Naughty Santa

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

It was official, Paris decided.

She’d landed in hell.

And the Bible was wrong. Because it wasn’t hot here at all. It was frigid, freezing, wet, windy and...white.

God.

It was so freaking white.

Louis had started whimpering the moment they stepped out of Terre Haute International Airport, and she felt a bit like joining him. “It’s okay, baby.” Paris tried to soothe her sweet little bichon, wishing she had bought him—and herself—a thicker sweater.

Briefly, she considered turning around and getting on the first plane back to L.A.

She probably would if she hadn’t just endured a red-eye from LAX trying to get to this winter hellscape. She’d had a layover in Minneapolis at four a.m. while sitting in a waiting area with a screaming baby and an obnoxious man loudly talking to someone the entire time on his cellphone.

Who the hell could he have been talking to at that time of the day? And why did he think the rest of them gave a shit that the Red Wings were playing like shit this season?

Considering it had been the middle of the night, and she’d gotten zero sleep on her earlier, overcrowded flight, she’d seriously considered going over to the man, grabbing his phone, and smashing it under the heel of her boot.

Violence wasn’t usually her thing, but damn she’d been tempted.

When it was apparent she wasn’t going to be able to close her eyes for a few minutes and rest in Minneapolis, thanks to the disgruntled hockey asshole, she had stumbled around in search of a Starbucks, waited in line for thirty minutes to order, and finally boarded a frighteningly small plane to Indiana.

Paris was exhausted and running on nothing but a soy latte and organic chickpea puffs. High functioning wasn’t a word she’d use to describe herself at the moment.

She briefly let go of the handle of one of her Steve Madden bags, as she hitched the shoulder strap of her Vanderpump Pets dog carrier higher on her arm and adjusted Louis’s sweater. The poor baby was shivering.

Paris set him down to do a tinkle, but all he managed was bouncing from paw to paw and a half-hearted potty before looking at her in desperation. She scooped him up and put him back in the carrier, hoping it would at least add a barrier against this brutal wind for him.

She wasn’t quite that fortunate because the air hurt her face.

Why in the hell would people choose to live in places where the air actually hurt their faces?

“Someone was supposed to be here,” she murmured to Louis, wondering what the hell she would do if the store employee was a no-show. Renting a car and trying to drive in all this snow seemed like a very, very bad idea for a California girl.

Once again, she tried to figure out what kind of lunatics would live in a place like this voluntarily? Had no one in Indiana ever been to L.A. with its bright sunshine and warm breezes?

Sure, there was smog, but that felt easier to breathe than this crisp, cold air that burned all the way to her lungs. Finally, she went back inside the airport because if left to the elements, she would freeze to death.

Paris spent the better part of twenty minutes dragging her two oversized bags, Chanel tote, and Louis around the baggage claim area searching for her name on one of the drivers’ signs, just in case she’d missed it earlier. When that proved fruitless, she returned to the tundra, aka the passenger pickup area outside. She got all her bags aligned on the sidewalk and spit the hair out of her mouth, blown there courtesy of the wind, which kept hurling it across her face, forcing it into her lip gloss.

Blinking rapidly, Paris pulled her sunglasses from her purse and put them on. Not because there was any actual sun in this godforsaken waste land, but because they served as a protective barrier from the snowflakes gathering on her eyelashes.

Now she understood why skiers needed goggles.

Also, why was there no overhang here? Didn’t most airports provide shelter for travelers? She added no overhang to the running list of complaints she was compiling about this place in her head.

“Uh, Miss.” Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Paris glanced around to see an elderly man pointing to where her suitcase was rolling away from her.

“Shit,” she muttered, grabbing the handle of her other bag and dragging it behind her to chase her luggage. Not an easy task in Fendi heeled boots. She had almost reached it when her foot slid across a slick patch of ice, and she did the world’s most ungraceful windmill as she tried not to fall on her ass.

It was official.

She hated Indiana.

“Paris?” a female voice called out.

