Page 12 of Naughty Santa Daddy

We walk through the cemetery, the cheerful sunshine at odds with the stormy emotions evoked by the location. When we reach the marble headstone, I trace the letters of Emily’s name with my fingertips.

“She was so young,” I comment. “It should’ve been me.”

“You were young, too.”

“But I was born into a world of conflict,” I snap. “Emily was innocent.”

“She was, but evil doesn’t discriminate.”

Tears silently slip past my lashes to roll down my cheeks. I swipe at them but give up when they don’t stop coming.

“Twelve people died that day, Enzo,” I remind him. “Why was I spared?”

“You know why.”

I lower myself to the ground like I always do and sit cross-legged next to the grave, my sadness morphing into something else, something darker. “Because of my name,” I reply bitterly.

Enzo sits next to me without a care for the expensive suit he’s wearing. “Our family name has its perks.”

Laughing without an ounce of humor, I narrow my eyes at him. “Our family name is—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. So, tell me who Goliath is.”

The groan that barrels up the back of my throat and past my lips is equal parts frustration and longing. “He’s nobody.”

“The hand between your legs earlier says otherwise.”

Enzo, therealEnzo, finally begins to emerge. He puts on a good show for thefamiglia, but he’s never been able to hide his sexuality from me. Growing up, my friends would always want to gossip about boys and sex, but my cousin is who I felt most comfortable talking to about such things. That hasn’t changed, even if our lives have gone in different directions.

My lips curve upward, and warmth spreads through my core. “Goliath is someone I’ll never see again.”

He arches a brow. “A one-night stand?”

“More like a two-minute blazing inferno,” I admit.

“That good, huh?”

“Il miglior cazzo che abbia mai avuto,”I gush. “Best. Cock. Ever.”

“And here I thought all you did down in Bama was work and get caught in the middle of a mass shooting.”

My cheeks heat, and I lower my head. “We kinda fucked in the back of a truck.”

“And…”

“It was during all that shooting.”

“Alex!” Enzo exclaims. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’d have died a happy woman. Well, satisfied, at least.”

“And you’re really never going to see him again?”

I think about his question for a moment. Even if I wanted to see Goliath again, I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for him. Sure, I could reach out to the hospital and ask them where they hired their Santas for the event, but to what end?

Goliath is nothing more than a steamy memory. The short time we spent together was as close to perfection as I’ve ever been, despite the flying bullets, and I prefer to maintain the illusion that good things can happen to me.

If I see him again, the illusion will fade until it’s nothing more than dusty remnants of bliss.

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