Back at the hospital, this polyester monstrosity was way too hot, so all I’ve got on underneath is my boxers. Out here, it’s way too cold, though that’s far from the only reason I desperately wish I’d changed before I left.
For starters, I really wish I weren’t facing Adeline for the first time in months wearing the crushed velvet uniform of an old fat man, though at least I took the stuffing out of the front. I’m no fashion expert, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s not my best look.
Last time I saw her, I was in a suit. This is a major step down.
After a long moment, I sigh, then crunch through the new-fallen snow and head down the hill, toward her.
“Maybe your reindeer can pull it out,” she says, sarcastically. “Or did they abandon you because you drive like an asshole?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I say, quickly surveying her car. “If I had reindeer, why would I be driving?”
“If you’re Santa, why are you in the world’s most ludicrous truck?” she asks.
I crouch down and look under her tilted car, already shivering.
“Santa does what Santa wants,” I respond.
“Fucking apparently,” she mutters.
“It doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” I say, standing again. “Axles look like they’re fine, all your tires are still good —”
“And the only problem is that it won’t go anywhere because you ran me into —”
“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off.
Adeline stops. Her face softens microscopically.
“It’s Christmas Eve, I had a long day, I just wanted to get this stuff to my parents’ house before midnight,” I say. “I apologize.”
She takes a deep breath, then sighs, like the fight’s gone out of her.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ve got triple-A, they’ll come pull me out. It’s fine.”
She’s right. They will. Eventually.
I clear my throat.
“Let me give you a ride,” I tell her.
Adeline makes a skeptical face.
“It’s late, it’s Christmas Eve, it’s snowing,” I say. “There’s no way you’re the only one in a ditch, and Triple-A will be hours.”
I can tell from her face that she knows I’m right. I can also see that she wants to say no anyway.
“I’ve got a thermos full of hot cocoa in the truck,” I coax.
“You do? Why?”
“Because I’m Santa,” I say, like it’s obvious, and for the first time that night, Adeline smiles. It’s ever so slightly crooked, and it lights up her pretty face like a sunrise over the ocean.
“You’re an asshole Santa,” she says. “I’m pretty sure the real guy would never approve of you. Naughty list for sure.”
“That’s not the only reason,” I tell her without thinking.
Adeline blushes, hard, and I suddenly find myself absolutely transfixed with a rock on the side of the road.
Actually, the last naughty thing I did was at my buddy Eli’s wedding last summer, when I pushed Adeline up against a tree with her legs wrapped around me as she pulled me in by my tie. All we did was make out, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how adults are supposed to act at a wedding.
Particularly not a small, intimate, family-and-close friends wedding. It’s not as if there was anyone else making out against a tree.
Besides, when I asked for her number, she gave me the number for a for Burley County Sanitation.
You know, the dump. I got the message.
“Come on,” I say. “Truck’s still warm.”
Adeline locks her car, and we crunch up the hill in silence.
Chapter Three
ADELINE
There’s a ladder into this truck. Literally. It’s so far off the ground that there’s a ladder to get in, which might be the silliest thing I’ve ever seen.
Wait, no. The silliest thing I’ve ever seen is the red-and-green striped paint job, which upon closer inspection is clearly supposed to resemble wrapping paper.
Grady heaves himself into the cab, pulls his door shut, and looks over at me with a smile on his face. He’s got rich brown hair that’s a little floppy, blue eyes, full lips, and the kind of jawline that silent movie starlets would swoon over.
Plus, there’s just something very… charming about him. Rakish, even. Something about him always feels like he’s goading me on, teasing me, and I’m not sure I hate it.
“I live on this side of the reservoir,” I tell him. “You know the Green Oaks neighborhood? I’m right around there.”
Grady looks very, very thoughtful as he turns the key and waits for the engine to rumble to life, all the way on the other side of the truck. He’s so far away I feel like we should be using the telephone.
Not that he seems to use the telephone.
“Actually,” he says. “Do you mind if we make a stop first?”
I don’t answer, I just wait, because I could have sworn that this man who just ran me off the road on Christmas Eve thinks he’s going grocery shopping before he takes me home.
“My parents just got a couple new foster kids a few days ago, and the stuff in the back is for them,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
I turn, look into the back of the pickup truck, but there’s a cap on it and I can’t see anything.
“It was kind of a last-minute surprise, so my parents weren’t really prepared and didn’t have a chance to get them anything for Christmas,” he goes on voice soft, serious. “A brother and sister. Bad situation. I was hoping to get over there before they all go to bed.”
Something about the way he says it all makes my heart twist. Siblings, bad situation. Even though I had a totally happy childhood and love my parents and sister to death, bad things happening to kids always gets me. They’re just kids, you know?
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.
“Sure,” I say, and he gives me the charming, devil-may-care grin I remember so well from last summer.
“Thanks,” he says. “We shouldn’t be more than an hour or two. Unless you want to stay for dinner.”
It’s hard to be angry with someone who’s risking life and limb to deliver Christmas presents to unfortunate children. It’s even harder to be angry when he’s coming from a stint playing Santa at the children’s wing of the hospital a couple towns over, filling in for a friend who works at the local country radio station.
At least that explains the truck. It belongs to KXBZ, Home of the Best Country Music in the Blue Ridge, the annual sponsor of Redneck Santa’s Big Ol’ Christmas Hootenanny. Luckily for us, it’s also got four-wheel drive and Grady seems to know how to drive it.
“Your parents are foster parents?” I ask as we drive down the mountain, the snow still slashing into the windshield.
“Yeah,” he says, still totally focused on the road. “They started doing it when my oldest sister left for college, said the house was too quiet without all of us there. So they imported some five-year-olds. Been doing it ever since.”