Paris turned to see a gray-haired woman standing next to an ancient pickup truck that was older than she was.

Oh God.

That wasn’t her ride, was it?

No. Please, no.

But just then, another frigid blast of air hit her in the face, and she changed her mind.

Fuck it. She needed to get off this sidewalk.

“Is that you, honey?”

Paris grabbed the handle of her runaway suitcase, took a fortifying breath—that almost froze her lungs into two solid ice cubes—and walked over to the woman.

“Yes. I’m Paris,” she said warily.

The woman shocked her by wrapping her up in a tight bear hug that ended when Louis, who was being squished, yipped.

The woman released her, her eyes going wide when she spotted Louis. “Well, look at that. You’ve got a puppy in your purse.”

Paris nodded numbly; the cold was starting to freeze her blood. And then, because God hated her, another big gust of wind kicked up, whipping her beret off her head. She turned and watched the adorable red cashmere she had purchased a few days ago as an accent piece for her new winter wardrobe fly away.

She didn’t even bother to chase it. Instead, she blinked rapidly against the tears of frustration that threatened. She didn’t dare cry here because she really didn’t want her eyes to freeze shut.

“What a shame,” the woman said. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll get you another hat. One that’ll cover your ears and keep you warm.”

As she spoke, Paris saw her gaze slide down, taking in her Dolce and Gabbana cropped cheetah print coat.

“We’ll get you a coat too. I’m Sandy, the one you talked to on the phone last week.”

“Oh,” Paris said in surprise. “When you said someone would pick me up, I didn’t realize it would be you. I hope I didn’t put you out.”

“Not a bit,” Sandy reassured her. “We better get you inside the truck. Your lips are starting to turn blue.”

Paris glanced around to see if there were any airport employees who could help her lift her bags into the truck, but before she could wave someone over, Sandy had taken the handles of both suitcases and dragged them to the back of the truck.

“Let me get someone—” She stopped as she watched Sandy sling both of her pushing-the-weight-limit suitcases into the truck bed. “Um. Wow. You’re strong.”

Sandy grinned. “Been working at the Holly Jolly Feed and Seed with your great-aunt Lydia for close to thirty years. Those bags of feed don’t move themselves.”

Sandy’s smile faded, and she quickly swiped at her eyes. “That place just isn’t the same without Lydia.” She looked at Paris, who got the sense Sandy expected some show of emotion. Paris nodded sadly but said nothing.

What could she say? She’d never met Aunt Lydia, though she had received a birthday card from her every single year of her life, always with a brand-new five-dollar bill in it. The card and cash had been thrilling when she’d been a kid, but as she got older, she’d started to roll her eyes and wonder why her great-aunt bothered. Paris felt bad about that now, especially when it was obvious Sandy had truly loved the woman Paris’s dad called Kooky Lydia.

Not that her dad meant that name cruelly or even literally. It was just because, well, the fact Aunt Lydia owned a combination Christmas shop and Feed and Seed store sort of opened her up for comments like that.

Paris glanced at the words, Holly Jolly Feed and Seed emblazoned on the side panel door of the truck as she climbed in, placing Louis in between herself and Sandy, who was sliding behind the wheel.

“Is it okay to drive in this weather?” Paris looked out at the snow which seemed to have started coming down heavier in the last few minutes. She reached up to shake the flakes from her now-wet hair.

Sandy grinned. “This is nothing more than a flurry. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of snow in California.”

“Not where I live,” she answered.

“What a shame,” Sandy said, and for a moment, Paris thought she must be joking. Then she realized the older woman meant it.

Mercifully, the old pickup had a functioning heater, and within minutes, Paris started to thaw. Louis had curled up in a ball and was sleeping peacefully in his carrier.

The radio was on, tuned to some country music station, though Sandy kept the volume down low so they could talk.

Paris liked to think of herself as a social girl, the type who could hold her own in any conversation, but she didn’t have a clue what to say to Sandy.

Sandy, however, wasn’t having the same trouble, and Paris realized the other woman was really excited to have her—a complete stranger—there.

