Studmuffin Santa Page 6

  “Is that your mom over there?” I ask, nodding to yet another flirty young woman bending low in front of Brandon to show him the blinking Christmas light necklace nestled in her cleavage.

  The kid nods and draws back the rattle. “Yeah. She said she’s gonna have a special talk with Santa to make sure we all get what we want for Christmas.”

  “I’m sure she did.” I reach down and pry the kid’s chubby fingers off the bars as Blitzen snuffles at the teething ring. “Let’s find a better snack for him, okay?”

  I fish into my pocket for a handful of the rolled corn I filled it with an hour ago, surprised to find I’m down to just a few kernels. It’s been a busy day of wheedling with kids and moms who’ve lined up since eight-o’clock this morning to see the reindeer.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  They’re here to see Studmuffin Santa, and I can’t say I blame them.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” His jolly bellow pings off the rafters, and I remember what he told me about his less-than-happy Christmas memories. I think about his dad at the care center and wonder what it would be like to have that sort of dark cloud hanging over Christmas. How did I not know about his parents? It’s a medium-sized town, and gossip spreads fast here.

  People only hear what they want to when it comes to the hometown hero.

  “Here you go,” I tell the kid at my feet. “Offer it to him nice and gentle, with your hand out flat like this.”

  He does as instructed, giggling when Blitzen’s velvety lips flap against his palm as he takes the proffered treat.

  “She kissed me!”

  Blitzen paws the ground, irritated more by the vanishing corn than the incorrect gender pronoun. At the edge of the pen, my sister’s ex-boyfriend clicks his camera shutter and gives me a thumbs up. Then he turns around to snag a shot of a family that’s waited in line an hour to see the reindeer.

  He looks up as my sister walks past and gives the same puppy dog look he’s worn every time they’ve split up. “Hey, Amber, what are you doing after work?”

  My sister shoots me a pleading look, and I do my best to save her. “Remember we were going to give Blitzen a bath?”

  Amber nods and turns back to Zak. “I’m pretty busy on the ranch these days, you know?”

  Zak gives her an earnest look, dark hair flopping over his eye. “There’s more to life than work, you know.”

  “Not right now, there’s not,” she says. “This is what I need to be doing.”

  He shrugs and draws the camera back to his eye. “Maybe another time.”

  My sister moves to a spot halfway between the reindeer pen and Santa’s throne and cups her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. “We have about thirty minutes until closing time,” she calls out, earning a groan from some of the families at the back of the line. “Santa’s going to make sure he sees all of you, but we’re going to have to close the doors so we don’t have more people lining up.”

  I step closer to her and do my own version of megaphone mouth. “That’s right, we have to let Santa get back to the North Pole tonight so he can make sure the elves are getting all your toys built.”

  “Tell all your friends,” Amber adds. “Santa’s here Tuesday through Sunday until December twenty-fourth.”

  I feel Brandon’s eyes on me, even though I’m not looking at him. Even though I’ve done my damnedest not to look at him any more than necessary. That hasn’t stopped me from thinking about the kisses in the barn or the groping in his truck. What would have happened if Amber hadn’t walked in or if the old lady hadn’t tried to carjack me?

  “I almost forgot,” Amber says, tugging my ponytail as she steps around me to empty a box of mini candy canes into a red bowl. “I put some cookies on your desk. You should offer some to Studmuffin Santa when his shift is done. I don’t think he got lunch today.”

  “Hmph,” is the most intelligent response I can muster. I steal a glance at Brandon, not surprised to see a pair of doe-eyed twenty-somethings arranging themselves on each of his knees while Zak gamely shoots photos.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” coos the brunette on his left knee as she twines her arms around his neck. “It’s just that we’ve been such good girls this year.”

  The blonde on his right knee giggles and puts a hand on his chest. “Now that we’re both on your lap, maybe we can talk about the first thing that pops up.”

