A Billionaire for Christmas

Great.

As if on cue, Marsha walks past carrying some shopping bags. She comes over behind the Santa chair and reaches for her clipboard.

“I’ll take over. As long as I get to sit on Santa’s lap for an extra long time,” she says with a wink. I have no leverage here, so I just nod. Noddy the Elf.

“Hot Santa,” Amy says as I walk past him to join her, shaking her phone at me. “Word’s getting out. Look at all those women in line.”

I peer into the crowd. “They don’t have any kids with them.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t you bring a kid to see Santa?”

“I think they just want to sit in Santa’s lap and visit the North Pole, if you know what I mean,” Amy says, snickering.

“She means they want to sit on Declan’s penis,” Mom translates.Chapter 5“Thanks, Mom,” I cough, “for the explanation.”

“Just being helpful! Oh, look—there’s Agnes!” Mom runs off toward the end of the increasingly long line. Agnes is a ninety-something regular in Mom’s yoga classes.

Declan is warm and gracious with each child who comes through, and if I weren’t completely gobsmacked by how helping Greg out has turned my boyfriend into a Special Ops CIA dude who speaks Russian, I would pay more attention to my ovaries. They appear to be clapping, cheering, fanning themselves and putting on makeup for a special occasion with Santa, because damn if Declan isn’t amazing with the kids.

Charming and fatherly and sweet, yet ruthlessly efficient. The perfect blend of high-powered executive and Chevy-commercial dad.

He’s made to be a father.

A giggly woman sans child asks if she can sit in Santa’s lap and he says, “I’m taking all the little kids first, and then we’ll work our way through the big kids,” adding a wink.

I look through the line. There are about ten kids sprinkled in among the forty or so folks queued up. I walk out and pull the kids and grateful parents forward.

“Hot Santa is kind of a dick,” the rejected woman mumbles, walking away.

My mother hands her a candy cane and a yoga business card. “Merry Christmas!” The woman just glares and mutters to the other women in line. The single women in line thin out, about half leaving.

“Once you’re done with the kids, can senior citizens be next? This bladder isn’t as young as it used to be,” shouts a familiar voice.

“Ho ho ho,” Declan shouts, then mumbles to me, “I’ve been peed on enough. Don’t need to add Agnes to it. Do whatever she wants.”

“What is Agnes doing here?” I ask Mom, who turns out to be remarkably helpful, handing out candy canes and directing people to the pay station. Amy wanders off to huff the Lush bath products.

“I canceled yoga today when I learned you were coming here, and when they asked why there was a huge stampede of people who figured they might catch a glimpse of Declan. No one ever dreamed they’d get to sit in his lap!”

“Neither did he.”

Her eyes take in my costume. “You’re a little bigger than me, but not much. You get to keep that costume? Can I borrow it?”

Declan waves me over and I walk away from her without a single word, because I know why she wants to borrow it, and while costumes can be cleaned, brains can’t. Once that image is imprinted in my mind—of Mom and Dad playing Santa and the Naughty Elf—I might as well get an official Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot range model air rifle—

And shoot my eyes out.

We get through the kids and Declan begs for a short break. Out comes the “Santa is Feeding the Reindeer—Back in Five Minutes!” sign. Declan walks around back and stretches. The mall cops seize on the chance and come over to explain that the Russian dude was a garden-variety scammer, telling parents that for an extra $40 he’d make sure they got their pictures to them on CD on the spot. He’d pulled the same scam at five other malls this season.

And a fingerprint check showed he was part of a mafia ring, too.

“Russian? You speak Russian? We’ve been dating for how long and I don’t know this?” I bark.

He shrugs. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other. What foreign languages do you speak?”

“Southie and Pig Latin.”

“See! I didn’t know that. You polyglot.”

The security force people leave us alone and Declan takes a minute to hydrate and just breathe without a little kid on his knee. I look down the long walkway in front of us and do a double take.

“This section really brings out the crazies,” I say.

“Your mom’s a bit weird, but crazy might be an overstatement—”

“Not her. I mean, she is, but—see that guy walking toward us?” I point to a tall, older man wearing glasses and a brown down coat. He walks slowly, shoulders hunched, and is carrying a cat in his arms.