Santa's Pet (2 page)

~ Brittney ~

The barn at my family’s tree farm is stuffy, even with the two large fans near the entrance. That’s because it’s packed with cages and carriers stacked on the bales of hay. The musty smell of animals, and the noise and dust is enough to drive me back to my computer. But my family needs me, and this event draws a lot of people.

Lacy drags me by the hand while I’m busily staring at my cleavage to make sure enough fake fur covers it. Unfortunately, with each step I take, my boobs bounce and jiggle and the strapless elf outfit creeps down.

“Over here are the applications for people wishing to adopt,” Lacy explains. “They’ll list the types of animals they’re interested in and you can help them pick a pet, but make sure to let them know their choices are not guaranteed.”

“What would be the point of taking a picture with the pet if they’re not guaranteed their pick?”

“Fundraising. They pay twenty bucks per photo, and they get to think about the pet while waiting for the adoption process.” Lacy pointed to another folder. “These people have already passed the home inspection but don’t know which pet they want. Your job is to help them find one and get acquainted.”

“How am I supposed to keep this straight?” I flip through the stack of applications. The cacophony of barking dogs and the screeching of one large cockatoo is enough to shrivel the hairs in my ears. I don’t thrive with noise and confusion. When I write code, I wear large noise-cancelling headphones.

“Don’t worry, there are a load of volunteers from the rescue organizations. Your main job is to schmooze with the undecided and help move them along to Santa’s lap for a picture. All monies go toward pet rescue.”

“So, why does Grandpa Powers do this again? His store doesn’t sell any of the pets.”

Lacy rolls her eyes and huffs. “Marketing. Name recognition. A good cause. Besides, that old man loves to be Santa. One year, he got kicked out of an amusement park because people thought he was the real Santa and started asking him for autographs.”

“He does look like Santa. I bet in a lineup, the kids will pick him. What I don’t get is why he wears a beard year round.”

“He loves the role, Brittney. It’s fun. Ever heard of the concept?”

I roll my eyes back at her and turn away, scanning the rows and rows of carriers and cages. The doors haven’t opened yet, and already, I’m getting claustrophobic. Imagine what it’ll be like with hordes of noisy children and their whines to add to the din.

As for fun, who has time? At twenty-one-years old, I’m the youngest CEO of a social media startup. My company, ScrapCloud, recently entered into a partnership with Shopahol, the world’s best social shopping network. With all the new features our customers demand, I’ve had to hire three engineers and one security expert just to keep up. Of course, it means I have to manage them when all I’d rather do is write code.

I pull out my phone to check the software build.

“Put that thing away.” Lacy pops into my visual field. “Elves from the North Pole don’t have cell phones.”

“Who says?” I eye the build package as I note it had completed without errors.

“Give it over,” Lacy says with her hand out. “You can stand eight hours away from work, can’t you?”

“The weeks leading up to Christmas are critical for my company. Customers are continually updating their wish lists, and we need to make sure their friends and anyone connected to them can see the updates as well as the links to our partner retailers.”

Lacy juts her jaw, not giving in. She never does—never cuts me a break. Ever since I was a baby, Lacy has set the standard. She learned to walk at eleven months; I didn’t until I was almost two. She sang and tap danced at three. I have two left feet and a voice hoarser than a donkey’s bray. She kissed her first boy in preschool. I … uh, well, would rather not say. Having braces all those years hadn’t helped, since I always wondered if I had a piece of salad caught between my teeth.

“Fine, here.” I hand her my phone. “Where’s Grandpa Powers? The Santa throne’s empty.”

“No need to worry. The first twenty minutes, no one is ready. The pre-approved people will be busy picking a pet, and the others are filling out an application. Just look for unsuspecting fathers who have no clue. Match their profile with a pet and lead them to Santa. Ready?”

I heave a breath before realizing my bosom is ready to pop out. Tugging the fur up, I nod. “As ready as I can be.”

“Okay, Dad, open her up.” Lacy waves toward our father who is standing at the barn door.

“Yay!” A cheer rises from the young, happy voices waiting outside, and a stream of kids, from toddlers to high-school age spread out in the barn.

“You got this, Britt.” Lacy squeezes my upper arm encouragingly. “I’ve got to get to the kissing booth.”

“And your husband’s okay with it?”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not just okay, he’s manning the booth with me. How about a bet? Kissing booth versus pet pictures. Loser buys winner dinner.”

