Studmuffin Santa Read online

  “Oh, no.” Jade lifts a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes wide. “I had no idea. When was this?”

  “Senior year.” I shrug and scrub a hand over my chin, raking my knuckles across the sandpaper stubble. “I was old enough to get my own meals and drive myself around and stuff, but I wasn’t eighteen yet. Children’s Services started sniffing around, so my uncle flew out here. The billionaire with the vanity ranch? He took me in until I finished the school year, and I left town the day after graduation.”

  She stares at me with sadness in her eyes. Not pity—there’s a distinction. It’s an empathy that makes me long for one of those hugs she mentioned. My whole body aches for the weight of her arms around me.

  “Brandon, I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head. “You always seemed like you had such a charmed life. The perfect athlete, the perfect grades, the perfect face, the perfect body—”

  She stops herself there, cheeks reddening as she drops her eyes. But those eyes have a mind of their own, and as they move across my chest, her face gets redder. She lifts her gaze to mine again. “Why would you take a job as Santa then?”

  It’s a damn good question. One I shouldn’t answer truthfully if we don’t want Jade freaking out about her sister hiring someone to watch over the place. “I had this platoon leader who used to hammer us all the time about facing our weaknesses,” I say slowly. “I guess that’s it.”

  Part of it, anyway.

  She nods and touches a hand to her throat. “I get that,” she says. “That’s actually pretty admirable.”

  She’s standing so close I could reach out and stroke her hair if I wanted. I do want, but I know that would be creepy. She’s the one who mentioned hugging earlier. Would that be crossing a line?

  “Jade?”

  She looks at me, a noticeable heat still in her eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Can I get that hug now?”

  She hesitates, and I wonder if I’m taking this too far. If I’m forcing myself on her or pushing for unwelcome contact. I open my mouth to tell her to forget it, but before I can get the words out, Jade steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck.

  My neck, not my middle. Not the hug you’d give to an elderly relative, but the other kind. The kind that leaves her face tilted upward, her mouth scant inches from mine.

  I slide my arms around her, the damn Santa belly wedging itself between us like a jealous pet. I can’t feel all of her, but I can feel enough. Her hair ruffles my nose, and her skin smells like fresh gingerbread. I graze the side of her head with my chin like an affection-starved cat.

  Jade gives a soft little sigh and meets my eyes. Our gazes lock, and I know I’m going to kiss her. I know she knows, too, and I hold my breath for as long as I can, giving her the chance to pull away.

  She doesn’t recoil, and I’m drawn to her like a magnet. My lips find hers, and it’s like a bomb going off in my brain. There’s a gentle buzz in the back of my head, a sweetness at the tip of my tongue as Jade parts her lips and moves against me.

  I deepen the kiss, tunneling my fingers into her hair. I can’t get enough of all that silky weight in my hands, so I tug out the rubber band to let those honey waves trickle through my fingers.

  She moans and presses tighter against me, fingers raking down my back. I cup her shoulder blades in my palms, curving over those delicate wings before sliding up to brush the sides of her face. I kiss her deeper, thumbs skimming the hollows under her cheekbones as my tongue sweeps over her—

  “Hey, Jade, did you put the oats in the—oh, hey. Wow.”

  We jump apart like we’ve been electrocuted, both of us breathing hard as we turn to face Jade’s sister.

  “Amber, hey.” Jade grabs for the end of her ponytail, surprised to find her hair loose around her shoulders.

  I clear my throat and slip her the rubber band, not sure whether to play it cool or shut the hell up and let her do the talking.

  Jade folds her fingers around the band and keeps her eyes on her sister. “Um, I was just—uh, helping Brandon with his suit.”

  “Some of the knots were stuck,” I add helpfully, glancing at Jade to see her face is bright pink.

  Amber smirks and folds her arms over her chest. “I see,” she says. “So you decided to untie them with your tongue?”

  I didn’t think it was possible for Jade to turn any redder, but her face now matches the bright crimson Christmas sweater Amber is wearing, minus the stitched holly leaves at the center of her chest.

