Santa Monica Baby (Holidays in LA #3)

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

December 6th

Nellie

“ S ir, please take your hands off my wiener.”

I turned my face into Leighton’s shoulder, trying desperately to contain the burst of laughter threatening to escape. It wasn’t every day that your semi-famous friend scolded a stranger for manhandling her dog.

The man beside us held his hands up in front of him. “I just wanted to pet him.”

“ Her ,” Nora corrected. “And she doesn’t appreciate strange men touching her.”

“Me neither,” Leighton and I echoed in unison. Apparently, all three of us—well, four including Banger—were in our feminine rage era.

Banger, aka Nora and Bowie’s short-haired Dachshund, was equal parts princess and menace, a vengeful bitch packaged into ten pounds of black and tan adorableness. She didn’t take kindly to strangers, especially men with facial hair, so it had come as no surprise to any of us when she’d snarled at Kirkland brand Colonel Sanders here for trying to pick her up—without asking first, no less. I wasn’t even a pet owner, and even I knew better than that.

“ Bitches, ” the colonel muttered under his breath.

“That’s right,” I said without missing a beat. “Just call us the Bitches of Brentwood. And as the nastiest bitch in the coven, I can tell you two things: one, this boot on my leg can wield a lot of damage, and two, I know every legal loophole in the California code. So, what’s it going to be?”

We must have looked comical to any passersby. Me, decked out in my new holly-patterned jumpsuit and Aircast, standing toe to toe with a wannabe extra from Duck Dynasty . Outside of a pet supply store, no less. Nora, fresh from a photoshoot, looking like she’d just stepped off the pages of Vogue. And Leighton, who must have been on the tail end of her period, because she was practically dressed for bed—baggy, oversized sweatpants, one of Killian’s shirts, and a ratty pair of flip flops.

He swallowed and then said, “Whatever,” before backing away.

Nora waited until he was nearly out of earshot before shouting, “Merry Christmas, asshole.” The three of us ducked into the shop and made a beeline for the back counter. “Seriously, who the fuck tries to pick somebody else’s dog up without asking? I should have let her maul his face off.”

“I don’t know,” Leighton said, mulling over Nora’s words. “Ankles, maybe, but face? She’s an awfully small dog.”

“Tell that to my favorite pair of boots.”

Long before Nora had come along, Banger had been the love of Bowie’s life, so it was no surprise that it had taken her a while to get used to the idea of another woman warming her owner’s bed. Two years and at least one pair of shoes later, Nora and Banger were practically old chums.

“Aw, we should have gotten her a sweater to wear,” Leighton cooed, skipping over to a display of festive clothing designed for cats and dogs. “Dang, twenty-two dollars. I could make her something for less.”

“Forget it.” Nora shook her head. “Bowie is very anti-clothing on animals.”

“But not anti-pictures with Santa, right?” I pressed.

“Definitely not.”

It had been a tough week, to say the least. Some people had been cut out for working remotely, but as I had quickly come to realize, I was not one of them. There was no hustle and bustle at home, no socializing with coworkers—even the ones who ceaselessly annoyed me. Even worse, there was no good reason to change out of your pajamas.

On top of the mindfuck that inevitably came with working from home, Bennett Studios had been playing phone tag with us all week, and I was still racing against the clock to come up with something for the office holiday hoopla. So, when I’d come across a social media post advertising free photos with Santa at the nearby pet supply store this weekend, I had jumped—not literally, much to my dismay—at the chance to do something, anything , outside the walls of my apartment.

It was either that or bang on my neighbor’s door . . . or bang my neighbor. Come to think of it, maybe a good dicking was exactly what I needed.

“Careful,” Leighton warned, tugging me back when I nearly tripped over a Labradoodle with antlers. “You already broke one foot this year.”

“Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Like the hot Santa that ran you over?” my sister asked, wagging her brows suggestively.

“No.” Yes. “There hasn’t been any time to think about him.” Except every night in bed, with my vibrator cranked up to eleven. “I’m too swamped thinking about this stupid work party thing.” And riding Austin’s face like he was the last of Santa’s reindeer.

“There’s always Disneyland,” Leighton suggested.

