Naughty or Nice

4. Henry

4

HENRY

DECEMBER 6

S oft, folky pop music plays through the store’s speakers as I close the door and call Rora’s name.

“In the grotto,” she shouts back, and even from the front door, I can hear her grumbling something that sounds a lot like, “Fucking Christmas,” under her breath.

When Noelle suggested we do this, I thought she was fucking with us. I’m pretty sure Charlie never had to pose for sexy Santa pictures to advertise the store’s Santa After Dark party—a night the store stays open late for adults to shop without kids around, with cocktails, canapés, and a Santa photo booth.

I trust Noelle’s business sense—the store is thriving under her—but I’m not sold on this idea. And although she didn’t complain, I can’t imagine Rora is. Why would she be? She’s a serious journalist who’s stuck in a town she hates, taking pictures for a holiday she hates. I’m sure the last thing she wants to be doing is spending more time taking Christmas pictures, especially sexy pictures of a man almost twenty years older than her.

Rora is in the grotto, standing on her tiptoes on the throne, sans shoes, hanging lights on the wall. Or trying to. She can’t be taller than five feet, teetering on the plush velvet seat.

“Can I help?” I ask, dropping my bag by the door and watching her hopping warily. It’s so precarious that I almost manage to keep my eyes off the skintight leggings hugging her ass .

“I’ve got it.” The lights slip through her fingers, and she grabs them just before they fall out of reach.

“You sure?”

Her head whips around, icy fire in her eyes.

I hold my hands up. “You’re right. You’ve got it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Except she doesn’t have it. After two almost-falls, she drops the lights, and a curse spills from her lips. It takes everything in me not to laugh because god knows she’d be pissed.

I grab the lights and ignore her outstretched hand. “Please let me help, sugar.”

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly for a second before she narrows them. “Does that work for you?”

“What?”

“Saying ‘sugar’ in that Texas drawl of yours to get people to do what you want.”

“Usually.” I don’t mention that I have no idea where “sugar” came from. I’m not one for nicknames, but the accent usually does the trick alone.

Rora sighs, but I swear her eyes darken, her pupils swallowing her hazy green irises. “I can see how it would work.”

She lets me help her down from the throne, her hand soft in mine. I don’t want to let her go, but I have no excuse to hold her hand when her feet are flat on the ground again.

I turn away and hang the lights on the hooks with ease.

“Showoff. I could’ve done it. I’m five-three, you know,” Rora mutters, but my answering laugh dies when I turn back to find her tugging her crewneck over her head. She’s not wearing a t-shirt, just a light blue racerback sports bra that matches the stripes up the sides of her leggings.

My gaze sticks to the tattoo I noticed on the day we met when I was trying not to stare at her in that red bra: three pine trees, a small cabin, and a swirl of the aurora borealis disappearing below the band. It’s beautiful .

Rora notices my gaze, and my cheeks warm.

“Have you seen them?” I ask, nodding at the ink. There’s no point in pretending I wasn’t staring.

“The auroras?” she asks, and I nod. “Nope. Ironic, considering I was named after them. My parents met in Norway, photographing the Northern Lights. The company they booked their cabins with double-booked them, and nine months later, I came along. I’ll catch them one day.”

“That’s quite the meet-cute. Do they still live in town?” I ask, lifting my bag onto the throne and rummaging for my suit. I know better than to stuff it in a bag, given how easily velvet creases, but I didn’t want to wear it on the walk to the store and risk running into a kid.

“This is technically their home address,” Rora says, hanging her camera around her neck and taking a couple of shots, testing the lighting, I assume. “They both travel for work and don’t come back often. They like Wintermore even less than I do.”

“Damn. Poor Wintermore.” I look from the Santa suit in my hand to Rora. “You know, if you’re not comfortable with this, we don’t have to do it. We can say no.”

“With the shoot?” Rora asks, confusion filling her eyes when I nod. “Why would I be uncomfortable?”

