Page 17 of No Room in the Inn

“Just inhabiting a building you have no legal claim to without title or paying rent?” I say, because I looked up the official definition of squatting literally an hour ago.

Santa winces. “I mean, when you phrase it like that—”

“And what’s with the Santa costume?” I say, gesturing at it with the fire poker. “Why are you still wearing that? Is it some sort of fetish, or—”

“No!” he says, his voice indignant.

I ignore him. “Because I went to high school with a guy who wore nothing but military fatigues every day, and—”

“I don’t have a Santa fetish!” he says loudly, and this seems to have been the point that finally got him upset.

Accuse him of being a squatter and he’s not offended, but accuse him of a Santa fetish and it crosses the line. Go figure.

“Look,” he says, swiftly untucking his shirt and pulling out the pillow. Then, before I can stop him, he’s pulling off the Santa shirt too, and for the second time today I’m standing in front of a shirtless Santa.

A gorgeous shirtless Santa.

Thisgorgeous shirtless Santa.

“Look,” he says again. “I work at Santa’s Workshop in Veston, just outside St. Albans City—plus I was Santa at the parade today. I was just tired and too lazy to take the costume off. I flopped right down on the bed. But see?” He gestures at himself. “No more Santa.”

“Put a shirt on,” I say, because the abs on this guy are out-of-this-world distracting, and this Mulan needs to stay focused and battle ready.

“Fine,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender yet again. “Just—can you put down the poker, please? I’m not going to attack you or anything.”

“Oh,” I say, glancing up at the poker and feeling suddenly sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry.” Then, feeling the need to defend myself, I add, “But you could have been any old creeper. I was just being prepared.”

“I admire your courage. But since we’ve established that I’m not a creeper—”

A snort slips out of me at that, and he stops, glaring at me.

“I’m still not sure,” I say with a shrug. “You’ve been in that costume for hoursfor no reason.”

When he puts his hands on his hips, emphasizing every inch of his muscular arms, I clear my throat and say,

“Shirt.”

He narrows his eyes at me but moves to the duffle bag at the end of his bed and takes out a wife beater, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion.

I swallow as my mouth goes dry. The wife beater is not a whole lot better, to be honest. In fact, it might even be worse. I’m just going to have to power on through and ignore the fact that a veritable Adonis is standing in front of me.

But I mean, seriously. What does this guy do to work out? There’s not a gym in Woodfield. How is all this muscle business happening for him? He’s the perfect amount of built—not too Schwarzenegger but not too Steve Rogers pre-Captain-America.

“So,” he says. “Willow, right?”

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. Then I tear my gaze away from his body—I am so terrible, because if a man stared at me the way I’m staring at him, I would be livid—and get my head back on straight. “Yes,” I say again, more businesslike this time.

He nods, sitting on the edge of the bed and folding his arms over his chest. “What brings you here at”—he looks pointedly at the watch on his wrist—“ten at night?” His expression is politely interested but also holds a challenge of some sort that I don’t quite understand.

“I wanted to talk to my squatter,” I say, finally setting the fire poker on the floor and then leaning back against the doorframe. I take a deep breath and channel all the Mulan I have in me. “To ask him to vacate the premises.”

Chapter 9

Nixon

Willow really just isn’t as intimidating as she thinks she is.

For one thing, she’s like 5’5”,maybe. Even though I’m sitting and she’s standing, it doesn’t feel like she’s looming over me or anything.

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