“Hey. I’m over the moon.” I kiss her softly. “The more the merrier in this house.” I caress the side of her face with my thumb. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Let’s go celebrate properly.” I lift her into my arms and stand, ready to worship the body busy at work, making our second child. I pause in the doorway of our bedroom.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Miller.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller.”

The End

Baby It’s Cold Outside

Dedication

To everyone who’s felt like they didn’t fit in.

Chapter One

Delta

I hate Santa Claus. Four words I never thought I’d feel to the depths of my soul. But there’s something about this artistic rendering that always rubbed me the wrong way. The red-cheeked menace with a long white beard and narrowed blue eyes, which appear to watch you no matter what direction you drive on the street, sways back and forth in the windy, snow-speckled weather. My stomach clenches as the statue breaks free from its mooring and crashes down onto the street below.

Tires squeal as smoke rises up from the asphalt. Cars swerve and spin out as the tires catch the patches of ice and slush the salt trucks have yet to get to. A chorus of horns erupt. A split second later, the bone-jarring sound of metal against metal rocks through my body as the accident happens and traffic comes to a halt.

Heart launching from my chest to my throat, I press my face against the glass of the Uber. I hope everyone is okay. The snow continues to come down with no signs of stopping, and I slump down in my seat. Suddenly, the check-in window for my flight out tonight is shrinking like an ice cube left out in the Nevada sun. There’s no time for me to miss this plane. I know everything leaving tonight is full. I held off flying in until Christmas Eve to work up the nerve to return home. Saginaw, Michigan has been my residence for nearly two years, but Philadelphia will always be my home. Born and raised in the historical City of Brotherly Love, I could never get it out of my blood.

The people I’ve claimed as my family still live there. After a little space and therapy, I’m ready to return. It’s insane how quickly you can pack up your life and relocate. As a social worker, jobs are plentiful. The pay won’t ever make me rich, but it fulfills a part of my damaged soul. It’s incredible how much you can care about people you’ve never met once you walk in their shoes. Helping others heals the part of me that counseling doesn’t always reach.

Glancing down at my watch, I swear. We’re going to be cutting it close. The Uber driver, Carl, peers at me from his black-framed, square spectacles. A fringe of reddish-brown hair peeks out from his heather gray beanie.

“What time is your flight again?”

“Three-thirty.”

He lets out a low whistle. “We’re going to be cutting it close by the time this is cleared up.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” I mumble, slumping down in the back seat. If this is how the trip is starting, I’m afraid to think about what might lie ahead. I sure as hell hope this isn’t an omen. The shriek of sirens is accompanied by the flash of red and blue lights as police pull up and begin to direct traffic. The unmistakable sound of a fire red engine coming up beside us a few minutes later ignites the wicked headache centered at the top of my skull. Shrugging out of my black backpack, I dig into the second pocket to find my emergency stash of ibuprofen. I pop two of the white miracle workers, swallow them dry, and rest my head against the cool window.

Forcing myself not to look at my watch as we inch forward at a snail’s pace, I focus on the decorations that litter the car. Gingerbread gel clings dance on the windows. Red tinsel is wrapped around the handles and in the back of the window. The outside of the car itself looked like a giant ugly sweater—a crocheted, green Christmas tree, multi-colored gifts, and ornaments stand out against the car’s dark red.

Carl pays attention to details. He’ll get a higher review for the mini bottles of waters and mints in the slots of the net he’s hung up on the backs of both seats. As my headache wanes, I pop in my earbuds and cue up “Eagle When She Flies”. From the first time I salvaged one of her old tapes in a Walkman I found in a thrift store for three dollars, Dolly Parton has gotten me through the worst times in my life. A little tinkering and new double A batteries got the outdated tech running again. The cassette allowed me to block out everything else going on in that particular foster home after the sunset.

It takes

three officers to get Santa’s leg from boot to thigh, and three more to heft his head. The dismembered enforcer of jolliness won’t be put together again. It’s the only good thing to come out of this freak show. I snap a few pictures with my phone and post them to Insta with the phrase “Massacre on 34th Street.” Snickering at my friend’s colorful responses, I feel my spirits lift. Letting go of the things I can’t control will always be a challenge, but I’m heaps better than I used to be.

It’s 2:45 when we pull up, and I’m a hundred dollars lighter. Tightening the shoulder straps on my book bag, I grab my carry-on and jump out of the car.

“Thanks, Carl.” I wave at him before plunging into the crowd. Thanking the airline gods for early check-in, I power walk past the people lined up outside of kiosks. The line inside stretches out like a cash register on Black Friday. Moving from a walk to a jog, I skid to a stop in front of security. The hands on my Sailor Moon watch seem to move faster than usual as the line moves slow. The piles of gifts have slowed the conveyor belt to a crawl.

Shifting my weight from one side to the other, I try not to breathe down the man’s neck standing in front of me. I kick off the knee-high boots and plop them in the gray basket along with my book bag and the regulation-size toothpaste, mouthwash, and contact solution. The silver carry-on is plunked directly onto the conveyor belt. We’re herded through the machines, and I hold my arms out, musing on how bizarre it is that they’re looking at my insides.

Freed from security, I snatch my boots out of the bin and tug them on. Hopping on one foot, I get the last one on, sling one arm through the backpack strap, and grab the handle of carry-on Taking off to the left, I head for gate B12. I dodge the kids stopped in the middle of the walkway and spin like a football player around the cluster of workers talking. The A gates go by in a blur. I skip the moving walkway to run to B and slow as I see B6.

Slightly out of breath, I count down. I find twelve on my left and feel my body unclench at the sight of the full area and the flashing ‘delayed’ on the screen above the ticket woman behind the counter.

“We’re delayed?” I ask the blonde with the pixie cut, pink lips, and make-up straight from a YouTube video.

Tags: Shyla Colt Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net