Page 5 of Sexy Claus

With a final wipe of the counter, he pushed that counterproductive memory from his mind. Life sometimes sucked. Besides, his daughter deserved all his affection.

He snagged his coat from the hook in the hall and poked his head into the room he’d transformed into a shared office on his way to the garage door. “I’ll be back by lunchtime. Call or text if you need anything.”

Brenna looked up from an open file on the desk. “Okay. Be careful up on the housetop, Santa.”

“Always.” A smile came easily for the most important person in his world. “Love you, Bee.”

“Love you too, Dad.” She blew him a kiss and grinned. “Mrs. Barber said she’ll stop by Grandma and Grandpa’s to drop off the Santa suit and a thank-you batch of buckeyes about ten thirty when she goes to have her hair done.”

Smothering a groan, he dug his keys from his jeans pocket. “No adults. If you didn’t make that clear, I will. See you in a few hours.”

She snickered and set her fingers back on the keyboard. “I told her. She thinks we’ll raise more money if you set aside at least half an hour for the single ladies to share their Christmas wishes with you, but it’s up to you.”

“Then the answer is no. I’m not letting anybody pimp me out for a few hundred bucks I can donate myself. I’m going now.” He waved with his empty hand and stalked to the garage, slowing only to lock the door and shaking his head the whole way. “I’ll donate all the damn materials and labor myself before I let a bunch of women hoping for a husband or a roll in the sack turn that fundraiser into a three-ring circus.”

As soon as he backed out of the driveway, the gray clouds skidding across the sky decided to spit a mix of sleet and wet snowflakes at his windshield, adding to his grouchy mood. It showed no sign of stopping or changing to all snow during the four-block drive to his parents’ house or the ten minutes unloading his extension ladder and supplies took. Fortunately, he’d done more difficult jobs in worse conditions.

At the start of his ascent to the roof, his mom appeared on the other side of the living room window. Her broad grin warned him she planned to ambush him with another fix-up attempt or a dinner invitation with a surprise guest.

He returned her wave and continued upward. “I need a woman in my life like I need to fall through a roof.”

Focusing on the job at hand required enough concentration to wipe all thoughts of dating from his mind, especially with the weather making a safety harness necessary. No way would he risk an injury, not if it might keep him from being there for his daughter. She’d been his whole world since the day she was born, and nothing would ever change that.

He finally gathered the leftover supplies and then stepped back to inspect his handiwork an hour and a half later. The new materials sealed the area around the bricks a lot better than the patch job he’d done during the early days of Brenna’s lengthy hospital stay. Hell, he’d barely managed to function for weeks after the accident.

Months, more like it.

With the unfastened rope looped over his shoulder and the box tucked under his arm, he swung his foot to the closest rung on the ladder to climb down. Sleet and wet snow became light drizzle as he reached the ground and freed himself from the harness. Then the sweep of headlights across the house from behind drew his attention to the driveway.

The front door opened as Mrs. Barber shut off the engine of her prized 1996 Lincoln Town Car. She’d been driving that boat a mile to the beauty salon and back home every four weeks since her husband had passed away right after he bought it for her. The decades-old vehicle probably had less than ten thousand miles, even with her weekly visit to the grocery store.

His mom unfurled the huge golf umbrella in her hand. “Wait for me, Janice!”

“Take your time, Mom. It might be slippery.” He stowed the box in his truck and still beat his mother to the visitor’s car. Then he held out his arm to the white-haired woman who had been not only his middle school English teacher but the town’s favorite Mrs. Claus for a good many years as well. “I’ll come back for the suit.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m just as capable of walking as you are. You can carry the Santa suit. And don’t forget the buckeyes!” Mrs. Barber pointed to the cookie tin on the passenger seat as she shifted her boot-clad feet to the slick driveway. Waving away his arm, she stood and ducked under the umbrella his mom carried. “Who ordered this nasty weather? It wasn’t you, was it, Sven?”

His mother raised her eyebrows at him, her mind clearly going straight to her frequent observation—that he walked around like a storm cloud more often than not.

Ignoring her insinuation, he stalked to the other side for the garment bag laying on the backseat and the tin in the front. “Why would I do that when I had to go up on the roof this morning? Head inside. I’ll be right behind you after I put these in the truck.”

His former teacher leaned in toward his mom, who glanced his direction over her shoulder with a troublemaking grin spreading across her face. The co-conspirators clearly had something up their sleeves and, without a doubt, it involved butting into his personal life.

He caught up with them in the kitchen, but he kept his mouth shut. Commenting would only bring more suffering down on him.

With the cupboard door open, his mom looked over her shoulder at him. “Want to warm up with a cup of something? Janice and I are having tea, but there’s still some of your father’s paint thinner from breakfast.”

A bark of laughter echoed through the space, far outsizing the five-foot-nothing octogenarian it came from. “I remember when my Harold drank coffee so strong it could strip the varnish off a wood floor. It’s a wonder he had any insides left.”

Shaking his head, he held out his hand for a mug. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Speaking of killing, it wouldn’t hurt you to—”

“No grown women are sitting on this Santa’s lap.” He poured an inch of dark brew into his cup and inhaled the wonderfully bitter scent of aged coffee. It matched his feelings toward most women perfectly. “I’m not in the market for a girlfriend, wife, date, hookup, or even a housekeeper.”

The stubborn set of Mrs. Barber’s shoulders made his stomach knot. “But we could raise so much—”

“I don’t care. The women of this town can go apply for a job at the strip club up the highway if they want to give somebody a lap dance.” A huge gulp of his dad’s brown sludge fortified his mood. “That’s my final decision. If it isn’t acceptable, find yourself another Santa Claus.”

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