  I roll my eyes and turn back to my sister. “Is that three times or four for that line?”

  “At this point, I’m just counting the number of times I gag.”

  “Come on,” I say. “Help me swap out Comet for the last thirty minutes. Prancer needs more practice tolerating all the squealing.”

  “If he figures out the secret, tell him to share it with the rest of us.”

  Amber and I work together to make the switch, herding Comet back out into the pasture and ushering in a festive-looking Prancer to oohs and ahhs from kids. The bells jingle on his harness, and I’m so busy doing my job that I almost forget about Brandon.

  Almost. I glance back to see him chatting with one of the rare dads in the bunch, someone I recognize as one of Brandon’s old teammates. The guys are laughing and smiling, but Brandon keeps his focus on the guy’s kid, never breaking character as Santa.

  “He really does have a knack for it,” I admit.

  Amber gives me a knowing look. “I told you he’d be perfect.”

  Too perfect for you, my subconscious chides.

  “I need to work on the permit applications for some of the traveling events,” I tell her. “Do you have everything handled out here for now?”

  “No problem,” she says. “I promised the elves extra cookies if they stick around and help with cleanup.”

  “You’re the best.”

  I steal one more look at Brandon before heading off to the office and shutting the door behind me.

  For the next hour, I lose myself in paperwork. Raising and traveling with reindeer is a highly-regulated business, with a constant flood of forms and permits for the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. I’m meticulously organized with them, which is why I’m annoyed I can’t find a stack of health certificates I’m positive I left on the edge of my desk.

  I paw through the file cabinet one more time, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary when the forms don’t turn up.

  “Everything okay?”

  I jump at the sound of Brandon’s voice. “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “Sorry,” he says from the doorway. “I knocked before I opened it, but you must not have heard me.”

  “It’s fine, come on in.”

  His face is bare, which is jarring after nine hours of seeing him in a Santa beard. He’s stuffed the fake facial hair into his Santa hat, which he’s holding in one hand. His cheeks are ruddy, and there’s a shadow of stubble on his chin.

  He looks ridiculously hot, and I hate that I notice.

  “Did the lines finally clear out?” I ask.

  “Yeah. That private investigator dude who did my background check showed up at the last second with his niece, so Amber let him in.”

  “I’m sure Zak loved that.”

  “The photographer?”

  “Yep. Amber’s ex-boyfriend who isn’t quite over her.”

  “That’s right, you mentioned that,” he says. "And the PI has the hots for her?”

  “Bingo,” I say. “Well, him and everyone else.”

  He smiles. “She’s a sweet kid.”

  I nod, not disagreeing with him. But since every man with a pulse seems to fall for my beautiful younger sister, I’m surprised he’d describe her that way.

  Brandon shifts the Santa hat from one hand to the other. “You feel like things went well today?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We had twice the visitor volume I expected, so that was great.” I pause, catching sight of the smudges on his face. “Nice lipstick.”

  Brandon lifts a hand to his face where lip prints ranging from rose to plum line h
is cheekbone like bizarre tribal tattoos. He starts to scrub at them with the sleeve of his Santa suit, but I grab a box of Kleenex off my desk and shove them at him.

  “Here. Don’t get it all over the coat.”

  “Thanks.” Brandon grabs two tissues and swipes at his face, totally missing the biggest smattering of kiss marks near his temple.

  I watch him keep trying, knowing damn well I should point him toward the bathroom so he can look in a mirror and do this himself. But some stupid part of me can’t resist the excuse to touch him again.

  “Here, let me help.” I grab another tissue from the box and stretch up to dab at a smudge of sticky peach gloss near his hairline.

  “Thanks,” he says, turning his head as I put two fingers to his chin to nudge him the other way. “You knew it would be like this, didn’t you?”

  I know what he’s talking about. The flirting, the attention, the fact that women—present company included—can’t keep their hands off him.

