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Authors: Lori Wilde
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between Sarah and Santa, basking in the adoration of the crowd. The child was brighter than sunshine and she had Sarah wishing she’d worn shades.
Santa canted his head. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.” What was she supposed to say?
You probably remember me as the chubby, desperate chick who embarrassed the hell out of herself at a wedding one Christmas Day.
“No.” He stroked his obviously fake white beard, patting it into place. She wondered if the thing was itchy. It looked itchy. “I’ve seen you before, I just can’t place where.”
Was she going to have to get into this now? With Father Christmas on a Dickensian float, in the middle of the Twilight town square? Talkingthrough the spindly legs of the Shirley Temple look-alike standing on the seat between them.
Come on, just admit who you are. Someone around here is bound to recognize you sooner or later. It’s going to come out.
“It’s your eyes,” he said. “They’re an unusual shade of blue. Almost purple. The color of a mountain range.”
“Why, Santa Claus, are you hitting on me?” she asked, not because she really thought he was hitting on her, but just to shift things and put
him
on the defensive.
He stared at her for so long, with a bemused expression in his eyes, that Sarah wriggled in her seat. “Why Miss Cool, what kind of Santa would do that in front of his daughter?”
“I had no idea Santa even had a daughter.”
His grin widened. “They don’t call me Father Christmas for nothing.”
“And how does Mrs. Claus feel about that?”
“There is no Mrs. Claus.”
“Oh my, got run over by a reindeer, did she?” Sarah quipped. Sometimes, when she felt out of her element, she used wit to balance the scales. Her sense of humor threw some people, but not Jazzy’s daddy.
“Splat!” He shook his head, pulled a mournful face, and smacked his palms together. “Grease spot in the road. Those low-flying reindeer are hell on wives.”
“Grandmas too, from what I hear.”
“You better watch out …” His smile was purely wicked now. He
was
flirting with her.
“Because Santa is omnipotent, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful.”
“Precisely.”
Sarah clicked her tongue. “Must be such a burden.”
“You have no idea.”
“Poor Santa. You’re responsible for everyone’s happiness.”
Dramatically, he splayed a white-gloved palm over his chest. “It’s my cross to bear.”
“How about if you skipped one year. Took a long vacation to Fiji. Gave the world some tough love. Let them figure out the meaning of Christmas all on their own?”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re one of those.”
“What? An independent thinker?”
” ‘Grinch’ is the word that comes to mind.”
Sarah thrilled to the heated thrust and parry. This was too weird. She was having fun exchanging repartee with Santa. Who would have thought he could keep up? She wondered what he looked like underneath that red and white suit. “Gotta admit, Christmas isn’t my favorite time of year. I’ve been in Fiji on December twenty-fifth, it’s phenomenal. Island life, mon. You ought to give it a try sometime.”
He looked as if he was itching to let loose with something snappy when he was interrupted by his daughter.
“Daddy, Daddy.” Jazzy tugged on Santa’s cap. “There’s Auntie Raylene.” She raised her voice, bounced up and down and waved even more enthusiastically, which Sarah would have sworn was physically impossible. The kid was Pollyanna, Pippi Longstocking, and Miss Merry Sunshine all rolled into one. “Hi, Auntie!”
Happy for the interruption, Sarah swung her gaze in the direction of Auntie Raylene. She had dyed blond hair, teased up big, and she wore a green skirt too short and tight for her age, but she still looked hot. Sarah realized she knew the woman.
Raylene Pringle used to be one of her Gramma Mia’s friends. Once upon a time Raylene had been a Dallas Cowboys
Santa canted his head. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.” What was she supposed to say?
You probably remember me as the chubby, desperate chick who embarrassed the hell out of herself at a wedding one Christmas Day.
“No.” He stroked his obviously fake white beard, patting it into place. She wondered if the thing was itchy. It looked itchy. “I’ve seen you before, I just can’t place where.”
Was she going to have to get into this now? With Father Christmas on a Dickensian float, in the middle of the Twilight town square? Talkingthrough the spindly legs of the Shirley Temple look-alike standing on the seat between them.
Come on, just admit who you are. Someone around here is bound to recognize you sooner or later. It’s going to come out.
“It’s your eyes,” he said. “They’re an unusual shade of blue. Almost purple. The color of a mountain range.”
“Why, Santa Claus, are you hitting on me?” she asked, not because she really thought he was hitting on her, but just to shift things and put
him
on the defensive.
He stared at her for so long, with a bemused expression in his eyes, that Sarah wriggled in her seat. “Why Miss Cool, what kind of Santa would do that in front of his daughter?”
“I had no idea Santa even had a daughter.”
His grin widened. “They don’t call me Father Christmas for nothing.”
“And how does Mrs. Claus feel about that?”
“There is no Mrs. Claus.”
“Oh my, got run over by a reindeer, did she?” Sarah quipped. Sometimes, when she felt out of her element, she used wit to balance the scales. Her sense of humor threw some people, but not Jazzy’s daddy.
“Splat!” He shook his head, pulled a mournful face, and smacked his palms together. “Grease spot in the road. Those low-flying reindeer are hell on wives.”
“Grandmas too, from what I hear.”
“You better watch out …” His smile was purely wicked now. He
was
flirting with her.
“Because Santa is omnipotent, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful.”
“Precisely.”
Sarah clicked her tongue. “Must be such a burden.”
“You have no idea.”
“Poor Santa. You’re responsible for everyone’s happiness.”
Dramatically, he splayed a white-gloved palm over his chest. “It’s my cross to bear.”
“How about if you skipped one year. Took a long vacation to Fiji. Gave the world some tough love. Let them figure out the meaning of Christmas all on their own?”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re one of those.”
“What? An independent thinker?”
” ‘Grinch’ is the word that comes to mind.”
Sarah thrilled to the heated thrust and parry. This was too weird. She was having fun exchanging repartee with Santa. Who would have thought he could keep up? She wondered what he looked like underneath that red and white suit. “Gotta admit, Christmas isn’t my favorite time of year. I’ve been in Fiji on December twenty-fifth, it’s phenomenal. Island life, mon. You ought to give it a try sometime.”
He looked as if he was itching to let loose with something snappy when he was interrupted by his daughter.
“Daddy, Daddy.” Jazzy tugged on Santa’s cap. “There’s Auntie Raylene.” She raised her voice, bounced up and down and waved even more enthusiastically, which Sarah would have sworn was physically impossible. The kid was Pollyanna, Pippi Longstocking, and Miss Merry Sunshine all rolled into one. “Hi, Auntie!”
Happy for the interruption, Sarah swung her gaze in the direction of Auntie Raylene. She had dyed blond hair, teased up big, and she wore a green skirt too short and tight for her age, but she still looked hot. Sarah realized she knew the woman.
Raylene Pringle used to be one of her Gramma Mia’s friends. Once upon a time Raylene had been a Dallas Cowboys
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