Santa Monica Baby (Holidays in LA #3)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

November 28th

Nellie

“ W hat kind of sociopath signs up to run three miles on Thanksgiving morning?”

My older sister’s teasing words instantly warmed my heart, a much-needed antidote for the forty-something-degree temperatures. Leighton had never been one to mince her words. On the contrary, she had the kind of bold bluntness that made grown men quiver with fear . . . or attraction, in the case of her British behemoth of a boyfriend, Killian. It had been nearly a year since she’d moved in with the former soccer star, and he still looked at her like she was the strawberry jam to his scone.

Fuck, I could really go for a scone right now.

I probably should have eaten something before my Lyft ride over to 3 rd Street, but it was too late now. Besides, three miles was a drop in the bucket for a seasoned runner like me, and there would be plenty to eat later. That didn’t make me want a scone any less now , though. Just the thought of Bowie’s turkey pot pie made my stomach growl.

“Aw, thanks, princess,” Killian cooed against my sister’s neck. “That’s sweet.”

“A donut would be sweeter,” she grumbled.

A smile crept across my face as I bent forward to adjust my compression socks—brown with orange stripes to match the cartoon turkey on my race bib. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had shown up hungry to the Santa Monica Turkey Trot.

Killian wrapped his arms around Leighton’s middle, and she instantly relaxed back against his athletic frame. “How about we stop off at Donut King on the way home and grab you a couple of maple bars?”

“What if they’re closed?”

He tilted her chin up with two fingers. “Then I’ll figure out how to make you some at home.”

She leaned up on her toes. “Mm, now you’re talking, killjoy,” she whispered against his lips.

Ugh, I’ve never felt so single in my life.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Contrary to public opinion, I thoroughly enjoyed being single. There was nothing quite like coming home to my bed and my snacks in my apartment after a ten-hour day of contracts and spreadsheets. Besides, my morning jogs and long work hours—made longer as of late because, unbeknownst to many, the winter holidays marked the busiest time of year for lawyers—didn’t leave much room for recreational activities. Thankfully, my bedside drawer full of battery-operated devices filled that . . . hole.

I still dated here and there, but love was not part of my five-year plan. Dick appointments, maybe, but those were easy to come by in a big city like Los Angeles. As one might imagine, the dating pool in Plain, Ohio—a real place, believe it or not—was slim to none, limited to the same fifty people you graduated high school with—half of whom had already married each other by twenty-two—and their divorced dads.

That would have made for an awkward morning while living with my parents.

No, love would have to wait. Relationships took time and energy, both of which I wasn’t willing to spare, especially if they came at the expense of achieving my goals by the time I was thirty.

That didn’t make me any less thrilled that my sister had found her forever person, though. Killian was a Ken doll come to life—British edition—and together, they were sweeter than my mom’s banana pudding. It was hard to believe that just last Christmas, the two of them had faked an engagement to win over our parents, and now here they were, sucking face and living together in a mansion by the beach.

The Hollywood dream.

They made quite the power couple: all-star soccer player turned coach and budding knitwear designer. Just last month, one of Leighton’s designs—a crocheted romper from her Crochella line—had gone viral on social media after a tween popstar had worn it on stage during a concert. Leighton had woken up the next morning to nearly two hundred online orders, a collaboration offer from a very well-known content creator, and an invitation to participate in Snow Place like L.A. , a winter fashion showcase.

“I’m going to go scope out a spot near mile two as soon as Nora gets back,” Leighton said when she came up for air.

“Where did she disappear to?” Killian asked.

I pointed toward the parking lot, set back beyond the hundred or so racers lining up for our run. “I think she went to grab an extra jacket from the car.”

Nora had thin blood, a result of being born and raised in Los Angeles. As far as I was concerned, a brisk fifty-eight degrees was the perfect temperature for a morning jog. To Nora, it might as well have been a polar vortex.

“Speaking of jackets, I need to reschedule our shopping trip to the Galleria.”

The smile fell from Leighton’s face. “Again?”

I shrugged. “Sorry, Leigh. One of the senior partners—”

“The rude one or the one who smells like soup?”