“I can’t wait to show you the store. You’re just going to love it, especially at this time of year. I mean it’s Christmas year-round at the Holly Jolly, of course, but we kick it up a notch or twenty in December. Joe, that’s my son, hung the lights last weekend for me because I wanted you to see how pretty the building is all lit up.”

Paris nodded, mainly because Sandy, who would have been an amazing telemarketer, hadn’t left her an opening to reply.

For forty-five minutes, she filled Paris in on all the little stuff she thought she needed to know—about the town, the store, the Christmas party that was coming up in a few short weeks.

The more Sandy talked, the more horrified Paris became. Because it sounded like North Pole, Indiana was trapped in some sort of time vortex where nothing had changed since the fifties.

It also occurred to her, the closer they got to the town, that Sandy thought Paris was moving to North Pole to run the Feed and Seed.

Paris didn’t correct that misconception because, well, dammit, Sandy was super sweet. While Paris would wither up and die in Sandy’s sleepy, snowy hometown, it was obvious the other woman loved it. Paris would have to ease her into the idea of selling the store. Or hell, maybe Sandy would want to buy it herself.

“Lydia would be beside herself if she were here right now. She was so excited to leave you the store. She was so proud of you, sweetie. Used to brag about your business sense. Said you’d gotten that from her. You have a pet store in Los Angeles, right?”

“Pet boutique,” Paris corrected, though she was pretty sure Sandy didn’t realize she didn’t sell animals at the boutique. Instead, she offered a wide array of goods for pet owners, including high-end collars, carriers, clothing, as well as organic dog food and treats.

Sandy glanced down at Louis and smiled. “You love animals. That’s wonderful. Lydia was the same, used to long for a farmhouse in the country, but she and I both knew she was a town girl at heart. Well, here we are. Main Street.”

“This is Main Street?” Paris thought perhaps she had misunderstood. It was a wide, tree-lined street with large Victorian-style homes, many decorated with strings of lights and Christmas figures.

Part of her feared these decorations stayed up all year long. Of course, another part of her hoped they did, because how fascinating would that be?

It was like being on a Hallmark holiday movie set, with the snow and the streetlamps and the big red bows affixed to them. It didn’t feel real.

“Where is Lydia’s house?” Paris asked, taking in one particularly elaborate Christmas display in front of a house that was peeling gray paint the way she had shed skin after falling asleep by the pool in Cabo San Lucas and burning herself to a crisp. The homeowner had giant inflatable decorations peppering every inch of their small front lawn. There was Santa, of course, and his reindeer, but also a snowman, the Grinch, a Christmas tree, the word JOY, a snow globe, and two penguins driving a tractor.

“That one right there.” Sandy pointed to a tiny white house, the smallest on the block. “Next door to the Mills family, who have all those pretty inflatable decorations. The kids just love those things.” Sandy gave her a smile. “They run them all day and night for the whole month of December. Somebody’s got more money than they know what to do with over there, what with an electric bill like that.” She laughed merrily. “We’re all so glad they do.”

“Wonderful,” Paris said weakly. She could barely see Lydia’s house past all the nylon in the Mills’ yard.

“I’ll give you the key to the house when we get to the store, but then I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to dash to a dental appointment. I have an abscessed tooth that is giving me fits. I can barely talk. I’m sorry for not being one hundred percent myself. I’m usually a lot more conversational.”

If Sandy were any chattier, she could be an auctioneer.

“No, that’s totally fine,” Paris assured her. “I’m so sorry about your tooth. I hope the dentist can fix it. And thank you for picking me up at the airport. That was really sweet of you.”

“We all help each other around here. Lydia was like family to me.” Sandy’s voice hitched.

Paris waited respectfully, feeling guilty as hell.

Her first thought when she’d gotten notice that she had inherited Aunt Lydia’s store and house was what a freaking pain in the ass. She viewed it as one more thing to deal with, and then she’d started stressing out, wondering how it was going to mess with her taxes.