“They did that, like, two years ago.”

“What about a Top Chef kind of thing?” Nora asked. There was only one couple ahead of us in line, plus their adorable gray pit bull. It wouldn’t take long for us to see Santa. Not that I was in a rush to get out of here and back to my six hundred square feet of torture. “You know, like a tasting menu or something at a swanky restaurant. There are plenty of those to go around in L.A.”

“That might work. Whatever happened to the simple stuff like caroling and decorating gingerbread houses?”

Nora shrugged. “Late-stage capitalism.”

“I knew I liked you, Nora.”

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one struggling to come up with a seasonal surprise. Leighton had no clue what to get Killian, and understandably so—the guy was loaded. He had everything he needed, more than he wanted, and unlike most folks, rich or not, he hardly ever asked for anything.

“Honestly, Leigh,” I told her. “I’m pretty sure you could wrap yourself up naked with a red bow and Killian would be happy.”

Her small smile and rosy cheeks told me that she probably already had.

“What about Mom and Dad?”

I stared back at her, puzzled by the abrupt subject change. “By all means, please give Killian our parents.”

“No, I meant what are we going to get them?”

“Beats me,” I said, answering honestly. “I haven’t even begun to think about Christmas gifts yet.”

“Next, please.”

There was no more time to talk about gifts and parties after that. The three of us stepped forward with Banger in tow. I had to give the pet store credit; they had done a hell of a job transforming the small space into Santa’s workshop, complete with staff dressed as elves, toys—of the rawhide and squeaky variety, that is—and of course, Santa.

And what a Santa he was. It was official. My libido had run rampant. I was lusting after a fictional toymaker. A tall, thick, and tattooed toymaker with chocolate-brown eyes and—

Wait a second.

“Austin?”

Santa’s eyes flared. “Janelle.”

Leighton pointed over her shoulder and whispered, “Santa?”

“Boss?”

That last one had come from what could only be described as the goth elf behind the camera. Her nails had been painted to match her jet-black hair and lipstick. She might as well have had “don’t fuck with me” tattooed across her face.

I liked her already.

“I think I finally understand that déjà vu feeling my Aunt Millie used to always talk about.”

Austin blinked.

“Babe, I think that was just her third cocktail talking,” my sister said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.

The dark elf snorted. Nora and Austin both laughed. My life had officially become a comedy of errors, only this time, everybody was laughing at me.

“So, you do this Santa thing a lot, then?”

“When I can.” He gestured toward the elf behind the camera. “Sloane is my assistant photographer, and we both adopted our cats from this store, so—”

“You have a cat?”

“Three.”

It was official: the man knew his way around pussy.

“As much as I would love to hear all about your cats, Santa,” Nora interrupted. “I’ve got one disgruntled wiener dog here, and I would really love to get her home before her dad gets home from work since these photos are supposed to be a surprise.”

“Of course,” he said, snapping into action. He bent down on one knee and held his palm up to Banger for inspection. “And who’s this?”

“This is Banger, but just so you know, she’s a little skittish around strangers. Especially men. Especially men with facial hair, so—”

Banger was licking his hand before Nora finished. Me too, girl. Great, I was jealous of a dog. Within seconds, she had all but clawed her way up Austin’s red suit, nestling her head into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll take it from here, ladies.”

The three of us watched in awe as Sloane snapped photo after photo of Austin and Banger, including at least a dozen with Banger’s nose peeking out from beneath Austin’s fluffy white beard.

Austin was a walking wet dream. He was my wet dream, at least—the proof was on my flannel sheets.

I nearly melted into the floor when his eyes shifted away from the camera and found mine. My thighs clenched when his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. They rubbed together when he narrowed his brows, almost as if he knew what he was doing to me, the power that he held over me and my body. I had never been one to relinquish control easily, but in the bedroom . . . that was a different story.

Overthinking had always been my biggest foe, one that usually got the better of me—and my orgasms—during sex, which was why I needed a partner to direct me, to move me how he liked. To orchestrate my body like his most treasured instrument.

With those sturdy arms and massive tree trunk thighs, I had no doubt that Austin could move me, throw me, and spank me however he liked, and yeah . . . that was a massive turn-on.