  Jade opens her mouth to say something, but Amber waves her off. “No, I get it. Those prosthetic Santa bellies are super sexy. I can see why you’d be overcome with lust.”

  “Look, Amber,” Jade says, wiping her palms down the legs of her jeans like she’s trying to scrape away evidence of our contact. “It’s no big deal. Just—uh—welcoming Brandon to the team, that’s all.”

  Amber grins wider, and she glances from her sister to me and back again. “In that case, remind me to have the camera rolling when you welcome all the elves.”

  I take a step forward, wanting to run interference if Jade needs me to. But she gives me a small head shake and stares down her sister.

  “Was there something you needed?” Jade asks.

  “Oh, right—any idea why the south gate is wide open?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep,” Amber says. “And Tammy wasn’t even in that pen, so we can’t blame her this time.”

  Jade shakes her head, looking incredulous. “That new latch is totally reindeer proof,” she says. “There’s no way one of them did it.”

  There’s unease in both sisters’ eyes, and a niggle of worry makes its way from them to me. I remember what Amber told me about odd things happening at the ranch, and I wonder if I can ask questions without rattling any alarm bells for Jade. “Are they okay?” I ask. “The reindeer, I mean. Did they escape?”

  Amber shakes her head. “Reindeer have land fidelity,” she says. “They might wander a little, but they don’t like straying far from home.”

  “But most people don’t know that,” Jade says, exchanging a look with her sister. “Someone who wanted to set them loose might try something like that, thinking they’d all take off.”

  Amber frowns. “You don’t think someone would—”

  “I don’t know,” Jade says. “Remember that nasty email we got from the animal rights group?”

  “But that’s dumb,” Amber says. “Letting reindeer roam free just turns them into cougar dinner or bobcat breakfast or—”

  “Or roadkill,” Jade adds. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “So what should we do?”

  Jade frowns. “Keep a closer eye on things, I guess.”

  Amber’s not meeting my eyes, and I suspect I should make my exit before she gives something away. “I should, uh—probably try on the rest of the suit.”

  Both women glance at me, but neither says anything. I grab the Santa coat off the nail and hustle back into the office, wishing like hell I could hit rewind. I want to go back five minutes to feel Jade in my arms again, to kiss her harder and deeper, maybe in the privacy of the office this time.

  I slip inside and close the door behind me, conscious of the hushed voices in the barn. I know I should mind my own business, but I find myself pressing an ear against the door, straining to hear their words.

  “I knew it!” Amber hisses. “You always had the hots for him.”

  “I did not!” Jade snaps, and I go from feeling stunned to disappointed in a span of three seconds.

  “You did, too,” Amber argues. “That’s why you didn’t want him working here. And you totally kissed him!”

  “Look, it was just a one-time thing, okay?” Jade’s voice is a whisper, but it slices right through me. “I don’t know what happened, but it’s not going to happen again.”

  I peel my ear off the door, heart thudding in my ears.

  She’s right, of course. The last thing either of us needs is a messy workplace fling.
Especially when Jade’s in the dark about my reason for being here. That complicates things, and it can’t happen again.

  But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it to.

  Chapter 5

  JADE

  “There you go, Mrs. Ramsay,” I coax, gripping the reindeer’s halter a little tighter as the older woman steps up with her hand outstretched. “This is Vixen. Do you remember the names of all of Santa’s reindeer?”

  I hum a few bars of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” something I do whenever I bring a member of the herd to the courtyard outside the Central Oregon Dementia Care Unit. Patients who’ve long since forgotten their own family members’ names will burst into song, reciting every word of their favorite Christmas tune.

  Mrs. Ramsay beams and nods to an imaginary beat. “You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen!” She sings. “Comet—it makes your teeth turn greeeeen! Comet—it tastes like gasoline! Comet—it makes you vomit! So try Comet, and vomit, todaaaaaay!”

