Page 54 of Merry Me
CHAPTER 11
EASTON
When I got back to the main room, the cozy brunch vibe was being seriously threatened by one very concerned B&B owner. Margaret was pacing in front of the buffet with a plaid clipboard and a frown deep enough to ruin tinsel.
“Where did Brian go?” she asked, scanning the room. “It isn’t time for his break yet. The children are starting to sense something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
I followed her gaze to where two toddlers were arguing over a candy cane, while a third kid poked suspiciously at the empty velvet throne by the fireplace.
Yeah. They looked…concerned.
I stepped forward, slipping into my most dangerous weapon: my innocent charm.
“Don’t worry, Margaret,” I said smoothly. “I’ll do it.”
She blinked up at me, startled. “You?”
I nodded solemnly. “Wouldn’t want to let Christmas down, now would I? It’d be a shame to disappoint all these lovely people. The children. The elderly. The mimosas. All counting on Santa.”
Margaret’s brows pulled together like she was trying to decide if I was sincere or secretly plotting something.
“I…I don’t know…” she said slowly. “It’s just that Brian’s done it for the last two years. He knows the script. The tone. Thejingle. And the suit?—”
“I’m a fast learner,” I said, placing a hand over my heart in mock sincerity. “And I’ve been told I’ve got natural jingle energy.”
She hesitated for one more moment, but then beamed like I’d just solved world hunger.
“That’s the Christmas spirit!” she said. “There’s an extra Santa suit in the back. Go change, dear.”
I turned, shooting her a winning smile over my shoulder. “You got it, Margaret. Operation Save Christmas…commencing now.”
Behind me, she beamed like I was the second coming of Kris Kringle himself, completely unaware that Brian was currently locked in a supply closet yelling about mop buckets and betrayal.
Not my fault he couldn’t keep his jingle bells in his pants.
Besides, it wasn’t about revenge.
It was about…giving.
And today, I wasgivingNatalie a Santa she’d never forget.
NATALIE
Ten minutes later, Brian still hadn’t come back from “checking his phone,” and I was relieved.
Until anewSanta walked into the room.
I froze.
The red velvet clung to his stupidly broad shoulders like it had been tailored for sin. The white gloves were stretched over his hands, and the hat sat just so, pushed back far enough to reveal a peek of tousled dark hair that had no business looking that good under felt.
And the boots.
Theboots.
Santa, it turned out, had thighs.
But the worst part? The part that truly undid me?
