Page 29 of Her Secret Santa

I’ve been juggling this stupid Santa gig and my actual fuckingjob, along with all the stupid shit Gabriela Rockwell and my uncle have been heaping onto my plate with this PR rebrand nonsense. I’m tired and worn thin, and even seeing Clara isn’t enough to buoy my mood.

It’s Saturday, and the mall is packed. There hasn’t been a single lull in the line all day, and half the kids coming to sit on my lap are sneezy and whiny—or worse, both.

Clara leads another kid up the line, and I don’t bother to repress a groan when I see the ice cream cone in his hand. It’scovered in spit, as is about half of his arm, and I can smell the sticky sugar before Clara even lifts him to sit on my lap.

I’m sure I look less than thrilled, and I just don’t have the energy to hide the grimace on my face.

“What do you want for Christmas?” I ask drily, doing my best to keep the kid from actually touching me.

It’s a losing game, his hands waving wildly in excitement as he babbles on in half formed child-speak about some stupid slime kit he wants. He leaves a sticky trail of half melted ice cream in my fake beard, across the cheap faux velvet of the Santa coat, trying his best to get it on my cheek too.

“Smile, Santa!” Clara calls out.

The camera shutter clicks when she takes the picture. I’m more baring my teeth than smiling.

Clara looks less than thrilled as she marches over to collect the boy.

“Come on, Cole!” she says brightly, even as she glares daggers at me. “Let’s go show Mommy and Daddy your picture with Santa!”

I breathe out a sigh of relief as she guides the walking mess back down the aisle away from me. Who would have thought playing Santa would be this exhausting?

When Clara turns back toward me after passing the boy off to one of the other elves, I sit up a bit straighter. Considering the line stretching out behind her, I don’t think she’s coming to tell me it’s time for lunch.

“Santa,” she grits out as she gets within earshot. “I’m going to give you a single minute to get your grumpy ass under control.”

I blink at her in surprise as she stalks even closer, hissing the words under her breath as she needlessly rearranges some of the decor behind me to appear as if she isn’t ripping me a new one.

“Sorry?”

“You should be! A lot of these kids care about this more than you can possibly imagine,” she snaps at me, her eyes wide and genuinely angry. “This is the happiest moment of their wholeyear.”

I’m more cowed than I’d like to admit by the unveiled fury on her face, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll just roll over and take it. There’s no way that sitting on a stranger’s lap and asking for presents can bethatimportant.

“Come on,” I scoff, keeping my voice quiet to match hers. “You’re exaggerating. This is just?—”

“I’mnot.” She cuts me off without any remorse, and I’m surprised to see her hands clench around one of the foam candy canes hard enough to dent it. “Christmas is the only time some of these kids get anything other than the bare necessities. Some of them will get toothpaste in their stockings, and they’ll bethrilledthat Santa showed up at all. The least you and your shitty attitude can do is smile.”

She whirls on her heel and walks away before I have a chance to do more than blink in shock. I’ve never seen her this assertive about anything, and I’m a little taken aback by it.

I do wince at the thought of what her life growing up must have been like for her to be so adamant about this. I have a feeling I’m not going to like what I hear from that PI.

Refusing to see the angry, pain-laced look in her eyes for a moment longer, I steel my spine and decide to try a new approach.

My smile feels entirely too fake, but I force it to my face nonetheless as Clara starts up the aisle again. A young girl follows quietly behind her, hand in Clara’s. Her big brown eyes are blown wide and she looks both nervous and excited, like she’s about to meet someone she idolizes. Maybe Clara knows more about this whole thing than I gave her credit for.

“Hi there,” I say when Clara leads the girl up the steps. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jackie,” she says, her voice so quiet I almost can’t hear her.

“Hi, Jackie. I’m Santa Claus,” I say, ignoring how ridiculous the whole thing feels. “Would you like to tell me what you want for Christmas?”

I extend my hand, forcing my smile to stay firmly in place. It’s a little surprising to watch some of the nerves fade as little Jackie drops Clara’s hand and takes mine. She clambers up onto the massive Santa chair, fitting beside me instead of on my lap, and folding her feet beneath her as she looks at me in awe.

Clara steps back slowly, blinking in surprise at the sudden shift in my demeanor.

I do knowhowto charm people, kids included, I just almost never find it a good use of my time.

“I—I want a pony, please,” Jackie says, her cheeks flushing red as she glances back toward her parents where they wait in line. “Daddy said I can’t have one because we don’t have a big backyard, but I’d take really good care of her.”

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