“Oh, no, that’s too easy. This bet has to hurt,” I counter. Now that I’m a real business leader, I’ve learned how to negotiate.

“Name your price.”

“It’s got to be something you’d never do in a million, billion years.” I chortle, thinking hard about Lacy’s phobias and dislikes.

She narrows her eyes and grimaces, then snorts. “Bring it on. I’m not worried. Kissing booth dominates. With me and Brandon, twenty bucks a pucker, you’re out before we even pass ‘Go.’”

Humpf. So overconfident, that sexy sister of mine. Well, I’ll fix her wagon. A light bulb sparkles in my brain. Ha, ha, she’s going to hate me now.

I lift my chin and say, “Fine, I win and you’re not wearing makeup for a month.”

“And if I win, you’re wearing makeup every day for a month.” She sticks out her hand to shake.

“Ha, ha, gotcha.” I chuckle at how one-track her mind is. “I already wear a little mascara.”

“Oh, no, that’s not all. I win and I will personally put your makeup on like I did today. False eyelashes, eye shadow and liner, even a beauty mark on the side of your cheek.”

“You’re not going to win.” I wiggle my pinkie to shake.

“We’ll see about that.” She hooks her pinkie around mine and tugs, smiling. “May the best woman win. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of kissing to do.”

With that, she saunters from the barn, wiggling her butt and attracting attention even though she’s eight freaking months pregnant and wearing a faux-fur lined Red Riding Hood Christmas outfit with a giant green bow tied over her baby bump.

“Ho, ho, ho,” a loud deep voice booms. It’s Santa, holding a large bag over his shoulder and waving to the kids.

Is it my imagination or has Grandpa Powers grown? The flowing beard covers his face and he walks straight and tall, rather he swaggers like one of the cool dudes in school.

Bad health, my left foot. Lacy loves to exaggerate and she’s always telling tales. That’s marketing for you.

“Santa, Santa!” the children cheer and follow him like he’s the pied piper from the North Pole. Behind him, a fat, out-of-shape monstrosity of a dog waddles, wearing an oversized red Santa outfit that drags on the ground. His Santa hat droops over his eyes, but he trudges forward, oblivious to the children swarming around.

“Hey, Miss.” Someone taps me. It’s a man, of course, and his eyes are addressing my boobs.

“What can I do for you?” I ask in a pleasant voice.

“Let your puppies come out to play.” He leers at my cleavage and practically has his tongue hanging out.

“Go play with your own,” I pause. “If you can find it.”

I don’t wait for his reaction. That kind of guy doesn’t deserve a dog or cat or bird. I hope he leaves.

A hand taps my bare arm. It’s the sleazebag again.

“I’m pre-approved. Help me pick a puppy.”

“Are you ready to take a picture with Santa?” I ask. “Because I’ll take your donation when you’re ready.”

I flounce around and stalk toward Santa and his throne. Grandpa Powers would never let anyone speak to me so disrespectfully.

“Who are you, anyway?” The douchebag jumps in my path, not giving up. “Last year I was here, and this really nice elf helped me find my kitten.”

“And where’s your cat now?”

“It ran away, so I’m back for a puppy.”

I grab his application and zero in on the question about previous pets. Just as I thought. The slimeball didn’t answer it.

“Sorry, bud, you lied on your application. We can’t have irresponsible people losing cats and dogs.” Without waiting for him to answer, I rip it in two.

“Whatever happened to customer service?” the man exclaims loudly. Several people stop and look toward us to see what the commotion’s about.

“The pets are not being sold, and you’re not a customer. You’re a pet loser.” I ball up the application and toss it at him.

Unfortunately, throwing overhand like a man makes my boobs bounce back and forth, threatening to overflow the fur-lined trim.

That shuts everyone up.

My face boiling hot, I turn quickly and stalk toward Grandpa Powers, ready for a hug and a ho, ho, ho. The only reason I believed in Santa Claus for so long is because of that sweet old man.

Maybe I still believe, because for me, Grandpa Powers
is
Santa Claus.

~ Ben ~

Ben’s muscles bulged dangerously under the Santa suit. If it wasn’t for the little girl sitting on his lap asking to adopt a black labradoodle, he would have rushed to the rescue of that sexy elf. Whoever she was, she didn’t look like the Lacy he’d remembered. But then again, that was ten years ago.