“Is this you not thinking about the hot Santa that ran you over?”

I looked over at Leighton. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She pointed toward the corner of her lips. “You’ve got a little drool right there.” You would have thought that after twentysomething years of her teasing, I should know better. Nonetheless, I frantically wiped my mouth.

“Did you want to get in the photo, too?” Sloane asked.

I waved her off. “No, I don’t think—”

“Sure!” Nora answered for all three of us. She took up the spot on Austin’s left, closest to Banger. At the same time, Leighton practically shoved me into his right side before leaning in beside me.

I tried to smile. Really, I did. I tried not to notice the warmth emanating from his body or his spicy musk that reminded me of apples soaked in cinnamon whiskey. I tried to ignore the way my body responded to him, pretending that it was just a fluke and that he wasn’t the only person who had made me want like this in over a year.

“What do you want for Christmas, Janelle?”

I tilted my face down toward his. “First of all, it’s Nellie. Second, are we really doing this?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not expecting me to sit on your lap, right?”

“Only if you want to.” If you only knew, Santa. “You’ve sat on Santa’s lap before, haven’t you?”

I shrugged. “Maybe once when I was a kid. At a mall.”

A pang of nostalgia hit me square in the solar plexus. It had been years since I’d stepped foot in a mall—even longer since I’d visited a food court—and yet, the smell of warm pretzels and cinnamon rolls was permanently etched in my brain.

“Oh my god!” Leighton shouted, alarming all of us but especially Banger. She barked wildly in Nora’s arms. “Nell, that’s it.”

“What?”

“We should recreate old photos of the two of us for Mom and Dad’s Christmas gift.”

“But—”

“Starting now with Santa.”

She pushed me down onto Austin’s knee before I had a chance to protest. I gasped when my clit connected with hard, thick thigh. Thank goodness he was wearing crushed velvet. The more layers between him and my weeping pussy, the better.

“You don’t mind, Austin, right?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, not at all.” Was it me, or had his voice dropped an octave?

“I can see that picture with the mall Santa so clearly. Okay, Nell, lean back and just straddle Austin’s knee a little bit more.”

Sweet. Lord.

I was going to kill her for this.

“Yes, just like that. And then, Austin, wrap your arm around her and rest your hand on her stomach.”

He lifted his palm and then stopped, hesitating. “Is this okay?” he asked softly. “You can tell me if—”

“You’re fine.” I couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes, not when my cheeks were no doubt flushed redder than Rudolph’s nose. Instead, I felt for his hand and circled it around my middle. Dear lord, his palm covers my entire stomach. “There.” He was suddenly quiet. “Does that work for you?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “That works.”

“Okay, I’m going to squeeze in next to Austin.”

The moment Leighton crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against Austin, the memory hit me all at once. I could see the photo she was talking about, the one that she had framed with popsicle sticks in first or second grade and which Mom still hung on the tree to this very day.

“Smile,” Nora reminded us, snapping a photo on her cellphone while Sloane continued clicking away on her camera.

The fingers on my stomach twitched, gently toying with one of the embroidered holly berries. And then, because I was a glutton for punishment—but only if Austin did the punishing—I wiggled my core against his thigh, gasping when the movement sent shockwaves ratcheting through my clit, all ten thousand nerve endings firing at once. His entire body clenched when I did it a second time.

“ Janelle ,” he whispered against my neck. I shivered when those thick fingers dipped a little lower, inching closer to my pulsing center. “You wouldn’t want me to put you on the naughty list, would you?”

The sudden flash of Sloane’s camera had me jolting up and out of Austin’s lap. “We’ve really taken up more than enough of your time,” I told them, fumbling for excuses. “You still have a lot of pussy— I mean, cats and dogs to get to.”

Austin blinked back at me, torn between amusement and, dare I say, disappointment?

What the fuck had I been thinking, grinding on a pet store Santa like that? My neighbor, of all people. And as I hustled Nora and Leighton out of the pet store as quickly as my Aircast would allow, all I could do was think about his question.

“You wouldn’t want me to put you on the naughty list, would you?”

It wasn’t the question that worried me, nor the rough timbre of his voice. No, what concerned me most was my answer.

