Into Santa: A Secret Billionaire Christmas Romance

  Into Santa

  A Secret Billionaire Christmas Romance

  Becca Barnes

  Copyright © 2018 by Becca Barnes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Santa

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Into Focus (sample)

  About the Author

  Also by Becca Barnes

  One

  “No Drunk Elves.” The arteries in my manager’s neck bulged. And even though I’d only known him for precisely twenty-seven minutes, I was pretty sure this was his I mean business face.

  I opened my mouth to argue that I wasn’t, in fact, drunk on half of one measly miniature bottle of chardonnay but held myself back. The fact was, given the choice, I would have gladly been smash-faced for the assignment that awaited me.

  Part-time elf. Did it get any more humiliating than that?

  I wasn’t even elfing for the good Santa in the fancy mall, who they flew in from Portland every year with his carefully groomed beard and authentic handmade red suit imported directly from Lapland. The line for that Santa would be filled with parents who had reserved their children’s appointments with Old Saint Nick online before Halloween.

  No. This was the other Santa. At the sad, slowly dying mall on the wrong side of town. The kids in line to see this Santa were more likely to be worried about whether their dinner tonight would consist of more than a stale bag of Cheetos and a can of Coke than they would be about the authenticity of his attire.

  The one good thing I could say about this mall was that the girl at the wine and cheese store had taken pity on me after my third trip past her sample tray, and slipped me a free mini bottle to take with me.

  So this is rock bottom, I thought as I shoved the wine into my tiny locker to save for later.

  “Ms. Wallace—” Somehow, the way the manager, Todd, said my name, it made me feel even worse. It didn’t help that he couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old. He might as well have referred to me as, “ma’am.”

  “You can call me Jen,” I said. I would rather he not have to call me anything at all. But it was this or starving. Or worse, asking to borrow money from my parents.

  After my job as a software programmer was downsized six months ago, I went into the teensiest case of denial for the first few months. I’d gotten a generous severance package, and I had some savings put away. But then I broke my ankle. The doctor’s bills drained the savings. And the severance ran out. I’d had a few half hearted interviews, but nothing that had resulted in a job. By the time I decided to just find something temporary, the good seasonal jobs were gone.

  And so here I was.

  “Well, Jen, why aren’t you wearing your uniform?” asked Todd.

  “Because, Todd”--I held up the hanger with the elf costume on it—”I was accidentally given the wrong uniform. This one belongs to a Bratz doll.”

  “We didn’t have time to order a new one after Kelly quit. You’re going to have to make that one work.”

  Apparently, Kelly, the previous elf, was a stick insect. I, on the other hand, had actual boobs. And an ample ass. Neither of which would squeeze into the thin swath of fabric they were calling a uniform.

  “You’re welcome to wear the supplied bloomers.” Todd handed me a pair of cherry red spanky pants that . . . oh hell to the no. They had ruffles on the back.

  “I have a red sweater on,” I said. “Why don’t I just wear that with the elf hat instead?”

  “Put on the uniform or you’re fired.”

  Sweet Lord, it had come to this. Almost fired from the worst job in existence.

  “Fine,” I huffed.

  “And a smile.” Todd screwed his fingertips into his cheeks.

  “And a smile.” I stretched my lips over my teeth in a semblance of one. The moment he walked out, though, I turned up two choice fingertips to let him know how I really felt.

  But like it or not, this was my job. And my only prospect at the moment. With the holidays coming up in just a few weeks and rent due Friday, I didn’t have a choice but to do whatever it took to keep it.

  “All right then.” I gathered up the remaining shreds of my dignity and headed over to the corner of the room, which had a makeshift curtain tacked up where we were supposed to change.

  The costume was even worse on. I turned a slow circle in front of the mirror they’d propped up in there. I looked like Santa’s Little Wet Dream. My breasts strained against the thin fabric of the top, and my butt cheeks were barely covered. I hadn’t even considered costume requirements when I’d dressed today and had worn a lacy thong. Spanky pants, it was.

  I was bending over to pick up the ruffled bloomers when the curtain of the dressing area flew open with a whoosh.

  “Oh my. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I whirled around to face a man standing there, holding the curtain, frozen. His mouth was formed into a perfect O. Before I had a chance to say anything in return, he whipped the curtain shut.

  I looked down at myself and realized that my skirt, what little of it there was, had gotten tucked up in my thong. Great.

  Quickly as I could, I yanked on the green and white-striped tights and the final humiliation of the spanky pants before walking out into the break room. The guy was seated at the table, staring at his bag, then the chair. Basically keeping his gaze trained anywhere but at me.