No woman deserved to be ogled and harassed. Granted her boobs practically spilled from that skimpy elf outfit—one that looked more like a velvety barmaid’s getup, but still, she was here for a good cause.

He couldn’t help his eyes from giving her the once over—more like twice and three times over. She was tall, which was a good thing given his six-foot-five height. Long-legged and very, very blond. Her waist was thin and she had nice round hips. Hey, he couldn’t help ogling, not if everything was clearly outlined by that less-than-nothing tube she was wearing. He let his gaze linger a moment on the bounteous beauties, then moved to her face. Okay, so maybe she’d overdone it on the makeup department. He’d take a closer look later.

“Please, Mr. Santa.” The little girl in his lap tugged at his beard and whispered loudly in his ear. “I want a puppy for Christmas. I promise I’ll take good care of him and walk him every day. I’ll also brush him and make sure his bed is clean and comfy.”

“I’m sure you will.” He tried to grin, but the stiff glue on his face made it difficult. Besides, no one could see his teeth under the thick curly mustache, so why bother?

The photographer told the girl to give him a kiss, and she landed one of the first slobbery kisses on his grandfather’s expensive yak hair beard.
Wonder how much it would cost to dry clean this thing.

“Okay, say ‘cheese,’” the photographer said.

“Wait, wait, wait,” the girl’s mother said. “Here’s the puppy. Let Bree hold the puppy.”

“Where’s that elf?” the photographer complained. “She’s supposed to set up the shot.”

He grabbed the squirmy, wiggly labradoodle puppy and placed him in the little girl’s arms. “Don’t forget to look at the camera.”

Ben glanced in the direction of the leering men. The elf seemed to be holding her own. All right! She’d just thrown a crumpled paper ball at the worst offender.

Wow. Look at that overhand throw, like a real tomboy.
Gulp. Except he, too, couldn’t take his eyes off those bouncing babies.

“Hey, Santa, eyes over here.” The snarky photographer snapped his fingers. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”

Ben had just enough time to remove his stare from the elf’s chest and fix them on the camera.

Snap.

“Auntie Ella,” the girl on his lap said. “Can I please take Inkie home?”

“Not today, Bree,” the now-identified aunt said, taking the puppy from her. “We have to fill out an application. Let’s play with Inkie a little more and take him back to his foster parent. Then we can watch a video on how to care for a dog.”

“Thank you, Santa.” Bree hung onto his beard as she climbed off his lap. She slipped the rest of the way off, using his coat as a handhold.

Should he have helped her off?

Ben turned away to press on his beard, hoping the little girl hadn’t damaged it.

Footsteps clicked toward the throne, and the photographer said, “It’s about time you got here.”

“Grandpa Powers,” a sweet and very mature female voice said as the very sexy and well-endowed female elf landed on his lap, enveloping him in her flowery scent.

Long, wispy blond hair flew in his face, and Ben couldn’t help inhaling and putting his arms around her. Her bosom squeezed against his chest, all soft and voluptuous, that he couldn’t help holding her tighter.

Oh no. This wasn’t the time or place to get a boner, but what could any healthy, red-blooded Santa Claus do when sex-in-a-pot was overflowing his lap?

~ Brittney ~

Something’s wrong. Very, very wrong. Grandpa Powers is hugging me too tight, and oh my … The old goat has a hard-on.

“Eeek!” I squeak and push from his surprisingly solid shoulders, jumping off his lap. “I can’t believe …”

The dark, chocolaty eyes staring back at me resembles Grandpa Powers, but it’s not him.

“Sorry,” the imposter says with a deep bone-melting voice. “I’m Ben Powers, the grandson, and you?”

To his credit, he’s keeping his eyes on my face. Even though I can’t see any of his other expressions due to the heavy curtain of lustrous white beard, he seems to be suitably mortified. I guess I would be too, if my arousal were so evident. Not that I’ve had time to get aroused, since I thought he was Grandpa Powers. But still, I liked his hug too much for this to be anything but icky—considering who I thought he was.

“I’m embarrassed.” I cross my arms to cover my breasts, and he quickly moves to adjust his pants.

To my credit, I’m not looking either, although from the size of that boner against my leg, and all the muscles under the suit, this is one big boy.

“Don’t be. You didn’t know I’d be here,” he reassures.