Her second thought was to sell them both off at lightning speed without ever laying eyes on them. But then she’d remembered those birthday cards, and now, here she was, sitting in a pickup truck, the reluctant owner of a piece of North Pole, Indiana. Paris figured she at least owed Great-Aunt Lydia a looksie at her life’s work and to take home some of her personal items as keepsakes.

Sandy continued driving. “Anyway, Joe will be here in a bit to show you around and help you take your luggage to the house. I’m sure you’re dying to see the store. I should be back in a couple of hours, God willing.”

Who was Joe? Paris tried to remember what, if anything, Sandy had said about a Joe, but her mind was a sleep-deprived foggy mess. She wanted to ask why she couldn’t go to the house first and maybe sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but Paris had neither the energy nor the heart to change Sandy’s plans. Maybe she could nap in a backroom at the store. How many customers could a Christmas shop and feed store have on a Tuesday at noon while it was snowing?

Apparently, the answer was more than Paris would have expected. Sandy had closed the shop to pick her up, and when she whipped the truck into a spot on the side of the building, they passed several men standing outside the front door, waiting.

“Don’t worry about them,” Sandy assured Paris as she put the car in park. “They’re just stocking up for the storm. We’re supposed to get ten inches overnight. They pre-ordered everything, so you just need to ring them out.”

“Okay,” Paris said dubiously, swallowing as she gazed up at the building. It was a charming two-story brick that had seen better days, with chunks of mortar missing and the chimney crumbling. The sign announcing “Holly Jolly Feed and Seed” looked older than God, though it showed evidence of being repainted, and it hung straight and proud. Each side of the front door had a display window. One was bursting with Christmas kitsch; the other contained an old wheelbarrow filled with a variety of bags of feed in such a way that Paris assumed someone thought looked artful. There was a faded picture of the American flag with the words, “We Proudly Support our Servicemen” printed on it taped in the corner of the window.

Paris carefully got out of the truck, clutching her bag with Louis close to her chest. She used the side of the truck to aid in her cautious walk down the little alley and around to the front of the store. Her heels sank into the snow, and she kept her eyes firmly trained on each precarious step she took so she didn’t go down in a heap. She would never forgive herself if Louis got hurt.

When she finally reached the sidewalk in front of the store, covered with little pellets of something that crunched beneath her feet, she lifted her gaze triumphantly. She’d made it without incident. Three pairs of male eyes were watching her. One looked skeptical, eyebrows raised. Another looked amused. The third looked like he thought she was too stupid to live.

At the moment, Paris agreed with him.

Why on earth had she thought she should come here?

“Hi,” she said, striving for cheerful. “I’m Paris.”

Before any of them could respond, Sandy took charge. “Get out of the way, boys. Let the girl inside. She’s been traveling all night. If you want to make yourselves useful, go get her bags out of my truck.”

“Oh, I can get the bags,” Paris lied because she really couldn’t. There was no way she could lift those suitcases out of the back of a pickup. Not even with all the yoga she did.

The man who had looked amused and was probably in his early forties gave Sandy a nod. “No worries. I’ll get them for you, ma’am.” Dressed in work boots and a thick coat, he moved easily across the sidewalk.

Sandy opened the front door and gestured. “There you go, folks. Jim, Bob, your orders are behind the front desk. Paris is going to ring you out. I have a date with Dr. Olsen to get my tooth fixed.”

Sandy really was leaving her alone? Paris swallowed hard and reminded herself that she was an entrepreneur. She ran her own business. She dealt with entitled customers on a regular basis. These guys couldn’t be any worse than a snotty housewife in Santa Monica.

They all stepped into the shop, and Paris scooped Louis out of his carrier and set him down on his leash. He immediately began sniffing like nobody’s business. Like he couldn’t imagine where on earth she had taken him.

Paris had the same thought.