  “So that was awkward,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I opened up my locker and shoved my clothes in. At the last second, I pulled my sweater back out. They could fire me if they wanted. I’d sue them for keeping the mall so dang cold. The last thing I needed was to give some poor kid a complex seeing a nip slip when they just wanted to meet Santa.

  “Sorry again,” said the man. “You must be the new elf.”

  “I am.” I reached out my hand. “Jen Wallace.”

  “Nate James.” He took my offered hand, and now that I had a chance to really look at him, my breath caught in my throat. The man was gorgeous. Not garden-variety attractive. Like, melt-the-skin-off-your-eyeballs hot.

  His dusty brown hair had glints of russet highlights and rose from his head in mussed spikes. It might have come off as boyishly handsome if it weren’t for the rest of him being being just so much . . . man. Stubble that grazed all the right spots. A squared jaw that a girl could cut herself on. And those eyes. There wasn’t a word for how blue they were. Sapphire didn’t cut it. Neither did ice. They were like the Caribbean Sea after a massive storm had . . .

  “Are you okay?” He furrowed his brow in concern, and I realized I’d been staring.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was spacing there.”

  “You done with the dressing room?” He hooked his thumb at the curtained corner.

  “Yes. Help yourself.”

  “Great.” He grabbed a garment bag off the chair next to him and went to change.

  After a few minutes of l
istening to him rustle out of his clothes, things started to feel awkward again. I did the only thing I knew to do.

  Make it more awkward.

  “So,” I said, “What’s your hard luck story?”

  “Pardon?” he called through the curtain.

  “Oh, I just figured that if we’re going to be working with each other for almost a month, I should know a little bit about you.”

  “True. But why would you think I have some sob story?” he asked.

  Because my own life was a steaming pile of crap right now, and I couldn’t imagine someone our age wilfully choosing this job unless they had no other options.

  “I guess I just meant that most people don’t write, ‘mall Santa,’ on the What I Want To Be When I Grow Up line when they’re a kid.”

  “Oh, I see what you’re saying.” He parted the curtain and stepped out.

  And oh my sweet merciful mass of muscles. The man was built. And shirtless. A pair of suspenders held up his red pants, and again, I was struck by how much man he was.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I need a bit of space to get my bowl-full-of-jelly on.”

  He held up the prosthetic stuffed torso, and I couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Surely, it was a crime in the state of Georgia to cover that up.

  “Would you mind zipping me up?” He lifted the padding over his head and raised his arm where the zipper went from his armpit down his side. “Or I could go get Todd.”

  The way Nate said his name, I could see he was almost as big a Todd fan as I was.

  “Sure.” I tugged the zipper down slowly, careful to avoid snagging him. When it reached the bottom, there was a few inches length that I had to tuck my hand up under the fabric to reach. My knuckles grazed against his taut abs.

  “Thanks,” he said, oblivious to the blaze that had overtaken my cheeks, not to mention several other body parts. “So yeah, no hard luck story. I’m just doing this as a side gig over the holidays. I enjoy it, and it helps me spread a little extra cheer.”

  “Side hustle, eh? What do you do in your day job?”

  “I work for a cable company.” He pulled on his Santa coat, higher quality than I expected. Not genuine Lapland wool, I was sure, but still nice. “So then what’s your hard luck story?”

  “Laid off,” I said. “About six months ago. Then I broke my ankle and was laid up for several weeks. I’m just now getting back on my feet.” Literally.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It happens.”

  “What did you do before you were laid off?”

  “I was a programmer for Crainfield Industries. Massive re-org.”

  “Ahh. I remember when that happened,” he said, deep furrows digging into his brow. “I’m really sorry to hear you were caught up in that.”

  I shrugged.

  “This will pay the bills through Christmas.” I just wished I didn’t look quite so much like Santa’s Slutty Helper while I did it. “So I guess I should be thankful. Even if they did give me a costume two sizes too small.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” said Nate. But there was a twinkle in his eye that was most un-Santalike.

  I rolled my eyes as he put on his beard and hat.

  “Ready?” He held out his hand.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Two

  It wasn’t as bad as I had feared.

  Don’t get me wrong. It was still humiliating and hectic and there were a couple times I had to give Todd the stink eye of death when he informed me I wasn’t jolly enough. But in the down times, I went and sat on the stool next to Nate, and we chatted.

  I’d always had a home office and telecommuted, so I’d never actually had co-workers before. At Crainfield, I reported to my direct supervisor occasionally over Skype, but it certainly wasn’t the same as face-to-face talking.

  And what a face to talk to, even with the beard. He had a talent for storytelling, and he described all his favorite memories of Christmases growing up in West Virginia. His parents had died in a car accident when he was young, and he’d been raised by his grandma. Reading between the lines, it sounded like there were years when money was tight. But there had always been enough love to go around.

