A Billionaire for Christmas - Page 96
Declan goes somber, too.
And then Greg and I turn simultaneously and give Declan the once-over, like Clinton and Stacy on What Not to Wear.
Except we’re doing the Christmas Mall Edition: Santa Style.
“Oh, no,” Declan says, reading our minds. “No.”
“It pays $30 an hour and you can get a free picture on the next Santa’s lap.”
“I make $30 every time I cough,” Declan snorts. I’ve never heard him snort before. Today is a day for discoveries and revelations. Grumpy Cat looks and snorts. What’s next? Farting in bed and not excusing himself? Or, worse, pulling the covers over my head and Dutch Ovening me?
Mom says men save that for the second anniversary.
“Your nipple is, um…” Greg says. To me. Speaking of revelations. I tuck it back in. I might need to walk over to the scrapbook store and get a little rubber cement so these puppies will stop trying to escape.
“What’s your currency, man?” Greg asks Declan, gone from begging to outright negotiation. “You’ve got me by the balls.”
“I’ve got my own balls. Don’t need yours.”
The parents in line are murmuring louder and louder. “If there’s no Santa, the entire mystery shop is compromised, and twenty kids out there are going to start crying,” I say to Declan, pleading.
His eyes rake over my body, angry and determined, the deep “no” in there. He means it. I know he does. I use the only leverage I have.
“Greg says I can take the costume home with me. If you fill in for Santa.” I reach between us and make a suggestive stroke. The North Pole does indeed exist.
Declan groans. “Ho. Ho. Ho.”
I stand on tiptoes and lick his ear. “I will be one for you if you do this. It’s only for an hour or two,” I plead.
“I look nothing like Santa,” he says in a hard, flat voice, but arousal flickers in his eyes. He looks behind the wall and sees the sea of kids. Those green eyes look worried. He’s an old softy underneath this granite-like appearance.
I think. I hope so.
“Name your price,” Greg adds, already taking off the costume, handing Declan the hat.
Eyes the color of my suit flash at Greg, angry and exasperated. “Quit calling her for mystery shop jobs. Forever.”
Greg’s hand shoots out. “Deal.” He takes the jacket off and hands it to Declan with a warning. “It’s hot in the suit, so you might want to take your sweater off.”
“I don’t have anything on under it,” Declan explains.
“That’s fine,” I peep. My mouth waters. He gives me a glare. I stand by my words.
“Where’s the pillow?” Declan asks as he slips into the Santa pants. Luckily, he’s wearing black leather shoes that are perfect.
“What pillow?”
“The pillow for my belly.”
Greg laughs, his real belly shaking. “I didn’t need one. I think there’s one back on the counter.” And then he’s gone, calling back, “Merry Christmas to you, and to you a good hour.”
“You are going to pay for this,” Declan grouses. “And these pants are a little wet.” He sniffs one leg. “Is that pee?”
“No,” I lie.
He’s standing just behind the wall on the back of Santa’s throne, jeans peeking out from his Santa suit, red suspenders hanging down. In one fluid movement, like something out of a stripper show, he reaches for the hem of his green cashmere sweater and slowly pulls it up, biceps flexing, his skin gleaming under the calibrated Christmas lights in the mall.
It’s one of those moments that should have a soundtrack attached to it, something Barry White. Slow and sensual, the kind of music that gets you wet and throbbing. Time stops, and all the moms walking by telepathically communicate the presence of my hot boyfriend taking his clothes off, pecs on display, a free peep show at the most stressful moment in the Christmas rush.
A regular community service Declan’s performing here.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mommy Masochist taking pictures and texting someone. Whatever. Tycho managed not to crease for his photo and now he’s running around with a $9 cupcake from the gourmet bakery in the mall, chocolate smears everywhere. He looks like a Tide commercial.
The sweater makes Declan’s thick, dark, wavy hair stand up a tiny bit with static electricity, and he reaches one perfectly sculpted arm up to smooth it back. I hear a decidedly female moan from behind me, and then look. Really look at the moms around us, most biting their lower lips and squirming.
That’s right. Look all you want. I’m the one who gets to touch.
He slides the red suspenders up over his shoulders and looks like something in a Santa firefighter’s calendar. If he had a big hose in his hands right now.
Boy does that sound porny.
Let’s try again: “Hey!” I murmur, sliding up next to him and placing a strategic hand on his hip. Mine, I communicate telepathically in a voice designed to make all the other women’s heads explode like a cantaloupe dropped from a second-story window.
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