  “Close enough,” I tell her, smiling at the caregiver who trails behind her pushing a blank-eyed gentleman in a floppy red Santa hat. The man slumps in his wheelchair like he’s sleeping, but his eyes are open and fixed on nothing at all.

  “That’s it,” I say to Mrs. Ramsay. “Just pet her really softly on the cheek. See how she likes that?”

  The reindeer snorts, not particularly liking it, but accustomed enough to the petting that she’s willing to lower her head for more of it. The older woman smiles and runs a hand over the bottom of Vixen’s antlers. “Horny,” she says. “My late husband was horny, too.”

  “All right, Mrs. Ramsay,” the caregiver says. “That’s enough for now. Let’s let some of the other patients have a turn, okay?”

  Mrs. Ramsay nods and toddles off, humming “Santa, Baby,” as another nurse catches her by the arm and throws me a friendly wave before leading the old woman back into the building.

  The remaining nurse pushes the wheelchair forward, bringing the motionless man closer. The tip of his Santa hat slides down over one eye, and the nurse leans down to adjust it.

  The reindeer shifts uncertainly.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I soothe, giving a soft tug on her halter so she brings her head down to his level. “Here, try giving her this.”

  I pull a small Fuji apple out of my pocket and hold it out to the man. He doesn’t lift his gaze at all. Just keeps staring ahead, his eyes fixed on some unseen point.

  “Mr. Brown isn’t really verbal,” the caregiver whispers to me. “Stroke.”

  I nod, knowing from experience that the non-verbal patients can still hear perfectly well. I crouch down to his level and try again. “If you’d like to give her this apple, just hold your palm out flat like this.”

  I demonstrate for him, and Vixen curls her lips, desperate to taste the treat that’s just out of reach. I offer it to her, watching the man’s face as the reindeer gobbles the apple. I pull another one from my pocket and offer it to him again.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, okay?” I whisper to him. “I know her nose band says Vixen, but her real name is Irene. Vixen’s just a stage name, but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  There’s a flicker of something in the man’s eyes. Just a faint ghost of something that dances across those cloudy brown irises before flitting away. I hold the second apple closer, waiting for him to take it.

  “You want to try, or should I give it to her for you?” I ask.

  The man doesn’t lift either hand, but there’s a faint tilt to his head. A nod toward me, so I palm the apple and hold it out to the reindeer. She gobbles it with relish, munching and smacking and slobbering a little on the man’s pant leg.

  This time, I’m certain one corner of his mouth tips up. The other side stays lifeless, but I sense this is the closest we’ll get to an actual smile. I stand up and wipe my hands on my pants.

  “Thank you,” the caregiver murmurs to me as she backs up the wheelchair. “Mr. Brown, are you ready for lunch now?”

  The man doesn’t say anything, but as the caregiver steers him away, his fingers flutter ever so slightly in my direction. I watch them disappear into the building, a faint breeze lifting the man’s wispy white hair like a wing.

  “Jade?”

  I turn to see Brandon Brown approaching from the parking lot. He looks at me, then back toward the building where the man in the wheelchair has just disappeared. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Irene snorts, saving me the trouble of making a smartass comment. “Introducing reindeer to patients,” I tell him, wishing my stupid heart didn’t race at the sight of him. “Why are you here?”

  His eyes cloud just a little, and he tilts his head toward the door. “That’s my dad,” he says. “The guy in the wheelchair.”

  There’s a roaring in my ears, and it takes me a few seconds to process what he just said. “Your dad? The one who had the—oh, Brandon. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He nods and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve had a long time to get used to it.”

  “That must be difficult,” I tell him. “Seeing your dad like that.”

  “Yeah. He has good days and bad days. More bad days than good, lately. That’s actually why I came home.”

  “Is he—” I’m not sure how to ask the question, but Brandon nods without me needing to say another word.

  “Yes,” he says. “The doctors say his kidneys are failing. That he doesn’t have much longer. That seemed like my cue to get back here.”

