A Billionaire for Christmas

I shudder and Declan mistakes that for my being cold, wrapping his arms around me.

“I’m Santa,” Greg explains. “We’re evaluating the customer service quality of the Children’s Christmas Village set-up at the mall. Our Santa no-showed and I had to jump in.”

“You’ve got the body for it.” Greg doesn’t just have a bowl full of jelly—he’s the entire Smucker’s plant.

“Hey!” He sounds genuinely offended.

“You can talk about how I can be a sexy elf but I can’t mention your beer gut?”

“It’s not a beer gut!”

“Fine. Wine gut.”

He lets out a long sigh of resignation. “That’s better.” Because it’s true.

“You want me to come in and put on a sexy costume to play the female equivalent of Buddy the Elf at the mall two days before Christmas because no one else will do it?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Greg’s breath is coming in huffs of nervousness.

Grumpy Declan sees me wavering and finishes my hot toddy for me, returning to the tree to decorate.

“Why should I do it?” I challenge.

“It pays $30 an hour and you get a free picture with Santa.”

“I make more than that working for Anterdec Industries now, and I am not sitting on your lap.”

“I didn’t ask you to! I’m only here for a little while longer, and then the new Santa comes on board. You can sit on his lap.” He pauses. “Wait. You make more than $30 an hour now?” He seems more scandalized by that than by the idea of having me in his lap.

“You can sit on my lap right now, for free,” Declan murmurs, nibbling on my ear.

“He’s paying $30 an hour.” I point to the phone.

“You want me to pay you to sit on my lap?” Pulling me into it, he shifts in just the right way. I groan, inhaling cinnamon and sex, exhaling weakness and loyalty.

“Shannon, please? Please?” Greg is begging. “Carol said she might be able to come at five o’clock and take over for you, but I’m really stuck here. All these kids are lined up, their hopeful little faces cheering for Santa, and they want to know where the elf is.”

“Awwww.” Declan’s hot tongue in my mouth makes it hard to answer.

“And the dads are asking, too.”

“Ewwww.”

I push Declan away and eye him closely. He’ll make one hot dad someday. I imagine a little girl in his arms, Declan carrying her to the Christmas Village for a visit with Santa, me waddling behind pregnant with our first boy. It’s a pleasant vision, and one that Declan seems to share, if I’m reading the look in his eyes right.

Christmas at the mall is such a cornerstone of my childhood that I begin to weaken. All those kids. All those parents. And if I don’t go in…

“Bottom line is that there’s suspicion that one of the photographers is stealing cash payments here, and some of the Santas have been coming in drunk, so in the interest of making the holiday a joyful experience for every single kid—kids like Jeffrey and Tyler—if you could get your butt down here and help your old boss, I’d really appreciate it.” Greg’s voice shifts from pleading to commanding, and the combination means—

Damn.

A long sigh escapes from me, making Declan freeze, his tongue perfectly centered now on that soft spot of skin beneath my earlobe, the gateway to all things warm, wet, and naughty.

“Where are you?” I ask Greg.

Declan’s turn to groan, and so not in the good way.

Greg names a mall about twenty minutes away.

“I’m on my way.”

I hang up to find that I am suddenly on my boyfriend’s Very Naughty List. I deserve a spanking, but I’m about to get a tongue lashing instead, and not the kind that makes me rip the sheets off the bed.

I give him my best Grumpy Cat look.

“You’re leaving? You’re seriously going to push aside this carefully planned day so you can go dress up in a sexy elf costume…”

His voice shifts from self-righteous anger to aroused intrigue, the morph so gradual yet distinct. His green eyes match his sweater, dark hair recently clipped in a style that makes his face even more masculine, the cut jawline lickable. Long eyelashes frame steady, sharp eyes that comb over my body with more suggestions than a waiter trying to upsell you on the chef’s special.

Meeting the son of Boston’s most famous billionaire while conducting a mystery shop eight months ago was the best stroke of luck I’d had since counting the right number of M&M candies in the contest jar at Dad’s favorite auto parts store when I was nine and bringing them home, but this was better.

Because I can eat this prize without getting a stomach ache.

Wait. That doesn’t sound right…

“Yes.” I shrug helplessly. “He wouldn’t call if he weren’t desperate.”

Declan’s mind is a million miles away, his eyes smoking hot and aimed right at me. And then I realize he’s not a million miles away. He’s five miles away, at the mall, listening to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” with visions of something way dirtier than sugar plums dancing in his head.