An emphatic and resounding fuck yes.

Austin

Everybody grew up with that family. The one that wore color-coordinated, semiformal wear to Christmas Eve dinner and sent out holiday cards with an essay attached, detailing every single accomplishment of each family member from the past year. They preferred store-bought Christmas cookies over homemade—for efficiency, of course—and created a laminated set of rules for the annual gift exchange game. For them, Christmas was a show, another opportunity to broadcast their success to neighbors, colleagues, and whoever else was unlucky enough to follow them on Facebook.

Well, that family was my family.

Which was reason #82491 why I dreaded going home for the holidays.

“There’s a flight out of LAX at seven a.m. Four-and-a-half hours of flight time, plus the time change . . . that should get you to Cleveland right around two-thirty p.m. That leaves exactly thirty minutes to grab your bag and make it home in time for dinner.”

Spoken like a CPA.

I topped off my second cup of coffee. It was going on six o’clock, but I had a long night of editing ahead of me. Besides, I was going to need the extra caffeine boost to keep up with my sister’s Christmas math.

“Char, slow down.”

“This is serious. This is my first year hosting the family for Christmas, so I can’t screw it up.”

For some reason unbeknownst to the rest of us, our mother had decided to step down from her role as holiday hostess and pass the torch, so to speak, to Charlotte. She was the eldest Amato sibling and the only one of us—aside from our parents—who still lived in Cleveland, so it made sense in theory. Judging by her frantic tone, however, it was not the Christmas surprise Char had been hoping for.

“Here’s an idea,” I said. “We don’t have to have dinner at three.”

Silence met me from the other end of the phone.

“Char?”

“I don’t understand. We always have dinner at three.”

“But we don’t have to. Maybe this could be the year we, I don’t know, switch things up a little bit.”

My cock stirred when a blur of pink darted across the courtyard, toward the laundry room at the back of the building. That was all it took to get me hard these days—pink leggings or an icy-blonde ponytail. I was still reeling from our encounter at the pet store earlier today, the one that had ended with her fleeing and me coming in my hand in the storeroom next to bags of hamster pellets.

“That’s not how it works and you know it, pasticcino .”

Well, there goes my hard-on.

I loved my sisters, but they still treated me like their baby brother, the little boy they had spent years dressing up as a pirate, prince, or ruthless outlaw for their games of make-believe. It hadn’t all been bad, though. Savannah had taken me for my first manicure, a self-care practice I still partook in today, Madison, who was closest to me in age and a James Beard award winning chef, had taught me all her best cooking hacks, and Charlotte had helped me put together a business plan when I’d dropped out of business school to pursue my “photography hobby” full-time.

Most importantly, all three of them had taught me how to be a fan-fucking-tastic boyfriend . . . assuming I didn’t let my insecurities get the best of me first. Spoiler alert, they usually did.

I rested my hips against the kitchen counter. “We already don’t celebrate Christmas on Christmas, so does it really matter?”

That was another Amato family tradition—celebrating Christmas in January. Mostly because of cheaper flight prices.

“Just like Jesus would have wanted,” as our mother liked to say.

“Just book the seven a.m. flight on the ninth, would you?”

“You got it, Char.”

“Unless you need me to do it for you.” This was exactly the kind of thing I was talking about. “I can loan you the money if you—”

“Char, I said I would book it and I will.”

I could feel the weight of her judgmental stare two thousand miles away. Char might be a whiz with numbers, but she could have just as easily gone into the FBI. Her interrogation skills were unmatched.

“Fine,” she grumbled.

“Looking forward to seeing you, sis.”

“Uh-huh.”

We said our goodbyes after that. I had just finished setting my mug down on my desk when there was a soft knock at the door. Buddy, my orange tabby, jumped down from his usual spot in the front windowsill to greet our visitor.

“Not a chance, Bud,” I told him, scooping him up in my arms before opening the door wide for the angel in pink on the other side. “Twice in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She smiled. “Nice cat.”

“He is, actually. A lot nicer than his sister, Marley.” I stepped back, pointing toward Buddy’s striped sibling. “Ralphie’s around here somewhere, too, and believe me, you’ll know him when you see him.”

