Page 62 of Not Your Average Vixen
“Scooter! Birdie! There’s a room full of Santa’s helpers out there!” Carly called.
A grin stretched across Cole’s face. “No Christmas fairies that I could see, but lots of Santas. Want to take a look? They’re right outside!”
Crap! He didn’t need more people seeing Bridget like this!
“That sounds really cool, but I’m going to take Birdie home because—”
“Because she’s talking to an egg?” Carly interrupted, cocking her head to the side.
He looked over his shoulder to see that, yes, Bridget had found an egg and was, in fact, talking to it.
He crouched down to the kids’ level. “Birdie’s very tired, and she’s acting a little loopy because we’re up so high.”
“High is right,” Tanner muttered.
“What was that, son?” the judge asked, pinning the kid with his watchful gaze.
“I meant high, like elevation. Your bird lady has an elevation high,” Tanner backtracked.
“You mean altitude sickness, right Tanner?” he corrected, hoping the guy caught the hint of urgency in his tone.
“Right! Totally! This is absolutely not chemically induced,” Tanner chimed with a resolute nod.
Sweet burning sleigh bells. He was so screwed!
“I think I would like some air,” Bridget said—to the fucking egg.
He went to her side and patted her arm. “Nobody needs to worry. I’ll take care of Birdie and get her back to the mountain house—best man duties and all,” he added, taking the egg from the baked bridesmaid and placing it back in the bowl with the others.
He pressed his hand to the small of her back, praying she didn’t fall on her ass or bid goodbye to the cooking utensils. They’d made it a few steps before he glanced over his shoulder to see every Abbott, plus Lori, watching them in stunned silence.
“Please try and act normal,” he whispered.
Bridget stopped in her tracks and looked back at the group. “Where are my manners! Goodbye, everyone! And don’t worry, I’m totally normal.”
“Let’s get started making the spaghetti,” Tanner called with a clap of his hands, blessedly shifting gears.
“We’re not having spaghetti?” Bridget asked as they left the kitchen.
“No, not tonight.”
She made a sad little puppy sound. “I told the egg that I’d make him a plate.”
“The egg will be fine,” he answered, taking her hand as they entered the main area, no longer empty and now occupied with about a dozen Santa-looking dudes.
“Holy Father Christmas!” Bridget exclaimed as he led her through the mass of white-bearded men.
How many obstacles could they encounter tonight?
“Is this where Christmas goes to die?” he mumbled.
“No, young man! It’s where Christmas goes to retire. We’re former members of the Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas,” a Santa in a plaid shirt replied.
He looked around, taking in the sea of white beards and rosy cheeks.
That explained a hell of a lot—and who knew there was a Santa frat?
A naughty grin bloomed on Bridget’s lips. “Santas, there’s something you should know. This guy, right here—his name is Rudolph. But don’t be fooled. He’s no sweet red-nosed reindeer. He’s been very, very naughty.”
