Read Online Christmas Congratulations by Cat Summerfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Cat Summerfield
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CHAPTER ONE
Being
Mrs. Claus isn't always easy.
To
say that my husband – Nick, better known as Santa – is a
workaholic is putting it mildly. I mean, deadlines stress everyone
out, but when that deadline is making sure that every child in the
world has their presents on Christmas Day? Can you imagine what would
happen if Nick missed that deadline?
He
works hard, especially in the months leading up to Christmas. October
through December are a whirlwind of designing and making toys - and a
time of constant cookie production for me. They help Nick think.
Chocolate chip cookies, gingerbread, pfeffernuesse - baked treats are a speciality of mine. In fact, my cookies are
what first made him notice me, all those years ago.
Because
Nick does eat those cookies you put out for him, you know? And if you
happen to walk in to the kitchen, wearing nothing but lacy lingerie
just as he's tucking into the goodies you've put out for him, well.
You
might see that dear old St. Nick has terrible PR, and is neither fat
nor old - he's not particularly jolly either. He's got a pretty dry
sense of humour, actually. You'll see that Nick is six foot six, with
muscles to die for - that sack of toys is pretty darned heavy and
makes for a good workout.
That
was fifty years ago now, but the memory is still fresh. It always
comes back to me a t
this time of year – it's our anniversary, after all.
I
go out into the workshop to help make sure that everything is in
order. Nick and the elves are down checking all the presents are
wrapped, so everything here is pretty quiet. There are some wood
shavings on the floor so I grab a brush to sweep them up, and as I do
I think back on the night I met Nick.
I'd
been awake, suffering from a bout of insomnia. Deciding that lying in
bed wasn't doing anything to help me sleep, I
went into the kitchen, planning on getting one of those cookies for
myself. And what do I find there but this gorgeous guy, standing
there and munching on them himself.
Obviously
my first thought was of an intruder and I froze. Before I could get
my brain into gear and scream, or run, or something ,
I realised a few other things. First, this maniac is wearing a Santa
suit – part of one, anyway. Red velvet trousers, thick belt,
tight white t-shirt that clings to every muscle- Following on from
that came point two: the guy was a hottie. A serious hottie.
Yes,
I was – and am – that shallow. I had a probable burglar,
possibly worse, in my kitchen and I was too noticing how attractive
he is to do anything sensible.
But
then he turned to me and put a finger to his lips. By that point I
had been well on my way to finding my voice and screaming the damned
neighbourhood down, and I wasn't going to be stopped by some guy
shushing me.
"I
know this looks odd," he'd said, and that's when I realised the
guy had a voice like caramelised sugar, rich and sweet and something
I could never get enough of. "But you did say that they were for me." He pointed at the note I'd left for
Santa.
"Huh?"
I managed like a queen of eloquence.
"I'm
Santa Claus," he'd said, turning to me and trying not to be too
obvious as he looked me up and down in my lingerie . "But you
can call me Nick."
It
took more than that to convince me, but a bit of honest to god magic
did the trick. He took me into my living room, where my entire
holiday decorations consisted of a tiny two-foot tree in the corner
of the room, with a single lonely star on top. Just one click of his
fingers and a whole lot of sparkling lights, and then there's a six
foot tree, trimmed to capacity, in the corner of my room. Tinsel,
baubles, fairylights - everything you could possibly think of. By
that point I'd been pretty sure I was dreaming and maybe that's why I
was so easily charmed. Either that, or I was still looking at his
damned arms.
We
talked for a few minutes, and I offered him some of the eggnog that
my mom had brought over the night before.
"If
you're not too busy," I said, a little
Being
Mrs. Claus isn't always easy.
To
say that my husband – Nick, better known as Santa – is a
workaholic is putting it mildly. I mean, deadlines stress everyone
out, but when that deadline is making sure that every child in the
world has their presents on Christmas Day? Can you imagine what would
happen if Nick missed that deadline?
He
works hard, especially in the months leading up to Christmas. October
through December are a whirlwind of designing and making toys - and a
time of constant cookie production for me. They help Nick think.
Chocolate chip cookies, gingerbread, pfeffernuesse - baked treats are a speciality of mine. In fact, my cookies are
what first made him notice me, all those years ago.
Because
Nick does eat those cookies you put out for him, you know? And if you
happen to walk in to the kitchen, wearing nothing but lacy lingerie
just as he's tucking into the goodies you've put out for him, well.
You
might see that dear old St. Nick has terrible PR, and is neither fat
nor old - he's not particularly jolly either. He's got a pretty dry
sense of humour, actually. You'll see that Nick is six foot six, with
muscles to die for - that sack of toys is pretty darned heavy and
makes for a good workout.
That
was fifty years ago now, but the memory is still fresh. It always
comes back to me a t
this time of year – it's our anniversary, after all.
I
go out into the workshop to help make sure that everything is in
order. Nick and the elves are down checking all the presents are
wrapped, so everything here is pretty quiet. There are some wood
shavings on the floor so I grab a brush to sweep them up, and as I do
I think back on the night I met Nick.
I'd
been awake, suffering from a bout of insomnia. Deciding that lying in
bed wasn't doing anything to help me sleep, I
went into the kitchen, planning on getting one of those cookies for
myself. And what do I find there but this gorgeous guy, standing
there and munching on them himself.
Obviously
my first thought was of an intruder and I froze. Before I could get
my brain into gear and scream, or run, or something ,
I realised a few other things. First, this maniac is wearing a Santa
suit – part of one, anyway. Red velvet trousers, thick belt,
tight white t-shirt that clings to every muscle- Following on from
that came point two: the guy was a hottie. A serious hottie.
Yes,
I was – and am – that shallow. I had a probable burglar,
possibly worse, in my kitchen and I was too noticing how attractive
he is to do anything sensible.
But
then he turned to me and put a finger to his lips. By that point I
had been well on my way to finding my voice and screaming the damned
neighbourhood down, and I wasn't going to be stopped by some guy
shushing me.
"I
know this looks odd," he'd said, and that's when I realised the
guy had a voice like caramelised sugar, rich and sweet and something
I could never get enough of. "But you did say that they were for me." He pointed at the note I'd left for
Santa.
"Huh?"
I managed like a queen of eloquence.
"I'm
Santa Claus," he'd said, turning to me and trying not to be too
obvious as he looked me up and down in my lingerie . "But you
can call me Nick."
It
took more than that to convince me, but a bit of honest to god magic
did the trick. He took me into my living room, where my entire
holiday decorations consisted of a tiny two-foot tree in the corner
of the room, with a single lonely star on top. Just one click of his
fingers and a whole lot of sparkling lights, and then there's a six
foot tree, trimmed to capacity, in the corner of my room. Tinsel,
baubles, fairylights - everything you could possibly think of. By
that point I'd been pretty sure I was dreaming and maybe that's why I
was so easily charmed. Either that, or I was still looking at his
damned arms.
We
talked for a few minutes, and I offered him some of the eggnog that
my mom had brought over the night before.
"If
you're not too busy," I said, a little
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