The grandma shook her head, both locking their eyes on the little girl.
Ruby nodded enthusiastically at the nurse’s instructions, then met my eyes, bouncing on her toes in excitement and doing a tiny twirl. When Grace waved her forward, she let out an excited squeal as she scurried onto my lap.
“Merry Christmas, Ruby,” I rumbled. Her eyes widened in surprise that I already knew her name.
“Hello, Santa,” she said, voice awestruck. I tilted my head to check in with Grace, and both she and Ruby’s grandma wore delighted grins. Ruby wiggled on my lap with a hint of impatience, pulling me back into our conversation like she didn’t want me to split my focus.
“What would you like for Christmas?”
“A pony,” she said. Her charming smile was tinged with mischief, and I felt like I’d fallen back in time and was seeing a preschool version of my sister. Since she’s seven years younger than me, I have clear memories of Mallory dancing for my dad’s business colleagues in tiny pink ballet tutus, her blue eyes twinkling. At the time, I’d been annoyed at her attention-hogging ways — especially when they’d been talking to me about school and she interrupted. But now as an adult, I found the preschool charm endearing.
“My mom loved horses, and last summer, she took me to the track and we saw them in real life. I brushed a black one named was Midnight Ron-dez-voo. His mane was so soft, and they let me feed him a carrot.” Every phrase rose like a question, her voice got wilder as she ramped up. “Have you been to the racetrack to see the horses, Santa?”
What, I had to improvise, too?
Grace bit her lip to conceal her merriment. No help.
“Once or twice, but it’s hard for Mrs. Claus and me to visit Saratoga in the summer because the reindeer get too hot.”
Ruby nodded as if my nonsensical answer made perfect sense. This little girl was fucking adorable.
Grace handed me a wrapped box. Ruby gleefully tore it open, her entire body quivering with excitement.
“Santa, you found Twilight Sparkle!” she squealed in delight, threw her arms around my neck, and lifted a pink unicorn. Ruby’s grandma exchanged an appreciative look at Grace, and I turned to check in but …
Ruby’s little hand on my cheek pulled my attention back to her. Yep, definitely mini-Mallory vibes. She hesitated, unsure what to say but refusing to lose the spotlight. “Santa, You have pretty eyes.”
“You’re such a flirt,” the grandma laughed. “But you’re right, Mrs. Claus is a lucky woman.”
Grace’s face flushed as red as holly berries.
Oh Christ, this suit was really affecting me.
“I’m the lucky one. She moved to the North Pole for me.”
“But he cleans up the reindeer poop,” Grace said, and Ruby giggled wildly. I’d forgotten how hysterical it was when adults say ‘poop,’ but Grace knew.
Ruby reached for Grace’s hand, requesting her picture include Mrs. Claus, too. The chair almost didn't fit me, let alone the three of us, so I stood as Ruby held up her pony for a picture.
“Closer to the tree, Santa,” she directed bossily. The three of us shifted over until Ruby looked at a nurse. She struck a pose and announced, “I’m ready! Cheeeeeeeeese!”
After her grandma snapped a picture, Ruby thanked me and giggled, pointing above us. “Nurse Irene says you have to kiss because of that weird plant!”
Mistletoe.
Grace glared at the meddling staff. She waved goodbye and took my hand to tug me down the corridor.
But I guess I was getting into the Christmas spirit after all, because I planted my feet and twisted her back into my arms. My hand ran along her cheek, pushing a strand of escaped hair beneath her awful cap. Her eyes widened as I murmured, “The kids want a show, darling.”
Her gaze flicked to the nurses, then Ruby, then met my eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, her fingertips brushed my waist behind the pillow and her lips parted.
So I grazed my lips over hers for half a second. It was so chaste, it would barely qualify as a kiss. It was a kiss about gratitude and appreciation, about the joy of the moment, about Christmas and warmth and comfort.
It was the most meaningful kiss of my life.
Even though our lips only skimmed, the way the kids — and the nurses — cheered might have made it the most enjoyable. I touched my forehead to hers and whispered, “Thank you, Mrs. Claus.”
Her eyelids fluttered open as those hazel eyes locked on mine. Her fingertips touched her lips and she broke into a charming laugh before declaring to the kids, “His beard tickles.”
As they applauded, I felt a rush of euphoria from their satisfied reaction. Nothing to do with the tingle of peppermint on her lips.
I gave a final “Ho Ho Ho,” and tugged her towards her office.
Once the door was shut, she removed the shower cap to release a cascade of caramel hair around her shoulders. She wiped off the line of sweat along her forehead, finger-combed her hair into a ponytail, and started to unzip her jacket. She suddenly stopped and arched her brow. “Turn around.”
“What? I don’t get to watch my wife undress, Mrs. Claus?” I shot her a grin, the one that supposedly made her knees weak. I guess it didn’t work, because she turned around, removing the jacket to reveal a modest tank top and knee-length black skirt. For a second, I couldn’t look at anything but the curve of her ass. She pulled a long cardigan over her shoulders, belted it at the waist, and flicked her ponytail over the neckline.
I guess I’d been standing there staring and she wanted me out of her office, because she gestured to my costume, near the belt. “You need help with that?”
Fuck if I didn’t suddenly have a fantasy of Mrs. Claus dropping to her knees in some perverse Santa porn, and I was deeply grateful for the belly pillow covering my groin.
Thankfully, her finger made a twirling gesture. As I turned and unbuckled the belt, her hands smoothed over my shoulders, sliding the jacket down my arms. After shrugging it off, her hands roamed over my undershirt, pulling off stray threads, brushing my shoulders smoothly like her hand was a lint roller, and my muscles relaxed under her warm palms.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone other than my tailor touched me like this. When I got back to San Francisco, I would tell Connor to book me into a monthly massage. No, weekly.
“You did great, Alex."
“Once I got my head out of my ass."
