the wrong answer here? Probably. There’s no right answer to that question.

“Last night was the first time. It just happened.”

“Did he—”

I need her to not ask that, even though I know she’s my mom, and she probably has to ask. “I came on to him.”

“And is it—” This time, she’s the one who cuts herself off. “I don’t know what to ask here. You’ve never dated anyone. I thought you weren’t interested in that yet, which I realize is ridiculous. You’re older than I was when I married your dad. And I suppose now that I think about it, all the signs of a crush were there. But Ford? I never thought he would. . .”

“He wouldn’t. If I hadn’t come on to him, he never would have.”

She presses her hand to her forehead. “Dare I ask what the Hot Santa get-up is about?”

The front door opens, and my dad steps inside.

Ford isn’t with him.

“What did you do?” I demand to know, whirling around.

“Calm down, Neely. He’s getting something from his truck.” My dad looks slightly uncomfortable but less angry than before. “And I thought we could have a minute to talk alone before he comes back.”

“I asked her if he forced her,” my mom says.

I glare at her. “And he didn’t.”

“It’s our job to ask.”

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