“Where’s your grandfather? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, but not up to Santa duty. He said he’ll drop by a bit later.” Ben’s still staring in my eyes and I’m holding his gaze, determined not to be caught checking him out. “You’re definitely not Lacy. Are you her sister, Brittney? You look familiar, although …”

“Although I’m all grown up?” A smile breaks through my mortification. “I remember you that summer before junior high school.”

“I remember you too, always with a book. I hadn’t thought about you in ages.” His eyes flicker and even though the white beard covers the rest of his face, I detect a reddish glow of a blush under his eyes, which, by the way, are gorgeous and free of crow’s feet.

Okay, at least he’s honest, and he’s definitely not flirting with me. I, however, have checked him out on social media from time to time. This guy’s a big shot. Not just typical tall, dark, and handsome, but very, very masculine—a hard hitting defensive linebacker—middle to be exact, but quick on his feet with large hands—brutal to quarterbacks and running backs alike. A football hero, and no, he never paid attention to me that summer. He and his brothers mostly followed sixteen-year-old Lacy around, bugging her and being rowdy, obnoxious hell raising boys.

“Well, then, we’re even. I barely remember you,” I say as flippantly as I can. “Let’s forget about this. I’m too old to sit in Santa’s lap anyway.”

“I’m not sure about that.” His fake beard moves under what’s most likely a mischievous grin. “You’re never too old when it’s the right Santa.”

Now I’m blushing. Big Ben Powers could be flirting with me as if I were a real sexpot. He doesn’t know I’m impersonating a sexy elf. What would Lacy do?

I bat my eyelashes and flip my hand at him. “Are you in the market for a pet? I’m sure we have the right one for you here.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, and this time, he’s definitely eyeing my double-delights. “I’ll take them both.”

I bend toward him to give him an eyeful and whisper, “In that case, you need to fill out an application, but I wouldn’t bother, because I’m sure you won’t be approved.”

He takes my hand and rubs my palm with his thumb. “I would be honored if you’d be my pet.”

I jerk my hand from his gloved paw. He’s no different than any other man, only interested in petting my two chest-bunnies.

“They might call you Bamm-Bamm on the field, but keep your club to yourself.”

He winks, but is having trouble with a comeback. Glancing over my shoulder, he whispers, “Looks like we have an audience.”

Oh no. There’s a line of children with volunteers holding various animals to be rescued, and they’re all laughing at the spat between me and Ben.

The photographer, a tall guy nicknamed Sean the Pits, raises his arm and smirks my direction. “Don’t worry, Britt, I shot a roll of pictures of you on Santa’s lap. Twenty bucks a piece payable to Ragamuffin’s Rescue.”

“I’ll pay you later.” I brush by him and bend over to speak to the first child in line, a girl holding a large, fluffy bird.

“Is it true? Are you Santa’s Pet?” the girl asks.

“Santa’s not getting a pet this year. He’s been a very bad boy,” I spout off as I march away from the throne.

A collective gasp follows me as the parents mutter to reassure their children Santa’s real and very, very nice.

~ Ben ~

Why’d I lie and tell her I never gave her a thought?

The truth was, Ben had never forgotten that smart little blonde who never joined in any of the games he and his brothers played. She was always on the sidelines with her nose in a book, but every so often, she’d catch his eye, and then shyly go back to her books. She was the good girl while her sister got into trouble. She wore jeans and sweats and hid behind her long, corn silk hair. Never in a million years would Ben have imagined Brittney dressed like a Santa’s elf stripper. But then, a lot could happen to a sweet little slip of a girl like Brittney Reed—puberty for one, and the wrong type of attention from douchebags.

He shouldn’t have made that remark, but truthfully, he thought she was flirting with him and wanted that kind of attention. How was he to know she’d take it as an insult and huff off in a tiff? He looked for Brittney, but she was on the other side of the barn, showing a floppy eared dog to a shy little boy.

Meanwhile, as substitute Santa, Ben should be focused on the little girl in his lap. She rattled on and on with factoids about cockatoos and all the reasons why she wanted one, but he could do no more than nod and hum. He had absolutely no idea what she expected him to do with the big white bird she was holding.

He was definitely flunking Santa 101. Served him right for misleading Brittney and then gawking at her big doozies. He ought to slap himself. What he did was degrading, and that comment was even douchier. And here he thought of himself as a nice guy.

“Lookie, look,” the girl, who appeared to be seven or eight, shrilled in his ear. “He knows how to say ‘Hello.’”

