Page 11 of Mountain Man Santa

My cheeks burn, and my tongue darts out to lick my lower lip. “I can think of worse fates.”

The massive chef swallows hard. “I’m gonna remember that.”

“Good,” I say more breathlessly than intended, smiling softly at him. Our eyes freeze, drinking each other in—too many private questions between us for this very public kitchen.

Roxy’s head bobbles back and forth between us, and her mouth falls open, but words don’t come out. Finally, she butts in, bringing the weirdly affectionate staring contest with my boss to an abrupt halt. “The weather’s getting pretty bad out there. Families are starting to pack up and leave. So, we need Santa Chef or whatever you are and Elf Server in the dining room ASAP.”

“Oh, shoot!” I exclaim. “Let me race this tray out there, and then I’ll help Santa take a seat.” I side-eye him, repressing another chuckle, but he looks gravely serious and downright grinchy.

Roxy grabs the tray from me, offering, “Actually, I’ll handle this for you.” Under her breath, she adds, “Are you two gonna get a room or what?”

The question makes my cheeks burn. She grabs the tray, sweeping out of the kitchen too quickly for me to say something snarky. Taking a deep breath, I try hard to sound perky as I tell Jerry, “Last time I checked, Santa needs to smile.” I raise the corners of my mouth, trying to embody my advice.

“I seriously want this over with,” he replies, looking like Bruce Banner after he turns into the Hulk, his tight clothes even more ill-fitting. “Next year, we’re gonna have a visit from Mrs. Claus instead, and you can play the part,” he growls.

I shake my head. “The kids won’t like that nearly as much. And if I’m still unmarried, childless, and working at this diner in a year, you have my permission to kill me.”

A strange look crosses his face, and he shakes his head. “Nuhuh, don’t even think about leaving me. You’re mine, whether you like it or not.” Striding past me, the Santa-costumed Scrooge saunters into the dining room, looking far too sexy to pull off the whole St. Nick thing.

Chapter

Seven

JERRY

You’re mine, whether you like it or not. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? It wouldn’t be the first time my mouth got me in trouble. Opening the door to the dining room, I exclaim in my deepest tones, “Ho ho ho!”

Instead of being greeted by cheery children’s faces bright-eyed with wonder, nervous looks from parents buttoning up coats overwhelm me. My hands fall to my sides, and I feel defeated. Between my mom’s harassing phone call, my interview with Stacey’s brothers, and now this snowstorm, life has finally ground me the fuck down.

I wanted this night to be special for the kids. And despite the stupid costume and the even stupider apron, I came so close. But then one of Hollister’s notorious blizzards had to kick in.

Dammit!Sometimes, I hate living in this mile-high cow town. It’s not like New York doesn’t get its fair share of snow, but I’m pissed off and need a geographical location to blame. Hollister, it is.

A couple of parents step forward, frowns on their faces. “We’re sorry, Jerry…er, Santa. But the weather’s getting terrible. If we don’t leave now, we might get stuck here.”

I nod, trying to act cheery. “Understood. Please take whatever you can food-wise, and every child gets a gift from under the tree on their way out.” The three new high school employees stand by the packages in red and green, handing out surprises. I survey the room, disappointed by the families shuffling out and the kids looking heartbroken.

Roxy and Delilah dive into grabbing to-go boxes and filling them with cookies, pastries, and other holiday fare to pass out to families heading out.

“Bye, Santa,” one little girl exclaims. Then, another and another. Soon, all the kids join in, an adorable chorus of high-pitched cries. I guess I underestimated how much I enjoy this event and seeing the children’s faces light up. Christmas won’t be the same. I do my best Santa impression, deep-voiced and merry, until frowns turn into grins, and the remaining kids leave with smiles plastered on their faces.

Jack, one of Lily’s younger siblings, who she raises full-time with her husband, Turner, grabs my hand. A quiet little boy of no more than six or seven with a messy shock of scarlet hair and penetrating blue eyes, he whispers, “Santa Jerry, are you taking requests?”

His timid voice and wide eyes warm my heart. Squatting down, I hear a sickening ripping sound before I catch myself. Stacey’s warning has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Walking awkwardly in reverse until my back leans against the dining room wall, I pull the little boy along with me. Finally, leaning against the hard surface and trying not to look and feel like a total dweeb, I ask, “And what’s that, kid?”

“Can you tell the real Santa to throw in some extra Pokemon cards this year? I’ve been pretty good except for the whole burning down the house thing.” Lily’s five younger siblings were orphaned when their parents died in a car accident. Once shetook over caring for them, the mischievous kids got into a world of trouble, including nearly incinerating their family cabin.

Despite the seriousness of the fire, Jack’s confession makes me chuckle, and I feel a little less like a spectacular failure about the messed up evening. Any reasonable person would recognize the weather’s outside of my control. If a kid can ask to be forgiven for a house fire, I can let go of feeling like a putz over an act of God.

But I’ve worked in kitchens since I was a pre-teen, learning everything from my dziadek. These lessons included how to carry the entire burden of the restaurant and make it too fucking personal for the good of my mental health or sanity.

“Alright, Jack, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Oh, and Santa Jerry…”

“Yeah, kid.”

“Can you make sure Lily and Turner take home extra cookies?”

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