Page 3 of Dirty Little Christmas

The room is organized chaos, everyone furiously sewing. Georgia's in the center of the room with Sariah Davenport, their heads together as they giggle about something Sariah is sketching out. As soon as I see Georgia, my pants grow tight, and my tie chokes me. That laugh. That impish smile. I'd kill to be the reason for both.

"What is this?" I ask, my voice booming across the room. I lift the suit high as everyone in the room looks up.

Georgia's gray eyes meet mine, her smile making my fucking knees weak. Her gaze drifts from me to the garment bag. "Oh!" She jumps out of her chair, her tits bouncing in her UCLA sweater as she hurries toward me. "Your suit is finished."

"I don't recall agreeing to play Santa tonight, little one," I growl.

Ten sets of prying eyes bounce between me and her like this is a soccer match and Abbott James, the beast of Edinburgh, has the ball. But no one else says a word.

"You should have thought about that before you hired a bank robber," she says. Two seconds later, she whisks the suit away, practically dancing in excitement to see it. "The one you hired is in jail."

"Since when?"

"Since he got caught trying to break into an ATM last night."

How does she know this? Better yet, why don't I know this?

"Why am I just hearing about this?"

"Alaric told you earlier," she says.

"He most certainly did not."

"He did," she insists. "He told me he did."

In Georgia's world, no one lies. It's not that she's ignorant because she's not. My princess is pulling straight A's at UCLA. She just sees the best in everyone, including my pain in the ass brother. He's a wily motherfucker, though. He knew she'd run with this. He was probably counting on it.

If he didn't already laugh himself to death, I'm killing him.

"Oh, look!" Georgia cries, whipping the suit out of the bag.

Instead of a ridiculous red coat and baggy red pants, it's a red tuxedo, complete with a red and green plaid vest and a stylish overcoat. The tie matches the vest. The only familiar parts are the hat and boots still in my hands.

"Something is wrong with it," I say, pointing out the obvious.

Georgia laughs at me.

"There is," I mutter.

"Haven't you heard?" She flashes me a bright smile. Hell, everything about her is bright and shining, from the golden threads in her hair to the warmth in her eyes to that fucking million-dollar smile.

"Heard what?"

"It's 2021. Santa got hot."

Fuck it. I'm torching this planet. It's the only rational thing to do at this point. Because I know damn well this little princess didn't insinuate that she thinks I'm hot in front of everyone.

Except she did.

Why does that make me feel bulletproof?

"I'm not dressing up as Santa, Georgia," I say, standing my ground.

Her mulish expression sets my teeth on edge. And makes me hard enough to hurt.

She sets the suit aside, popping her hands on her hips. Those gray eyes flash fire at me. "You're the big boss. This is a big boss job, Blaze. The only kind of Christmas party that doesn't have a Santa is the lame kind. He's the most important person at a Christmas party. Do you want to be the reason your employees are sad at Christmas? Do you want everyone whose anyone talking about how lame your party was? No, you don't."

My future wife is a Christmas nut.

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