  I told him about my lab mix Fran and how I’d broken my ankle rollerblading through Piedmont Park after I’d gotten startled by a pigeon. His eyes crinkled in the corners every time he laughed. And I seemed to have the knack of making him laugh.

  To be honest, it wasn’t bad at all. The time sped by. I blinked, and it was ten o’clock. We hadn’t had a single visitor for the last hour, but Nate and I had gotten so engrossed in our conversation that Todd finally cleared his throat and said, “No overtime pay.”

  “Wow.” Nate pulled up his red sleeve to look at his watch.

  When we got back to the break room, I opened my locker to grab my clothes, but the second I touched my jeans, I knew something was wrong. They were sopping wet.

  “Dang it.” I pulled everything out of the metal locker. A pipe had burst behind it, and water was trickling in like crazy.

  “Mine, too.” Nate held up his own set of dripping clothes.

  I found some clean trash bags for both of us to put our wet stuff into it.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said, pulling out my car keys.

  “Wait. You’re not walking out to your car by yourself.” It didn’t come out a question so much as a statement.

  “I’ll be fine. I have pepper spray.” Living in a big city like Atlanta, I’d learned my share of self-defense tactics. “My car’s not too far.”

  “In that?” He gestured to my get-up that, even with the sweater, was skimpy and revealing. “Not happening.”

  “If I feel unsafe, I’ll hail one of the security guards over.”

  “Uhh, those security guards are eighteen year-old boys. And I know what’s going through the mind of an eighteen year-old boy.”

  He threw his bag of wet belongings over his shoulder, and before I had a chance to protest, picked up mine as well.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’m going to stop you right now, Jen. Because we’re going to be working together for several weeks. And you don’t know me all that well yet, but one thing you do need to know is that, yes, I most certainly do have to.”

  “Have to . . .?”

  “Take care of my elves.”

  I tried to answer, but it came out a snort.

  * * *

  When we got to my car, it was the last one in the lot. I offered to drive Nate over to his.

  “That’s okay. I took the bus.”

  “What? You’re going to give me a big lecture on safety, then you take MARTA home at eleven o’clock at night?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a guy.”

  “Well, you’re a guy who can go ahead and buckle up because I’m giving you a ride home.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, maybe so, but do you want some kid to accidentally see a beardless Santa riding around downtown Atlanta at midnight? Think of the children, man.”

  “You . . . have a good point.” He opened my door for me then walked around to the passenger side.

  My beat-up old Sentra had never seemed so tiny. Between Nate’s height and the full Santa get-up, it was like stuffing an oversized bagel into a toaster.

  “Umm, maybe if we . . . or maybe you could . . .” I pushed the seat this way and that, but it was no use. “I think you’re going to have to take the belly off at least.”

  “Is this all a ruse to get me to strip?”

  “Fair’s fair.” My mouth quirked up. “I know you caught an eyeful in the dressing room.”

  “On accident.” He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it in the back seat, then struggled with the zipper of the prosthetic until he wrenched that off as well. “But just so you know, it was a very nice eyeful.”

  I bit my lip. I was a little rusty, but if I wasn’t mistaken, the man was flirting with me.

  “Well, you’re a very ni
ce eyeful as well.” Both of my cheeks went hot. Maybe this elf gig wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  He gave me directions to his apartment building downtown, but right after I exited the freeway, I heard the familiar flup-flup-flup of a flat tire.

  “Crap.” I pulled over to a gas station and got out to assess the situation. My front passenger-side tire was shredded. No wonder, given how bald all of them were.

  “Do you have a spare?” asked Nate.

  “No.” I’d taken it out to make room for some books I’d dropped off at The Salvation Army, and I’d forgotten to put it back.

  “Well, no problem. We’ll call a tow.”

  A tow truck bill and a new tire. Great. Just what I needed.

  When the tow truck driver arrived, Nate wrapped himself in the Santa coat and made me stay in the car while he talked to the driver.

  “All right, let’s go,” he said when he returned to the car.

  “Did he tell you the rate?”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  “No, you most certainly do not.”

  “It was nothing. Like, ten bucks or so.”

  “You’re such a liar. Ten bucks?”

  “Maybe it’s a special they’re running.”

  “Or maybe he’s a serial killer.”

  “He’s, like, eighty years old.”

  “Then he’s probably a very good serial killer.”

  “What is he going to do? Bash us over the head with a tire iron and take our North Pole outfits? Actually”--he held up his finger before I had the chance to say anything—”yeah, I just heard it. That would make a really excellent horror movie plot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m freezing my ass off out here. I’ll pay you ten bucks right now to go get in that tow truck, serial killer or not.”