Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire Read online

  “Thanks,” I mutter, because one good turn deserves—

  “Manager,” she snaps. “You’re useless. And slow.” Her face softens a little. “Are you—do you have a helper? An aide who works with you? I think it’s great you have a job and all. Is there a program manager I can—STOP IT, TYCHO! DO NOT SIT ON THAT BENCH! CREASE! CREASE!”

  A cold rage replaces the scent of peppermint and pine that the mall is piping through the heat registers. I’m breathing ice and frost and I wish I had Elsa’s power, because I could freeze a bitch right now. Turn her into a mall Han Solo.

  “I am not developmentally disabled,” I say, searching for Santa, er…Greg. He’s gone, and the line of moms, a few dads, and tons of kids is getting longer.

  “Then you’re just stupid and useless. Why is there a wait? We paid the exclusive premium for Santa’s Special Delivery, and—”

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Greg busts out, materializing from the direction of the bathrooms. Either he’s pretending to be Santa or he’s reading my breasts.

  In full Santa costume, he’s pretty amazing. Breathtaking, really. His belly fills out the costume perfectly, his eyes twinkle in a warm, inviting way with the skin wrinkling around them in a calm, compassionate manner, and his beard is fake but so realistic I want to tug it, just to make sure he didn’t magically grow it overnight.

  “Your elf is ruining Christmas!” Mommy Masochist announces in a voice loud enough to make several children, and one dad, start to cry. I suspect the dad is her husband, Daddy Doormat, because Tycho runs over to him and buries his face in the man’s knees.

  “Crease, Thomas! Crease!” Thomas the Daddy Doormat is wearing white jeans (those are a thing? For men?) and a white turtleneck, with a red wool sweater the exact color of Mommy Masochist’s shoes.

  “I’ve never had an elf ruin Christmas,” Greg booms, his voice so Santa-like that shoppers slow down from their fast clip through the mall, pull phones away from ears to gawk, and come to complete halts at the baritone that fuels old dreams tucked away long ago.

  He’s kind of magical.

  “In fact, Shannon the Elf here has come to our rescue to help make sure every good little boy and girl gets their turn.” It’s working—she’s thawing and smiling now, her eyes a bit frozen in place as she realizes she’s the center of attention but not in control of it. All those years of Greg playing Santa at the community center are paying off.

  “Thank you,” she says softly, giving him a look that says she could just as soon hug him as sever his limbs and hide them in the Verizon kiosk. “But the app says we’re supposed to be here on time.”

  “App, Santa?” I ask helplessly.

  Greg pulls me aside. “There’s this new app the owners rolled out. For $79 you can sign up in advance and come at your appointed time and jump the line. No waiting.”

  “So the rich get to buy their way to no lines but the people who can’t afford it have to wait for eternity? How is that fair?”

  “Is it fair that when I was a kid Santa brought one toy and my neighbors all got five? Santa’s an unfair bastard.”

  “What?” Mommy Masochist asks, eavesdropping. “Please keep your voice down!” she snaps at Greg. “I can’t have Tycho tormented by nightmares about hearing Santa talk about…Santa, and calling him a bastard!” She throws her hands up and then reaches into her purse for her phone, muttering something about getting a refund and how nothing works properly these days because employees don’t know how to do their jobs.

  I look at the enormous sea of wiggly children, tired parents, and crabby mall workers.

  “What now, Santa?” I ask.

  “Off we go,” Greg says, walking past Mommy Masochist and letting out a loud “ho ho ho,” to the children’s delight. The throne has a place for Santa to sit, and I’m there to hand out candy canes, keep people in orderly lines, and encourage the kids to look at the photographer, who charges $39 for a blurry photo of your kid sitting on the lap of a man who hasn’t gone through a CORI background check.

  (Actually, Greg has, but not the average mall Santa).

  Tycho is first in line. He looks at my chest and points, shouting, “I want nanas!”

  Doormat Daddy gives my breasts a nervous grin and says, “Tycho, we’re all done with nanas. Remember? We had your weaning party—”

  Greg turns the color of his beard and I turn the color of my elf suit as we both realize what “nanas” are.

