Page 74 of Meowy & Bright

SANTA MATERIAL

MINK

Am I obsessed with my neighbor? Yes. Mac is a huge bear of a man, one with bright eyes and big hands—a man that you can’t help but drool over. He’s so kind, always asking me if I want help with my projects around the house. Maybe I’ll spend this Christmas in his arms, cuddled by a fire.

At least, that would’ve happened if I didn’t … accidentally … kill Santa Claus.

Look, I know how it sounds. But it was an accident! Now, it’s up to me to save Christmas, and I have to find the right person to take the Big Guy’s place. A man with a kind heart, a giving soul, and a laugh that can warm even the chilliest of grinches. A man like … Mac. But can I give up the only man I’ve ever loved to save Christmas, or will I keep him to myself no matter the cost?

1

MCMURPHY

Hot.

Almost a foot of snow on the ground and some of the coldest temps we’ve ever seen this time of year. And what am I? I’m hot.

Jocelyn is out putting up her Christmas lights. She’s stretching and bending, her leggings hugging her round ass with each move she makes. Christmas is almost here—I should be thinking about how much it sucks that I spend the holiday alone every year. Instead, I can’t stop staring at my neighbor.

I pretend to shovel my driveway, hoping she doesn’t notice I already shoveled it this morning when she first started putting out her decorations.

“You sure you don’t need any help?” I call as I poke at the snow pile on the curb.

“I’m good.” She turns, and even from here, I can see her light blue eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are pink from the cold. “I only have a few more strands. I don’t go as big as the lady down the street used to.”

“The travel agent?” I sort of remember her.

“Yeah, she and the guy across the street went all out, but now that they’ve moved away together, I’m trying to pick up a little bit of the slack.” She shrugs and pulls at a string of colored lights on her holly bush.

“It’s looking great, Jocelyn.” I eye the tangle of lights and the slightly dumpy Santa blowup that stares at me from the porch.

“Thanks!” She waves and gets back to work.

My offer of help is denied. Again. Dammit.

I even wore a stupid sweater out here, one with reindeer on it and snowflakes. It seemed non-threatening. I’m a big guy. Burly, my mom always said. Pretty much a bear, I guess. So I tried to wear light colors and fix my wild hair so Jocelyn might trust me.

But she doesn’t. She still won’t let me help her out.

I sigh and go back to knocking the snow into my drive again when she’s not looking. That way I can spend another hour out here pretend-shoveling and keeping an eye on her.

Hmmm. Maybe I should’ve shaved my beard? No. Chicks dig beards. I googled it and everything. It’s well-trimmed and dark like the hair on my head. I’m not some scary boogaloo from the woods or anything. Well, I mean, Iamfrom the woods but not in a bad way.

I shovel some more, watching as she bends over again and again. My mouth goes dry, and my cock has been fighting the cold for hours. It won’t go down. She does this to me every time I see her outside.

Jocelyn is a big do-it-yourselfer. Cuts her own grass in the summer, pulls her own weeds, shovels her own walk. Well, she used to do all that—but then I started doing it for her when she was away. Beating her to it whenever I could. It just made her do more. Like fixing the creaky front steps and painting her door. She even finds old furniture and refinishes it out in front of her garage.

Every time I ask if she wants help, she wipes the sweat from her brow, thanks me sweetly, and declines.

She’s handy. She can make all sorts of things with nothing more than her hands and a few rough ingredients. Amazes me all the time.

I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop. Once I got out of my old life, I decided I wouldn’t use my size to intimidate people anymore. No more enforcing, no more working for the syndicate. I wanted to be a different person. And when I saw Jocelyn and talked to her that first time? Well, I thought she’d be the one I could show my softer side to. But she still keeps me at arm’s length. I must still be scary.

I frown down at my stupid sweater. It didn’t work.

“I love the sweater, by the way,” she calls.

I look up. She’s leaning on her mailbox, her breath puffing out in white clouds.

---