Page 4 of Sexted By Santa
Icouldsimply lie again. Say my date bailed on me. But Ella would probably see through it. Hell, she’d already looked a little suspicious when I’d claimed to be seeing someone. Barry was right. There was no escaping it this year—I’d have to produce a date.
But I’d do it on my own terms, like a grown man who could meet someone without his friends matchmaking for him.
My bigger concern was the Santa costume in my arms. I could pull off finding a date for one night. But how was I going to pull off playing the jolliest man of the season when the very idea gave me hives?
2
JAXSON
“Daddy, look, it’s Santa!”
What?
I paused in shoveling the snow that had piled up that morning, my muscles burning enough to keep me warm even in the chilly weather, to look over my shoulder. My daughter, Tori, hovered on the porch in a long sweater and those thin tights all the girls liked to wear. Hers were decorated with little, red-nosed reindeer.
“Tori Marie, get your coat on if you’re going to come outside.”
“But it’sSanta,” she repeated, stressing the word in case I missed the significance. She pointed toward the right, and I followed her gaze.
All along the block, shrubbery wore fluffy marshmallow caps, once barren trees glimmered with their new coats, and the world looked fresh and innocent beneath the first pristine snowfall of the season. I did a double take when my gaze landed on the one thing that wasnotfresh and new in the slightest. Our ever-cranky neighbor, Professor Christian Kringle, stood on his porch in full Santa attire.
The pants, the coat, the hat. He even held a red velvet bag that bulged with what I assumed must be presents. All he was missing was the big fake beard. Christian’s natural beard was a distinguished salt-and-pepper—but hardly Santa’s style. His mouth, generally set in a tight frown, was no merrier than usual.
“What on earth…” I mumbled to myself.
Who would be desperate enough to ask this man to play Santa?
Christian Kringle might have the name for the jolly man, but he didn’t have the temperament for it. In my seven years living on this block, I’d gotten to know most of the neighbors—some lovely and helpful like Shirley Merriwether, who watched Tori when my work schedule called me away—and some grouchy and uptight like…
Well, no. That description only fit Christian. The rest all varied somewhere between friendly and politely distant.
Professor Kringle wasn’t politeordistant. He told me when my grass was too tall in the summer. He told me when I should rake the leaves in autumn. He’d even complained about Tori’s tricycle sitting on the porch when she’d been a toddler. When I’d first moved in, he’d had the nerve to warn me to keep my home well-maintained because he didn’t want property values to fall.
It was a nice, upper-class neighborhood—one I’d only managed to join by using my college fund to buy a home for Tori. Most of the residences on this street were also historic—some large colonials and some the smaller Craftsman houses used to fill in neighborhoods as they developed through the years—so many of them did not have garages.
Including Christian’s beautiful two-story home. His driveway and car were cleared of snow, anyway, thanks to the snow removal service he employed. I couldn’t afford such luxuries.
“Can I go talk to him?” Tori asked eagerly, pulling my attention back to her.
She still wasn’t wearing a coat, and now she trembled in the cold. Or maybe that was her excitement. Though she was approaching the age when many children began to realize that Santa was fictional, she clung tight to the magic of Christmas, and I didn’t have it in me to begrudge her the small joys. Not after the past couple of months.
But I doubted Christian Kringle would make her holiday wishes come true.
“Honey, he’s leaving, and we don’t have much time before I have to head to work.”
She pouted. “He’s not gone yet.Please, Daddy?”
Tori looked at me with pleading eyes, and I was toast. My little girl had always had me wrapped around her little finger—ever since I’d counted all her tiny fingers and toes eight years ago—but even more so since she’d been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes.
We’d had a rough couple of months as we adjusted to a life spent monitoring blood sugar, counting carbs, and administering insulin to keep Tori healthy. She deserved a great Christmas, and I was determined to give it to her.
Still, Christian Kringle didn’t look very approachable as he pulled out his car keys.
“Fine. Wait here, and I’ll ask.”
“But—”
“Tori.” I broke out the dad voice. “Go get your coat and then wait here.”
