Yeah, I could do this because it was for a good cause, but Wellsie owed me. She owed me big time.
2
Logan
I had to wonder why they asked me to be Santa. I certainly didn’t resemble the jolly fat man depicted throughout recent history. I didn’t have a pot belly or even a thick white beard, and I wasn’t older than dirt. I also wasn’t even that fond of the whole holiday vibe, which I assumed might be normal for a loner, which I was tenfold.
What I did have was broad shoulders and a height of six-foot five-inches, as well as a heavily muscled form from manual labor and rigorous workouts. Which, because I was a loner, the latter was the only thing that kept me sane most days.
But I guess that was enough for them to ask me to be Saint Nick and do all the ho, ho, hoing. Not that I was complaining, because even if I wasn’t into this whole scene and would much rather sit in my leather recliner, stare at a fire blazing, and sip on an aged scotch, I did want to help out my community. And making kids smile and lifting their spirits wasn’t a bad thing either.
But as I stood in Morton’s Department Store and stared at the total chaos that surrounded me, I was having second thoughts. It just seemed fucking... insane. There was ribbon and presents, and fake snow and tinsel. There were even faux Christmas trees that seemed to be bursting out of the walls. And let’s not forget the lights or plastic candy canes hanging from the ceiling.
It looked like Santa and Rudolph had come straight down from the North Pole and pissed their holiday spirit all over the damn place.
When I’d gotten the call last month to see if I’d be interested in volunteering my time for this, I hadn’t fully thought about how over the top it would actually be. And that had been my ignorance. But hell, even if this was a bit much for me, families and children were going to lose their shit at the sheer winter wonderland vibe going on.
I’d only been making the flyers for the event for a couple of years, and that had been my extent in really knowing what this was all about.
After moving to Mistletoe a little over five years ago, I’d built my company—Marsh Printing—from the ground up. Now, at thirty-six years old, I not only owned my own company—a flourishing one at that—but I also owned land, built a house, and was as successful as I’d ever dreamed.
I was known in Mistletoe as the go-to business for printing needs. Invitations, flyers, brochures, and anything else that could be thought of was part of my portfolio. And I was damn proud of the reputation I had, that my business had.
Not only did I have numerous clients right here in the heart of Mistletoe, Montana, but my business was growing out of state as well. I hoped in another five years I’d be completely nationwide.
And part of having a successful business and being a name in town meant, from time to time, you had to actually… you know… socialize more than what promoting your company entailed. So here I was, staying out of the way, watching as the magic of the holiday season fucking unfolded.
I spotted Wellsie Ander, ringmaster of this whole shindig. I’d only conversed with her a handful of times as a resident here, but she was polite and professional during every instance. She approached me a few years ago to create flyers for the event, and since then, I’d been creating the hand-to-hand advertisement for “Meet Santa in Mistletoe.” That was another reason I agreed to do this gig—didn’t want to offend “the hand that fed me,” so to speak.
I crossed my bulky arms over my wide chest and leaned against the wall, just looking around, staying out of people's way, and waiting for her to come to me to let me know what she wanted me to do. She said “costume fitting” over the phone yesterday, so here I was, ready to fit my big body into that red-and-white Santa suit.
She lifted a hand, giving me the universal sign for I’ll be with you in a second. I nodded but stayed where I was. I was in no hurry, but I couldn’t lie and say I wasn’t ready to head out, away from town, back to my property where I could cook up a steak, grab the six-pack out of my fridge, and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the weekend.
I let my gaze sweep the room again and my eyes land on a door off to the side, the green-and-red sparkly garland on it swinging as it was opened.
I was about to focus on something else, when everything around me stilled. My body tightened, my heart stopped, and I felt my muscles flex. The reaction was so physical, so visceral, that all I could do was stand there and blink, trying to remind myself I did actually have to fucking breathe.
The woman who stepped out of the room had her focus on the outfit she wore, if it could be called that. The red-and-white velvet wrapped around her little body, and despite her being so much smaller than I was, she had curves that went on for miles. Feminine ones, ones that made a hot-blooded male instantly hard.
That hot-blooded male was me. And I was hard as fucking granite.
I was currently sporting the hardest erection I’d ever had in my damn life, and I didn’t even know what she fully looked like head-on.
I exhaled viciously—the first time there had been any kind of air exchange in my lungs since I saw her. Then she lifted her head, her brows pulled down, her lips pursed, as it was clear she was annoyed.
God. She was… beautiful.
I’d never had this reaction to a woman. Never in all my years on this earth. Hell, I hadn’t even been with a woman—dating, kissing, or otherwise—in over five years. I not only didn’t have time as I worked on building my business, but when I broke my celibacy, I wanted it to be with a woman who had the world tilting under my feet, who had my heart stopping and restarting, and had me wanting... forever.
And whoever this woman was... she’d just given me that and more.
God, I had lost my mind, but I didn’t even fucking care about being sane.
I ran a hand over my jaw, the scruff underneath a day or two old because I hadn’t cared enough to shave. It was cold as fuck in Montana, snow covering the ground, ice like glass all over the damn place. That kind of weather made a man want to go all fucking lumberjack. But in that moment, I wanted to be clean-shaven, looking like I actually gave a shit about my appearance, superficially at least.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her, didn’t want to. It felt like a fucking sin to even try to stop looking at her. And it wasn’t just because she wore what looked like a skimpy Mrs. Claus outfit. The dress fell mid-thigh, the white ruffling around the edges giving it a sexy appearance, although I had a feeling that wasn’t the intent. The sleeves were a little too short on her, but the red velvet molded to her body, accenting her handful-sized breasts, ones that had my mouth watering for a taste.
God, she was gorgeous, and my cock decided to give a mighty jerk behind the fly of my jeans, deciding this was the perfect opportunity to stand at full attention, not giving a shit that I was in a roomful of people who could easily see my physical reaction.
She beelined over to Wellsie, and I tracked her movements, feeling like some kind of fucking predator stalking his prey. Wellsie turned around and looked at her, her brows pulling down low as she eyed the other woman up and down. I could see the smile forming on Wellsie’s face before she lifted her hand and covered the action, which only had the other woman seeming to get angry, her cheeks turning pink.