The Holly Jolly Seed and Feed was divided in half. The left side of the store looked like the holidays had vomited fake snow and mistletoe all over, while the right side had…stuff. Farm stuff. In those big bags that in Southern California they used to recover shabby chic breakfast nook chairs. Just rows and rows of stuff that farmers and hunters knew what to do with, and holy shit, was that an entire row of knives?

It was like Lydia had drawn a line down the center of the shop. Even the checkout counter strictly adhered to the “the sides shall not touch” rule. Because it wasn’t like the feed side had a Santa in camo or the Christmas side had the reindeers perched on some grain sacks. Nope. She was in the middle of a real-life yin-yang, one half red and green, the other…well, brown.

Determined not to look like a twenty-something female who needed help, Paris marched behind the counter and did a sweep of Lydia’s checkout procedure. There was no electronic tablet, no scanner, no register. Did Lydia take orders on her phone?

Paris bit her lip. “Um.” She looked up at Jim or Bob or whoever the man standing in front of her was. It was the scowling guy, unfortunately. “Do you know how Lydia’s system works? How do I check you out?”

His big meaty finger, with dirty nails, stretched out and tapped a notebook on the counter. “She writes it down.”

For a second, Paris wasn’t even sure what the hell he was talking about. Then she realized with dawning horror that Lydia had no cash register. Nothing that would automatically tally her sales and receipts and give her an inventory.

Not wanting to insult her recently deceased relative, with great bravado Paris flipped open the book. There it was. Presumably it was Sandy who had penciled in the most recent orders. “Are you Jim, Bob, or Daniel?”

“Bob.” He handed her the exact amount of money in cash to match what it said in the ledger. Right down to the penny.

“Excellent. Thanks, Bob.” Where was she supposed to put the cash? She glanced around for something, anything. Her eyes fell on a firebox, and she flipped it open. Yep. There was the cash. She shoved the money in and was about to ask Bob what next when she realized he had already come around the counter, grabbed a bag of feed, and tossed it over his shoulder.

Okay, then.

Paris repeated the process with Jim and Daniel, both of whom at least attempted to be friendly with questions like, “You ever seen any famous people?” and “What kind of dog is that?”

Once she was alone, she did a bad thing. She strode down the Great Divide to the front door and locked it. She couldn’t help it. She was exhausted to the point of swaying on her feet, and there were two more names marked down in that book.

Then she found the back room, which seemed to serve as an office and break room. There was a refrigerator, a dinette table, a desk, filing cabinets, and a TV. There was also, praise Great-Aunt Lydia, a sofa. Paris opened the other door in the back room and discovered that it led to a warehouse, but she didn’t care enough to explore it fully. She just retreated to the couch, peeled off her coat to use as a blanket, and divested herself of her boots. She checked the heels for damage from the snow and discovered some sort of white film on them.

She tried to wipe it off, and it sort of came off. She would have to Google how to treat snow-damaged designer boots. Later. Much later.

For right now, she was going to close her eyes for five minutes. Okay, maybe twenty. A power nap, then she would unlock the door again.

Paris fell asleep instantly, Louis curled on her chest under her cheetah print coat.

She was woken up when her dog let out a rumbling growl. She jerked awake, panicked, knowing that was his warning for another person or animal.

Sitting up so fast she got light-headed, Paris assessed the danger, then tried to remember where her purse containing mace was.

That was when she suddenly realized what she was looking at and something that resembled a squeak came out of her mouth.

Because inches from her face was a man’s very big cock, firmly outlined behind a pair of tight boxer briefs, though his muscular thighs were covered in a red poly-blend fur and his feet in black boots.

What the hell?

Paris raised her gaze, taking in bare skin above the briefs, solid abs, and a chest that just begged to be explored.

Once she took in the very good-looking guy, no older than his early thirties, wearing a curious and possibly aroused expression, she saw he had a telltale red cap on his head. He seemed to be in the process of putting on the suit and God bless Louis, she had woken up in time to see it.

Paris blamed the sleep deprivation for what she did next.

“Hey, Santa,” she murmured, gazing up at him. “I see you have a big package for me.”