“Uh, you know.” I toy with the edge of my belt. It needs polishing, but I like the scuffs and cracks in the leather. They give it character. “Sexy photoshoots aren’t exactly your thing, and I’m older and?—”

Rora’s eyes widen, and she holds up a hand. “Oh, I’m with you. Seriously, I don’t mind at all. I know I don’t have any reason to feel uncomfortable with you. Are you okay with it? You can say no, too.”

“If it’ll help the store, I’m up for it. I’m just going to change outside.” I hold up the clothes and head for the curtain, but Rora stops me, a hand on the fabric.

“Would you be comfortable leaving the shirt off? And the beard and wig. So, just the hat, pants, belt, suspenders, and open jacket?” Her hair is falling across her face, but I can still see the blush on her cheeks.

“Sure,” I agree, and because I apparently have no fucking filter, I add, “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

I don’t give her a chance to respond, mentally kicking myself as I step out of the grotto, pull the curtain closed, and take a deep breath. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“I know I don’t have any reason to feel uncomfortable with you .”

Would Rora say that if she knew the thoughts running through my mind every time I look at her? The filthy fantasies playing like a film reel I can’t escape every time I close my eyes? Definitely not.

The last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable around me, which means I have to keep my thoughts to myself and she can never know.

Unzipping my jeans, I grasp at a subject change. “Do you see your parents often?”

“We only see each other a few times a year, but we talk all the time when they have service. They go to some pretty remote places.”

“You must miss them.” I know how hard being away from family can be, but at least mine were always reachable by phone when I was in Greenland.

“I do, but we’re all happier doing what we love. And it makes the time we spend together more—” She looks up as I pull back the curtain, and I still as she takes me in, her eyes glazing over. Her expression… Fuck, I don’t know what to do with that.

I clear my throat. “More?”

Rora flicks her eyes up to mine. “Um, more? You look great as is.”

This flustered version of Rora reminds me of how she was on the morning we met. How we both were .

“Your parents. It makes the time you spend together more…”

Realization dawns on Rora’s face. “Right. It makes it more special. Anyway, should we get started?”

She turns away as I head for the throne, but not before I see her close her eyes and blow out a breath. Her camera beeps when she turns it on, slinging the strap over her neck. She squints down at the screen, holding the camera up to check the lighting.

“Perfect,” she murmurs before looking up at me. “Ready?”

It isn’t until I open my mouth to respond that nerves roll over me. “Uh… I have no idea how to do this.”

“How to do what?” Rora asks, lowering her camera and stepping closer to me.

One step, two, and the racing in my chest suddenly has less to do with my nerves.

“The ‘sexy Santa’ thing.”

Rora narrows her eyes, considering me. She runs her tongue along the edge of her teeth before saying, “Henry. You are the ‘sexy Santa’ thing. You don’t have to do anything.”

Oh . I have no idea how to respond to that. Not in a way that’s remotely appropriate. “Should I pose or something?” I might not address what she says directly, but the words come out breathy enough to address it for me.

“Just look at the camera like it’s someone you”—Rora holds the camera up, peering at me over it—“want to put on the naughty list.”

Jesus fucking Christ .

It’s easy to think of Rora when I look into the lens; she’s standing right there. Close enough that I can smell the sweet coconut scent that follows her around, haunting me every time she comes near me.

I should feel guilty—I do feel guilty—for thinking of her, but she voices her approval, snapping away.

“Why do you hate Christmas so much?” I ask when she pauses to flick through the pictures she’ s taken.

“It’s stupid,” she replies, shaking her head. “My parents blamed Christmas for their divorce, which means I also blamed Christmas for their divorce.”

That’s not what I expected. “Was it to blame?”

She shrugs. “Indirectly. I told you my mom got pregnant the night they met, right? They got married two weeks later and picked Wintermore to settle down in because the mountains were good for both of them, photography-wise. Back then, they were practically untouched. When Wintermore became the Christmas capital of America, not so much. After all the hotels, ski lodges, and tourist places showed up and it became so busy with tourists, my parents couldn’t work here anymore. They hated it. So, they took turns traveling while the other stayed home with me, and all it did was make them resent each other.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Rora waves my apology away. “It’s fine, honestly. They got married way too soon, way too young, and it was always going to end in divorce. It was best for everyone.”