  I swipe at a stubborn blotch of crimson below his right eye. “Yes,” I admit, the lone syllable coming out huskier than I want it to. “I had a feeling. Did you?”

  His eyes lock with mine, and my breath catches in my throat.

  “I thought it might happen,” he murmurs.

  His skin is warm under my fingers, and I can’t seem to tear my gaze off his. I finally manage it, but only make it as far as his mouth. I linger there, remembering how those lips felt against mine. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to kiss him.

  I clear my throat. “It can’t be a huge hardship to have women throwing themselves at you all day.” My words sound snarkier than I mean them to, and I’m surprised to see his brows furrow. I drop my hands from his face and look at him. “Is it?”

  He shrugs again. “It’s kind of a dick move to complain about female attention.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  He stares right into my eyes, and I order myself not to look away. “You didn’t answer mine, either.”

  “I’ve forgotten what it was.”

  “I asked if everything was okay.”

  “Oh.” I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Just some missing paperwork, no biggie.”

  “I see.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “So you weren’t in here slamming drawers because you were overcome with jealousy at the sight of all those women pawing me?”

  I snort. “Hardly. I barely noticed.”

  That’s such a blatant lie that neither of us bothers saying anything else. I crumple the tissue in my hand, but I don’t step back. I glance at the wall, my gaze landing on a photo of Amber and me posing with our arms around Donner. It was taken just after this whole crazy Christmas plan started to take root, and we were brimming with hope and happiness and ideas for how to make the business succeed.

  Brandon clears his throat. “To answer your question, yes—it’s awkward.”

  I swing my gaze back to him, surprised to realize he’s still focused on the question. “Do you want to quit?” I ask, surprised at the flutter of worry in my belly.

  He shakes his head and gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t. Like I said, a guy’s not supposed to complain about shit like that.”

  “But?”

  He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether to say something. “I feel bad for the husbands,” he says. “The guys sitting at home with their thumbs up their asses watching football while their wives grope some stranger in a red velvet suit.”

  I nod, wondering how much of this has to do with his parents. With his mom walking out. “In the grand scheme of things, it’s better than going out to a strip club or looking at porn, isn’t it?”

  I’m not sure that’s the right comparison to make, or if it even is better. But I know I’m feeling unexpectedly sorry for Brandon.

  “So it’s a choice between collecting a porn stash or groping a childhood icon in front of your kid?” He sighs and leans back against my office wall, a smudge of missed glitter-gloss twinkling at the edge of his eyebrow. “Never mind, I’m just being a dick. And yeah, I know there were plenty of women today without husbands or boyfriends or anything. Women free to grope anyone they want to grope.”

  When he puts it that way, I feel kind of crummy about the whole thing. About treating Brandon like a sex object. “Look, I don’t want you to feel like a piece of meat.”

  “Studmuffin Santa?” There’s that wistful smile again. “It’s fine. It’s only for a few weeks, right?”

  “Right.” And that’s my reminder. Whatever happened between Brandon and me last week was a temporary thing, and I need to remember that.

  My gaze drops to his mouth, and I forget all over again. Or rather, I remember what it felt like to kiss him. The softness of his lips, the roughness of his hands in my hair, and a faint taste of cinnamon candy.

  “Gingerbread,” I blurt, turning away in desperate need of distraction. “I almost forgot, my sister made cookies. Help yourself.”

  I hustle around to the other side of my desk, hopeful a piece of furniture between us will quell my desire to touch him. Brandon’s eyes widen as he takes in the big plate of cookies, and he sits down in the chair on the other side of the desk.

  “Wow, thanks,” he says. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling guilty again. “If you want, I can run up to the house and heat up a freezer burrito or something.”

  “Nah, it’s my own fault. My cousin made me a sandwich this morning, but I forgot to bring it. These look good, though.”

  He reaches for the plate of cookies and picks one up by the leg. Too late, he discovers it’s two gingerbread figures melded together in a compromising position.