“Tabitha isn’t rude. She’s . . . impatient.”

I didn’t bother addressing the rest of her question. Scott, the other senior partner and Tabitha’s brother-in-law, did in fact smell like soup. Campbell’s tomato, to be exact.

“Anyway, she’s scheduled my one-on-one performance review between the two of us that afternoon, and it has to go well.” I clenched my fists, enjoying the sharp sting of my freshly painted nails digging into my palms. “I will not let nepotism win.”

Leighton hadn’t been the only Wheatley making life-changing moves this past year. I had accepted an offer from an entertainment law firm in Beverly Hills back in January, and after ten months of late nights spent staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurred, needy senior partners and even needier clients—fraudsters and murderers had nothing on struggling actors, or even worse, screenwriters—I was this close to nabbing the Bennett Studios account.

As in Brooks Bennett. The Brooks Bennett.

The former teen heartthrob had launched a boutique production company a few years back and was now looking to lock down new representation before the end of the year. My firm’s partners, Wilson, Treger, and Faison—better known around West Los Angeles as WTF —had been “courting” Bennett Studios like the long lost Bridgerton brothers since mid-August, and when we landed them as a client, the account would go to me or Scott’s son.

Fucking nepotism at its finest.

Geoffrey “formerly Jeffrey” Wilson. The arrogant douche nozzle had changed the spelling to make himself seem “more cosmopolitan,” his words, not mine. The only thing cosmopolitan about Geoffrey—or Ge-offer-y , as I called him behind his back—was the pink drink he enjoyed during our biweekly company happy hours.

The Bennett account was as good as mine. Even now, I could practically taste it, and it tasted like salty ocean spray and sweet revenge. The retainer fee alone would be enough to pay my monthly rent, and my bungalow apartment in Santa Monica wasn’t cheap. It was rent-controlled, though, which was about as rare as snow in Los Angeles, so there was no way I would be moving out anytime soon.

Regardless, there was nowhere else I would rather be. The cozy one-bedroom unit was everything I had ever envisioned for myself, from the yellow buttercream paint throughout to the clawfoot tub and Tiffany-blue-tiled bathroom that looked like something straight out of a Doris Day movie.

Heeled boots clacking against the pavement drew my attention.

“Great news,” Nora called out to us, navigating her way through a sea of racers and nearly knocking a pilgrim in Nikes to the pavement. “Seriously, you’re going to love me.”

Between her fluffy blue bomber jacket and matching blue shag, she looked like the Cookie Monster personified.

Annnd now I want a cookie. Dang it.

My sugar addiction knew no bounds.

“We already love you,” Leighton told her.

“Well then, prepare worship at the altar of me.” As if conjured from the heavens above, Nora produced a drink tray full of to-go coffee cups. “I found coffee.”

Leighton lifted her arms toward the dark sky. We were still a good thirty or so minutes away from sunrise. “Hear ye, hear ye,” she called out to the heavens. “Bless this woman and her beans.”

She snatched a cup from the cardboard tray. Nora handed the other two to Killian and me before taking the last for herself.

I frowned at the name scrolled on the side of my cup. “Um, who is Hannah and why do I have her coffee?”

Killian’s brows furrowed. “And how did you find coffee on your way to the parking lot?”

“I didn’t,” Nora answered, smiling wickedly. “I stopped the first person I saw carrying coffee and offered her fifty bucks.”

“And that worked?” Killian asked.

“Not at first. But then she recognized me.” Nora had gotten her big break as one of the stars of Andromeda 8 , Hulu’s Emmy-nominated space opera. It wasn’t unusual for people to recognize her. “You know, people ask me for photos and autographs all the time, but this was my first ever custom voice message request.”

“And what kind of message did Hannah want you to send?” I asked before sipping from the cup clasped between my palms, smiling to myself when the swirl of sugar and cinnamon met my tongue.

Hannah has exquisite taste in holiday beverages.

“Let’s just say that her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend isn’t going to be too happy when he checks his voicemail and finds a break-up message from the actress on his favorite show.”

