Page 8 of Santa's Baby

“Fine.” He’s breathing hard now, his nostrils flaring.

“That’s all you have to say? Not. . . why do I think you’d be a good Santa Claus? Ford Gamble, notorious Grinch?”

He bows his head, pressing his forehead to the back of my head. I feel his hot breath down the bare expanse of my back. His sweatpants ride low on my hips, and I think he can see the top of my little white panties. “Why?”

“Because you dressed up as Santa once for me. Remember? I sat in your lap and told you I wanted a boyfriend for Christmas.”

“Fuck, Neely.”

“And as I perched in your lap, my legs swinging between your thighs, I’m pretty sure you—”

He roars and rips himself away from me.

The next thing I know, a T-shirt that smells like him is being yanked over my head. “Go to bed. I have work to do.”

By the time I get my arms and head through the holes, I only glimpse his feet, quickly storming up the stairs to the second floor.

Upstairs is the workspace for the lighthouse. When I was little, I loved to sit on the swivel chair in Ford’s office and pretend I lived here with him as his apprentice lighthouse keeper.

I have wanted to embed myself in every part of his life for as long as I can remember.

It’s probably not healthy.

But I don’t care.

I give him a minute, then follow him—after I take off his stupid sweatpants that are too big for me, anyway.

Now I’m only wearing his T-shirt and those little panties he’s already seen.

Upstairs, the lights are turned off, but I can still see him sprawled in an armchair.

“I told you to go to bed.”

“I’d rather talk.”

“We’re not talking about that.”

That. Oh yes, we are. “Are you just going to avoid me for the rest of my life, then? Is that why you disappeared?”

“It isn’t right to want you, Neely. I’m messed up. I had to stop coming around. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I get it.” My voice shakes. He thinks I don’t understand? I understand more than he could ever imagine.

“You don’t. Youcan’t. I helped raise you. I taught you how to ride a bike.”

I shake my head. “I miss you, Ford. Yes, you helped raise me, and then youdroppedme as soon as I. . . what? Grew tits?”

“No.”

“Did you figure out that I wanted you, too? Did that send you running scared?”

He groans. “You don’t know—”

I walk closer until I’m standing right beside him, my bare thigh brushing against the hand dangling over the arm of the chair. “Do you thinkI’mmessed up for wantingyou?”

“If you think you do, then that’s my fault. I led you—”

“You didn’t do anything.” I press my leg into his hand, emboldened by his confessions.

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