Any time I’ve heard Rora speak about her parents, there’s been no resentment in her voice. Surprising, considering how most people would react to something as magical as Christmas being ruined for them.

“Are they on good terms now?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been secretly seeing each other again for years. They’ll admit it one day.”

Talk about a non-traditional family dynamic. “Surely, if they’re back together now, you don’t have to hate Christmas so much,” I point, and Rora rolls her eyes.

“Nice try.” She holds her camera back up, and I focus on the lens again. “You can still talk. We want them to feel natural.”

Talking while she’s taking pictures feels anything but natural, but she’s the professional. “This shoot has to be your ideal of hell.”

“How so? ”

“I can’t imagine anything is less sexy for you than Santa.”

She’s quiet for a moment, the click of her camera the only sound, before answering, “You know, I kind of get it. The Santa thing.”

At first, I think I’ve misheard her. I forget all about the camera, my jaw dropping as I stare at her. “Seriously? You?”

“I can’t say the shocked expression is working for the pictures,” she says with a chuckle, and I close my mouth. Her eyes are blazing, her pupils dilated, her face flushed. “But yeah, I get it. The suit, the power, the ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping’ thing. There’s something kind of hot about the thought of Santa just sitting by the fire, watching you sleep, deciding if you’re naughty or nice.”

Her low voice coils through me, warming my blood, and sending every drop of that blood directly to my cock. Fuck . I shift. How obvious would it be if I clasped my hands in my lap ? Probably not as obvious as how fucking hard I am, which Rora will almost definitely notice when she’s editing the pictures.

It’s a lose-lose situation.

I sit forward so my jacket covers my lap a bit. “I can see how that would be…” It isn’t until I’m speaking that I really let myself think about the fantasy Rora mentioned, and my jacket is no longer doing anything to help. Shit. I know exactly what I’m going to be thinking about when I’m struggling to fall asleep later.

I swallow, my skin tingling. “I get it.”

Rora unwinds the camera from her neck and cradles it against her chest, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip as she takes me in. “I think I have all the pictures I need.”

“Great.”

She turns away, and I rub my face with my hands. Was I imagining it, or was she … flirting? It’s probably just because we’re stuck in this tiny room together all day, every day, and Rora ap parently has a Santa fantasy. It has nothing to do with you at all. You just happen to be here , I tell myself as I sit back.

Rora crouches by our bags, packing her camera stuff. “Do you want a ride?”

“I— What?” I ask, my eyes widening as she stretches to pull her sweater over her head.

“You walked here, right? I have my car.”

God, I need to get a grip . “Right, yeah. I’m good, thanks. I didn’t make it to the gym today, so I should probably walk.” And I absolutely can’t get up from this throne while she’s in the room. “I’m going to change before I head out in case I run into any kids, so I can lock up.”

“Sounds good. Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams, sugar.”

“Thanks, you too.” The corner of her mouth lifts almost imperceptibly. It’s the closest I’ve seen to a smile on her lips since we met, though she smiles with her beautiful eyes constantly.

When I hear the front door close, I stand up. I shed the suit and set my bag on the throne to grab my outside clothes, but my fingers freeze as they graze the white Henley. There’s a folded piece of paper sitting on top that wasn’t there when I changed into the suit. Only Rora could have put it there.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I tear into the note like a kid on Christmas morning. My eyes scan her neat, loopy script three times before the words sink in.

I suck in a breath, pushing my bag from the throne and sitting, stunned. I almost crush the note in my fist, but I don’t want to wrinkle it.

I swallow and read it once more, my mind already half made up .

I’m usually asleep by midnight, and there’s a spare key under the blue plant pot by the door if you’re interested. If you’re not, let’s not make it weird tomorrow.

Rora

P.S. Wear the Santa suit.

P.P.S. My safe word is candy cane.