  “Well, that’s interesting.” He holds it up for a better look, and I grimace at the sight of one fat-headed gingerbread man with its face wedged between the thighs of another.

  “Accidental pastry porn,” I say, determined not to blush this time. “Probably got placed too close together on the baking sheet.” I pick up a cookie of my own and frown at it. “Or not an accident.”

  Brandon takes the cookie from my hand and inspects it. “Where did you say these came from?”

  I study another gingerbread figure that boasts an impressive set of breasts fashioned out of red hots and slightly melted Hersey’s kisses. “Dammit, Amber.”

  “The pubic hair is a nice touch,” Brandon points out as he hands back my cookie. “I’ve never seen toasted coconut used quite like that.”

  “My sister, the comedienne.” I start to put the cookie back, but decide better of it. I take a bite, savoring the spicy sweetness. “She’s lucky I didn’t take these out there to share with kids.”

  “You two are pretty close?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, leaning back in my chair and wishing I had some milk. “We’re a good team. She’s the marketing whiz, and I know animals.”

  “You’ve got a degree in veterinary medicine?”

  I take another bite of cookie, not bothering to mask my surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s on your website,” he says. “That’s a great picture of you, by the way.”

  “What picture?” I don’t wait for a response. I set down my cookie and jiggle the mouse to wake my computer, then punch in the URL for Jingle Bell Reindeer Ranch. “She said she had a surprise for me, but I didn’t realize she’d already finished.”

  “It looks great,” Brandon says. “The picture is under ‘about us’ or ‘meet the staff’ or something like that.”

  I toggle my way to the page, admiring my sister’s design skills. The layout is simple but professional, with a smattering of reindeer hoof prints across the top of each page. “I didn’t know she’d finished it,” I say. “She’s been working on it for months, but I thought we still had the old site up.”

  “This one is a lot cooler,” he says. “I saw the old one when I applied for the job, but this one’s more user-frie
ndly.”

  “It’s awesome.” I flip to the photo of me at the bottom of the screen and stop. It’s a candid shot that Amber took last summer when the weather was hot and the new calves were just getting their antlers. I’m in shorts and a black tank top leaning over Marcus—stage name Dancer—giving him a kiss on his fuzzy reindeer face. My hair is in my eyes, and I’m laughing at his attempt to lick my cheek.

  I glance up to see Brandon looking at me.

  “You’re really beautiful,” he says softly, “but you know what makes you even hotter?”

  I shake my head, too surprised by the website and by Brandon’s compliment to come up with a smartass reply. “No.”

  “The fact that you don’t have a clue.”

  I bite my lip. “Did you just call me clueless?”

  “I’m saying you’re gorgeous, and you don’t know it. That’s hot as hell. You’re not full of yourself.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I nod once, not sure how else to respond. It’s not the first time I’ve been complimented, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it from someone who looks like Brandon Brown. Someone whose lips I haven’t stopped feeling for a week.

  “Thanks,” I say again, averting my eyes. “Let’s see what else she put on the website.” My cheeks prickle with heat, and I’m not sure why I feel so undone. I focus on flipping through the tabs.

  Event calendar.

  Reindeer games.

  Real country weddings.

  Get in touch.

  I click the contact link, hoping she remembered the coded email form we talked about.

  Tinny electric guitar music blasts from my speakers.

  Bow-chicka-bow-wow!

  “What the—”

  “Oh my God.” Brandon jerks up and jabs a finger at the screen. “That’s a scene from I Cream on Jeanie.”

  “What is it doing on my website?” I shriek.

  “I don’t know, but there’s a part coming up here where she takes the maple syrup and—”

  “Ew, stop!” I yelp, not sure if I’m talking to Brandon or the computer. “How the hell do I get this off my website?”

  Brandon stands up and reaches for the mouse, making a vain attempt to mute it. The music keeps blaring. “A better question is why it’s on your website in the first place.”