I nearly choked on my mouthful of liquid snickerdoodle. A break-up voicemail from a celebrity before seven a.m. on Thanksgiving? Diabolical.

I loved it.

Killian and I squeezed in a few more sips before passing our drinks back to Nora and Leighton. While they took off to find a spot along the race route, my future brother-in-law—because something told me that he would be putting a ring on my sister’s finger any day now—and I took our places at the starting line.

“Hot damn! Is that my favorite coworker?”

Every muscle in my body tightened quicker than you could say “Thanksgiving.” So much for the last twenty minutes of stretching. Bile pooled in the back of my throat, and it had nothing to do with my few sips of cookie latte.

I pasted on a smile and turned toward the smarmy voice I knew all too well. “Geoffrey,” I managed through gritted teeth, swallowing past the urge to call him by his real name, Ge-offer-y . “Fancy meeting you here.”

He grinned back at me, his white teeth on full display. They were a stark contrast to his caramel skin and chocolate-brown hair tied back in his signature low ponytail. If the spelling of his name and family connections weren’t enough to piss me off, his luscious locks would do it. The dude had hair that rivaled L’Oréal models.

“I had no idea you ran,” he said.

“Mm-hm.”

“We should totally train together.”

“Yeah, maybe.” When hell froze over, and even then, there was a good chance I might strangle him with my scarf.

“I just crushed my first half-marathon in June, so I could totally give you some tips.”

“You know what, Geoffrey—”

A whistle sounded before I could launch into my rebuttal. Tips my ass. I had two marathons under my belt from this year alone, but I didn’t have to brag about them. Whereas most people traveled for business or pleasure, I traveled to run. Just last month, I had taken a weekend trip to Chicago for the 10k Hot Chocolate Run. Nothing motivated me more than chocolate.

“Oh, look.” Killian wrapped an arm around my shoulders, gently twisting me back toward the road ahead. “We’re running. Cheers, mate.”

My hands clenched at my sides. It only took a second or two for my brain to catch up with my mouth, just long enough for Geoffrey to take off, nearly whipping me with the ponytail spilling over his shoulder.

“See you at the finish line, Nellie Belly.”

The way I wanted to wipe that smug smile off his stupid face . . . but I was going to have to catch up to him first.

My feet pounded against the pavement. There was no way I would let this dickweed nepo baby get the best of me—not in the office and definitely not on my own turf. I knew this route better than anybody. I had been running the loop down Ocean and around 3 rd Street Promenade for almost a year now.

“Don’t do it, Nell,” Killian urged, quickly matching my pace.

“Don’t do what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.” He narrowed his gaze. “Your sister gets the same devious glint in her eyes when she’s up to no good.”

I chewed on my lower lip and lasered in on the ponytail swishing a few people ahead of me. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “And don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up. Leighton won’t be happy.”

His halfhearted protest fell on deaf ears as I sped ahead, chasing after Geoffrey. Killian’s soccer career had come to a premature close a few years back after he’d suffered a blow to the knee. He still stayed in good shape, mostly by swimming laps, but anything beyond a light jog would be too much for him.

But not for me.

It only took half a mile for me to catch up to Geoffrey, and then another to fly past him with ease. As I rounded the second mile marker, I couldn’t resist shooting a toothy grin over my shoulder toward the man huffing and puffing behind me. It was petty and childish, but that didn’t make the surprised look on his face any less satisfying.

And even though I knew it was overkill and I would probably regret it later, I twisted my body to one side until it looked like I was straddling an invisible horse and shouted, “See you at the finish line, Ge-offer-y .”

In a split second, his expression shifted from shock and awe to blatant fear, eyes widening when he spotted something—or someone—ahead of me. They were the last things I saw before I barreled headfirst into a blur of red-and-white velvet.

Austin

Sweet Christmas, I killed my hot neighbor.

It was the first thing that crossed my mind, followed quickly by a much more inappropriate thought about how I would never get the opportunity to see her naked. That was the real tragedy.