  “Are you really thinking of leaving the service?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve considered it. Or maybe just leaving active duty. There’s a job opening at the local recruitment office in a couple months. That’s one way I could stay in while sticking close to home.”

  “I hope it works out for you.”

  The job, I mean. His dad won’t be getting any better. I can tell from the dullness in Brandon’s eyes, and I want to wrap my arms around him and pat his back. That strong, muscular, tattooed back. Instead, I tighten my grip on Irene’s lead rope. “If it makes you feel better, I think he really liked the reindeer,” I tell him. “We even got a smile out of him.”

  “My dad smiled?” Brandon’s voice is so incredulous that, for a moment, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. “That’s—wow, that doesn’t happen much.”

  “If you want, I can give you the schedule,” I offer. “I just started bringing the reindeer out here last month, and a lot of the patients are really into it.”

  He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “My dad always loved animals. He used to love Christmas, but it kind of lost its luster after—well, after.”

  His voice is heavy as a lead ball, and Irene shuffles her hooves. I’m torn between feeling sorry for Brandon and remembering that kiss. A one-time thing, obviously. Not something either of us plans to repeat.

  “You’d better get in there,” I tell him. “They were just taking him to lunch, so maybe you can sit with him.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “Will I see you tomorrow night for the photo shoot?”

  I shake my head. “I have other plans, but you guys don’t need me. Amber’s running the show, and the photographer is someone we went to school with, so you’ll be in good hands.”

  “Sounds like she has big plans for the website and marketing.”

  “That’s the idea.” I smile. “My sister’s pretty talented.”

  “So are you,” he says. “I’m impressed with what you guys are doing out there.”

  “Thanks.” I try not to let the big, dorky smile take over my face, but I’m not sure I’m succeeding.

  “So I’ll see you out there on opening day.”

  “Yep,” I agree, running my hand down Irene’s cheek. “Looking forward to it.”

  As I watch Brandon walk away, I’m annoyed to realize how very true that is.

  Chapter 6

  BRANDON

  On a scale of one to ten, how big of an assho
le am I for hiding out in the men’s room until I’m sure my dad has finished lunch?

  It’s not that I’m not eager to see him. I missed him like hell every time I shipped out, and visiting him has been my first stop anytime a tour ended.

  But watching him eat—watching a nurse spoon mashed potatoes into the mouth of a guy who used to feed me baby food—is more than I can bear. This strong ox of a man who came to all my football games and used to heft our family Christmas tree overhead like he was pressing a barbell has been reduced to someone who can’t lift a spoon by himself.

  I owe him the dignity of not having me watch him eat.

  “Hey, Pop,” I greet as I walk into his room after lunch.

  He doesn’t look up. Just stares out the window at the garden that last night’s frost has left shriveled and brown.

  I take my seat beside him anyway and rest a hand on his knee. His eyes stay fixed on some unseen point outside, or maybe on nothing at all. He’s wearing a pudding-stained T-shirt and a Santa hat with a pom-pom that flops over one eye. He doesn’t seem to notice the obstruction.

  The indignity of it all makes my chest hurt.

  “Here, let me take that off you.” I yank off the Santa hat, irritated by everything he’s had to suffer through. Divorce isn’t fair. Having a stroke at fifty-one isn’t fair. At least I can save the guy the humiliation of looking like Insane Asylum Santa.

  My father drags his gaze off the garden and studies me as I set the hat on top of his dresser. Beside it is a framed photo of me in my dress blues the day I was awarded the Medal of Honor. A lump forms in my throat, and I wonder how much my dad understands about what I’ve been doing these last thirteen years. Somewhere in there, does he know I’m his son?

  “Let me clean that off for you,” I tell him. I grab the photo by the edge of the frame and use the hem of my T-shirt to polish the glass. “There,” I say, setting it back on the dresser. “Good as new.”

  There’s another photo beside it, a grainy one of my youthful-looking father holding a blue-swaddled bundle in the hospital delivery room. It’s the first photo of the two of us together, and I have no idea how it got here.