“Hello, hello,” the cockatoo insisted, bobbing its fluffy white crest. Its eyes dilated and shrunk like a cartoon heartbeat. “Hellooo!!!”

“You better say ‘hello’ back,” the girl said. “Or he’ll get mad.”

“Are you sure you want an angry bird?” Ben asked, in all seriousness.

The bird eyed him and chuckled.

“Oh, he’s laughing at you. He thinks you’re funny. Stick out your finger and say ‘Step up.’” The girl passed the bird toward him.

Instead of stepping up, the bird, who had a large and hard nut-cracking beak, leaned forward and touched the tip of its beak on Ben’s finger.

“Don’t worry,” the girl reassured. “He’s using his beak as a third foot. Trying to get a hold before stepping up. Say it.”

“It?” Ben joked with the kid, who put on a cute little pout. “Fine, step up.”

Instead of moving, the bird opened its mouth and gently grabbed onto Ben’s index finger. Ben held his breath. Was it going to bite? Should he move his finger? But then, everyone would think he was a wuss. Imagine that. Santa, afraid of a mere bird.

The cockatoo eyed him, its eyes like creepy, sinister targets dilated as it applied slightly more pressure on Ben’s finger.

Ben held still. He wasn’t going to react and give the bird any satisfaction. He was used to pain, could tolerate a heck of a lot of it, on and off the football field.

“Heh, heh, heh,” the cockatoo chuckled, its evil eye directly staring at Ben. The hard black beak bit down slowly, increasing the pressure.

Ow. This was starting to hurt, even through his grandpa’s Santa gloves. The bird’s beak was serrated. Ben held still and ignored the bird, looking away.

“Heh, heh, heayeah.” The large bird’s chuckle took on a maniacal twist right before it chomped down. Hard.

“Yeoww!” Ben jerked his finger and stood so quickly, both girl and bird toppled from his lap.

“Waaahhh!” the girl yelped as she landed on her behind. Her pretty Christmas dress flipped up, but fortunately she was wearing candy-cane tights.

The bird squawked loudly and took off in a fright. Its large wings slapped Ben’s face, and it buzzed a baby on his way up, then turned, panicking, and dive bombed a stroller. White feathers fluttered everywhere, and the people in line ran for cover from the crazy, screaming bird.

Volunteers lost hold of their animals, and parents reached to cover their children. A stampede of dogs and cats thundered toward the barn door, scampering to daylight and freedom.

Beside him, Treat howled and barked, cheering them on, “Woof, woof, aaaroohhhooo, waaahoooorrrooo! Woof, woof, ahhhwooo.”

The girl’s mother picked her up, comforting her, then turned on Ben. “What kind of Santa are you? Scaring my daughter like this?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m a substitute.”

“Substitute or not, you’re responsible. What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Buh-Ben Powers. The bird bit me and …”

“Do me a favor, Ben Powers,” the stern looking woman said. “Take responsibility and stop making excuses for the mess you made.”

She swept her hand at the pandemonium. Volunteers were running circles trying to herd the loose pets. A goat was nibbling on a stroller canopy, and a gaggle of geese waddled around honking and hissing at toddlers. Parents grabbed their kids and beat a hasty retreat out the barn door.

“What happened here?” Brittney rushed toward them. “I leave you for one minute and all hell breaks loose?”

“Your Santa Claus dumped my little girl on the floor.” The woman, who wore a business suit, pulled off her horn-rimmed glasses and glared at them. “I’m filing a complaint with the Reeds.”

“That would be my parents,” Brittney said, holding out her hand. “I’m Brittney Reed. How may I help you?”

The high-powered skirt pursed her lips as she took in Brittney’s skimpy outfit, which really was nothing more than a fur-trimmed tube with a wide belt around the waist. “Is this supposed to be a child-friendly event or a burlesque show?”

Brittney’s jaw slammed to the floor, and she crossed her arms, which only served to deepen her cleavage.

“Hey, folks,” the tall, gawky photographer cut in. “Are we going to get a picture with another pet? How about with Santa’s dog?”

“Waahh,” the little girl cried, screwing her knuckles into her eye sockets. “I want Big Blizzard the cockatoo.”

“I demand a refund,” the girl’s mother yelled. “This is the most unprofessional pet rescue event ever. Whatever happened to that wonderful Santa from last year and his sweet, helpful elf?”