Not to sound too much like my older sisters, but I had been crushing hard on Janelle Wheatley—or Nellie, to her friends and family—since she’d moved into the apartment across from mine. Which made today’s incident all the more embarrassing.

I had already blown any shot I had with her earlier this year when she’d asked me out to dinner. The invitation had taken me by surprise, and as any of my family, friends, or former partners would attest to, I did not do well with surprises—good or bad. And like the cotton-headed ninny muggins I was, I had come up with some half-baked excuse about bathing my cats and scampered back to my apartment. I had spent the next few months avoiding her at every turn, fearing I might revert to my awkward, bumbling self if she so much as smiled at me.

There would be no coming back after today’s blunder, I feared.

“Excuse me,” I said to the nearest person in scrubs. I didn’t recognize them from the usual Thursday rotation. Then again, I usually stuck to the pediatric ward. “Can you point me toward room 274?”

“Take a right at the end of the hall. Second door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

“No worries.” Their lips kicked up to one side before they added, “Santa.”

I rolled my eyes and zipped down the hallway, bypassing the hospital gift shop. A thirty-dollar teddy bear wouldn’t make up for (literally) knocking Nellie off her feet. It was going to take a lot more than that.

I had completely forgotten about the annual Turkey Trot when I’d rounded the corner of Ocean Avenue and Pacific. What should have been a shortcut to my favorite coffee shop had turned into an hour of waiting for the paramedics, surrounded by sweaty strangers dressed like turkeys and pilgrims.

As the lone Santa in the crowd, I had stuck out like a sore thumb. It was my worst nightmare—people pointing and whispering, eyeing me with disdain. And who could blame them? Someone’s grandmother might have gotten run over by a reindeer at one point in time, or so the song went, but today would go down in infamy as the day some poor jogger got railroaded by Santa.

On an electric scooter.

What could I say? Parking was expensive in L.A.

I hefted the bag of toys up on my shoulder and trudged down the hall, boots clomping across the checkered linoleum floor. There hadn’t been any reason to change, not when I was expected in the children’s ward for “Storytime with Santa” at ten. Hopefully, Nellie would understand, or at the very least be able to forgive me.

Voices filtered out of her room before I even turned the corner.

“Please stop coddling me, Leigh Leigh.” There was no mistaking Nellie’s soft, melodic tone, even tinged with annoyance. It wrapped around my heart, tugging me two steps closer. “I promise, I’m fine.”

“You fractured two bones in your foot, Nell. That’s not fine.”

Fuck. The one time I’d taken a shortcut. Nellie was laid up in the hospital with a fractured foot, meanwhile I had walked away—well, scooted away—without a scrape. Sometimes, it paid to be on the fluffier side.

I anchored my neck around the door jamb, stomach sinking when I saw her propped up by five or so pillows in a hospital bed, still clad in her cropped sweatshirt and spandex shorts. The skimpy bottoms gave way to two shapely legs that I had spent more than a few hours dreaming about wrapped around my waist—or head. I wasn’t picky.

What could I say? I had a thing for women—and men, for that matter—who did living room yoga and pranced around the kitchen in their underwear.

“I still think I could have finished the race,” Nellie grumbled, pouting her bubblegum-pink lips. I bit back a smile. Of course, that was what she was most upset about. “And don’t you dare call Mom.”

“Too late,” her sister, Leighton, answered from beside the bed. I had never officially met the curvy brunette, but from what I had heard, she was something of an up-and-coming fashion designer.

“Great,” Nellie said begrudgingly. “I swear, if she hops on a plane and shows up at my apartment, I’m telling her you’re pregnant.”

“Please don’t even joke about something like that.”

“Then please, get me out of here.” She rested her manicured hands atop her flat stomach. “I’m going to be pissed if I miss out on Bowie’s dinner.”

“Er, can I help you, Santa?” I nearly jumped out of my boots when a hand tapped my shoulder. I turned toward the familiar British lilt, coming face-to-face with a blond-haired giant whose bushy beard rivaled my own. “Or do you prefer St. Nick?” he hedged, arching a brow.