  “Want nanas! Want nanas!” Tycho screams. Visions of a three-year-old vampire-diving into my overflowing nanas and drinking direct from the tap—a decidedly dry tap—make me cross my arms and push back my breeding date by, well, never. How does never sound? Sorry, Mom. No billionaire grandkids. I’m too traumatized by being turned into an unsuspecting wet nurse while wearing a naughty elf costume.

  “Crease! You’re creasing!” Masochist Mommy cries out.

  And that’s kid number one in a sea of them.

  Merry Christmas.

  Chapter Three

  One hour later I am ready to give myself a tubal ligation with a mascara wand.

  Sex ed classes shouldn’t teach abstinence, or the mechanics of sex, or even birth control. They should march those teens to the mall two days before Christmas and make them play Santa’s Helper for a few hours. That would drop the teen pregnancy rate by a good fifty percent, tout suite.

  I love kids. I do. The world revolves around Jeffrey and Tyler when I’m with them, and in my thirties, after I make director or vice president, I plan to have a couple. Whether Declan wants them or not is still a mystery, because we don’t talk about it. Ever. There’s this shadow between us that seems to have formed not by intention but more by omission.

  The longer we don’t bring it up, the bigger it becomes.

  The photographer, a lovely older woman named Marsha, who dresses in a Mrs. Claus outfit that makes her look like Betty White, approaches me and Greg.

  “My shift’s over,” she says, a bit nervous. “The new photographer is talking to the parents.”

  We look at a man in black jeans, a grey leather jacket, and a collared business shirt talking to parents in line. Twenties are changing hands.

  Greg stands and we put up the “Santa is Feeding the Reindeer—Back in Five Minutes!” sign. Parents groan, but the new photographer seems to be keeping them occupied.

  “You know him?” Greg asks Marsha, who shakes her head.

  “Never seen him before, but he says he’s a sub the owner sent. I texted the owner and he hasn’t replied, so…” She reaches for a clipboard on the small counter behind Santa’s throne and starts writing numbers on a spreadsheet.

  Greg and I exchange a skeptical look. “We need to document this,” he whispers to me. “They either pay through the app or at checkout. Cash isn’t supposed to change hands.” One of the many sour aspects of being a mystery shopper and customer service evaluator is that you end up busting people who are embezzling, or cheating customers. It always involves cash.

  Marsha looks at me with agitation and pulls me aside. “Your nipple is, um…” She points down and I growl, shoving the girls back in place.

  “Thank you.” If this were a Dickens novel I would be the Ghost of Christmas Nip Slips Present.

  “Jory was less…buxom,” she murmurs.

  “Jory?”

  “The old elf. The one who always worked here before. So much turnover.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and gives a wave, looking repeatedly at the new photographer, then shrugging. “I’m doing some shopping, so I’ll pop back in after a while and see how it’s going. I’ve been here for nine seasons and I can spot someone who isn’t going to work out.”

  Greg and I share a knowing look, and Santa turns away from the crowd to text the client and let them know what’s just gone down.

  Marsha crooks one finger at me and whispers in my ear: “This Santa is too nice. Betcha he won’t make it two more days.” She has no idea who we are, so I play along.

  Greg is text
ing the client, but then stops, alarm crossing his face. “Shit!” he exclaims.

  “Hush!” I hiss. “Santa doesn’t say ‘shit’!”

  “He does when the replacement Santa is stuck in the parking garage! Says he’s been in there for more than forty-five minutes and can’t find his way out.”

  “I believe it,” says a familiar voice. Warm hands are on my shoulders, and Declan adds, “This parking lot is designed by planners who hate human beings.”

  I laugh. He doesn’t. But he plants a kiss on my cheek and lets go of me, walking around and emitting a low whistle.

  “Whoa.” His eyes rest on the overflowing volcano of flesh that is my chest line.

  “Ho,” he says as he looks at one breast. “Ho,” he says for the other. “Nice. It’s like a Christmas eye doctor’s chart.”