“Marley and Ralphie?”

“And Buddy,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. His thunderous purrs vibrated against my hand. “They all came from the same litter. Named after Christmas movie characters.”

Nellie crossed her arms over her chest. She had traded in her earlier jumpsuit for something more casual—pink biker shorts and an oversized black sweater that matched her walking boot.

“Are you sure you’re not actually Santa?”

“Nah, just a chubby guy with a beard who likes Christmas.” Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Did you . . . want to come in?”

I mentally cursed myself for stuttering. Just hours ago, I had all but invited this woman to grind out an orgasm on my leg. But the hat and suit were long gone, and with them my confidence, too. I wondered if superheroes experienced an identity crisis when the spandex came off.

“Sure.”

I stepped back, allowing her plenty of space.

Nellie Wheatley is in my apartment. Nellie Wheatley is in my apartment.

My inner monologue made me sound like a teenage girl mooning over her first crush. Grown men don’t get crushes . Who was I kidding? Yes, we did. And my crush on Nellie hadn’t waned, even after I’d started avoiding her.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Expecting what?”

She gestured toward the open concept living space that mirrored her own. “You really do love Christmas.”

Correction: I loved Christmas on my terms.

That meant anything that I knew my family would hate—a pre-lit, flocked purple tree, strand after strand of twinkling lights that looked like cowboy boots strung from ceiling to floor across the length of the living room, and, of course, the Santas.

All one hundred and twenty-two of them.

Some were antiques, picked over from estate sales and the Rose Bowl Flea Market, while others had been given to me as gifts by friends and clients over the years. There were hand-carved Santas, glass-blown Santas, and even a couple of 3D-printed Santas—all of them unique, with their own story to tell, and proudly displayed on the bookshelf beside my sofa. It was tacky to the nth degree, and I loved every bit of it.

“You haven’t decorated the outside of your apartment.”

“I don’t decorate outside,” I said, answering the question baked into her statement.

“Why not?”

“Because I decorate for me. I don’t spend much time sitting outside, staring at my apartment.”

Her lips twitched. “But what will the neighbors think?”

In an uncharacteristically suave move—or at least, as suave as a grown man could be while holding a cat—I moved closer to her and said, “I’m really only interested in one neighbor’s opinion.”

Redness tickled her cheeks. “Aww, that’s sweet.”

“I was talking about Mrs. Lyons in 3B.”

Her blush intensified.

Where else do you blush, naughty girl?

Maybe it was the fact that I had just gotten off the phone with my sister, a season ticket holder to the Guardians, or maybe it was the striped knee sock sticking over the top edge of her walking cast, but in that moment, all I could think about was baseball. Unless the rules had changed, I should have already been out of the game.

Turning down her date invite. Strike one.

Spending the next few months avoiding her. Strike two.

Breaking her foot. Strike three.

All the stats pointed to another strikeout, and yet here she was, in my apartment, petting my cat. I guessed we were heading into extra innings.

“Can I get you a drink?” Buddy climbed down my body and took off toward his bed. “Or a cat?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. “How about a favor?”

“Anything,” I said without missing a beat.

“That photo Leighton and I took with you earlier?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“What would you say to doing a few more of those? Leighton had this idea to recreate old family photos for our parents and turn them into a calendar. And since you’re a photographer—”

“Yes.”

“We would pay you, of course.”

“Absolutely not.”

Her lashes blinked wildly. “But—”

“I’m happy to do it. Consider it penance for the leg.”

“I already told you that wasn’t necessary.” Something on my face must have told her that this conversation was a losing battle. “Okay, but at least let me pay for the finished prints.”

“Fine. Let me know when you pick out the pictures you want to recreate.”

“Fine.”

A few minutes later, after we set a date and time to go over ideas, I walked her back outside, waiting until she reached her front door before reaching for mine. Maybe it was overkill—this was a gated community, after all—but you never could be too careful.

“Hey,” she called out, just before I shut my door.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know about Mrs. Lyons, but I wouldn’t mind looking at some Christmas lights when the blinds are open.”

I tucked my hands into my pockets and rocked forward, smiling when her attention slipped below my waist. “I’ll consider it.”