Had we never spoken before, I might have thought he was Thor, or at the very least, the guy who played Thor on Hollywood Boulevard. But Killian and I had exchanged pleasantries in the courtyard that divided my and Nellie’s apartment on more than one occasion.

“Uh, yeah.” I removed my velvet hat and polyester beard, fluffing out my natural brown facial hair beneath. “It’s Austin, actually. We’ve met before—”

“I remember. You’re Nellie’s neighbor. The photographer, right?” He extended his hand.

I smiled and took it. “That’s right.”

“And Santa Claus, apparently.”

My cheeks flushed. “Yeah, about that . . . I—”

“ You. ” I spun on my heels. Nellie’s eyes narrowed with recognition, piercing through my thick layer of velvet as well as the cotton T-shirt beneath. “ You’re the one who ran me down?”

I swallowed my fear and stepped into her room, dropping my bag at the foot of her bed. Killian followed, looming just over my shoulder. I might have had a couple of inches on his six-foot-two frame, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the athletic Brit could wipe the floor with me if he so chose.

“I did, and I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. It’s no excuse, but I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I took the turn too fast.”

“To be fair,” Leighton said, spinning to face her sister. “You weren’t watching where you were going either.”

Nellie’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, I was.”

“Was not. You were too busy showing off for your coworker.”

“I resent that,” she protested. “I was gloating . That ponytailed weasel isn’t worth showing off for.”

Leighton gestured to Nellie’s right foot. Her running shoe and sock had been replaced with a tightly wound bandage. Barbie-pink toenails peeked out of the wrap. “Was it worth the fractured foot?”

Nellie huffed a heavy sigh. She was cute when she was annoyed. Who am I kidding? She was fucking gorgeous twenty-four seven.

And because I had never been good at keeping my big Italian mouth closed during awkward silences, I gestured to her swollen foot and said, “That looks bad.”

Nellie twisted her lips. “Well, it feels worse.”

“Wait, why do you look familiar?” Leighton asked, eyes bouncing between her sister and me. “Do you two know each other?”

“Austin Amato.” I held my hand out to her, white fur-lined glove and all. “I’m—”

“My neighbor,” Nellie finished.

She and Leighton exchanged a look, one that said so much without either of them saying a word at all. It was a technique I was all too familiar with. As the younger brother of three sisters, I had been the subject of many secret, silent discussions during my youth.

“Ohhh,” Leighton drawled, understanding dawning on her face. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened that she had told her sister about me. “ Austin. I love your gloves.”

“Er, thanks.”

“You didn’t have to come to the hospital,” Nellie said, evening her tone. “I know it was an accident.”

I rolled the hat and beard over in my hands. “I was already on my way here when . . .”

I gestured toward her elevated ankle.

“I visit the children’s wing every other Thursday and play the hospital’s Santa during the holidays. Hence the bag of toys.”

Her expression softened when her eyes landed on the oversized bag by my feet. “There are toys in there right now?”

“There are.”

Her lips tipped up to one side. “Well, damn. That’s not fair.”

“What?”

“I can’t be mad at a guy delivering presents to kids with cancer.”

I choked back a laugh. There was nothing funny about kids with cancer or other debilitating illnesses, but that didn’t make our situation any less . . . amusing? Humiliating? Some strange combination of the two?

Story of my life.

“I do need to get to Storytime with Santa—”

She snorted. “Of course you do.”

“But I wanted to make sure you were okay first.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. My heart—and cock—lurched when she added, “But I appreciate you stopping by, Austin. ”

Fuck , I loved the way she said my name, all soft and breathy. I would have been lying if I said I hadn’t envisioned Nellie whispering my name—or better yet, screaming it—at least a dozen or so times since we’d met, preferably while I pounded into her or ate her gorgeous pussy. None of those fantasies had included a cold, sterile hospital room. Not that I wasn’t above doing a little bit of doctor-patient roleplay . . .

“See you around, Santa.”

“Right,” I answered. “Please let me know if you need anything. Seriously, anything at all.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nellie said, a hint of playfulness behind her words. “I know where you live.”