  Greg’s texting furiously, then looks at us, horrified. “He says he just came out of the exit to the mall near the turnpike and he’s heading back home! Says it’s not worth it!”

  Declan shrugs, eyes glued to my breasts. “You said sexy elf costume,” he says in a weird voice.

  “This isn’t sexy?” My eyebrows are buried in the mall skylight.

  “This is a slutty elf costume.”

  I glare at Greg. “Told you.” I turn to Declan. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit much—”

  “What are you apologizing for? Slutty beats sexy any day.” His hands slip around my waist and he pulls me into a kiss that curls my toes.

  Greg texts and clears his throat. “Um, guys? I have a serious problem here. No replacement Santa, and I have to take Judy to a doctor’s appointment.” Greg’s wife is a long-term breast cancer survivor, and while I don’t know the details, everything has been in a good place for a while. The look on his face makes my stomach sink, though.

  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.

  Mine.

  “Hey what?” He’s still pissed. Doing the Santa bit, but pissed.

  “How about you bring the suit home, too? We can play Santa Disciplines the Naughty Elf,” I whisper in his ear as he dons the fake beard.

  “That’s one of your father’s favorite games,” Satan says from behind a fake ficus across the way.

  Chapter Four

  “MOM?”

  “Just look at you two! I knew Shannon was here as a beautiful little perky elf, but Declan as Santa! You two were meant to be together,” Satan, a.k.a. my mother, says, reaching in to give Declan a kiss, ignoring my protests.

  My sister Amy is with her. “Perky is right. Shannon, your, um, headlight is…” I look down. One is pointed toward New Hampshire and the other toward Antarctica.

  I turn around and readjust. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Amanda texted to let us know.”

  “I hate her.”

  “She’s your best friend. You can’t hate her.”

  “Why isn’t she here doing the elf impression?”

  “She’s delivering toys to needy kids.”

  “Flimsy excuse.
” I look around the wall and see that Mommy Masochist is back in line, dragging a very chocolate-y Tycho. The line’s gotten a lot longer suddenly. Doubled, even.

  “Wow,” I say. “The line’s really getting long.”

  “Blame it on Hot Santa,” Amy says, pointing to Declan, who scowls.

  “You look just like Chuckles!” Mom gasps.

  It makes Declan’s frown darken. Even Mom backs off.

  “Please don’t call my boyfriend ‘hot,’” I chide Amy. “It’s gross.”

  “No,” she explains, pulling out her phone. “#HOTSANTA. Some mommy blogger who’s here at the mall started it on Twitter with pics of Declan getting dressed, and now Jessica Coffin’s made it go viral.”

  “What?”

  She’s holding up a picture of Declan in all his broad-chested, thick-pec glory, adjusting one red suspender and looking good enough to ride.

  Like Santa’s sleigh.

  “But, but—” he protests. “That was five minutes ago!” He’s rattled, and Declan doesn’t do rattled.

  “Five minutes is like a day on Twitter. You could end up with a flashmob,” Amy says.

  “Hot Santa, huh?” I smack his ass and send him on his way. “Time to go make some good little girls and boys very happy.”

  “I think he’s got mostly naughty girls out there,” Mom says.

  “Humph,” is all I can reply. I see the photographer out there, working the longer line, more cash changing hands. Greg trusted me to get this right, and I will. I march out there, ignoring my mom and sister, wondering if the day can get any weirder. By the time I get to the guy, he’s worked his way to the front of the line.

  The new photographer ignores my outstretched hand as I try to introduce myself and says something in a clipped, accented voice to the mom standing with her little boy. She smiles nervously at him, clearly not understanding a word he says. He sounds like a mix of a Russian hit man and the Swedish chef from the Muppets.

  Which means he’ll probably shoot me dead with a silenced gun and have my body made into something they serve at the shady burger joint in the mall food court before he finishes a cigarette.

  “Come here! Look here!” he says in that severe accent, his eyes dead. The guy could be anywhere from twenty to fifty, with a face so angular you could use it to dig a hole under the Berlin Wall (circa 1988).