boy’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
“You’re not s’posed to agree,” the child protested. “You’re s’posed to tell me that it’s gonna be okay.”
Since Bailey didn’t know what it was, he didn’t feel he should make any such promises. But he belatedly acknowledged that he shouldn’t have responded the way he did, either. Being called out by the child was only further proof that taking his brother’s place as Santa had been a bad idea.
“Now, Santa,” Mrs. Claus chided. “I told you not to take your grumpy mood out on the children or I’ll have to put you on the naughty list.”
This threat served to both distract and intrigue the little boy, who eyed her with rapt fascination.
“I’m sorry, Owen,” she continued, speaking directly to the child now. “Santa’s a little out of sorts today because I warned him that he has to cut down on the cookies if he wants to fit down the chimneys on Christmas Eve.”
Then she sent Bailey a pointed look that had him nodding in acknowledgment of her claim as he rubbed his padded belly. “I really like gingerbread,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper to the boy his “wife” had called Owen. “But I definitely don’t want to end up on the naughty list.”
“Can she do that?” Owen asked.
He nodded again, almost afraid to do otherwise. “So tell me, Owen, is there anything Santa can do to help make the holidays happier for you?”
“Can you make Riley not move to Bozeman?” he asked hopefully.
This time Bailey did shake his head. “I’m sorry.”
The child’s gaze shifted toward Mrs. Claus again. “Can she do it?” Because apparently the boy believed Mrs. Claus not only had authority over her husband but greater magical powers, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Owen sighed. “Then maybe you could leave a PKT-79 under my tree at Christmas and I can give it to Riley, so that he’ll have something to remember me by.”
It wasn’t the first request for a PKT-79, and though Bailey still had no idea what it was, he was touched by the child’s request for the gift to give to someone else.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Santa told him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Owen said, his tone slightly less glum. “Merry Christmas.”
Mrs. Claus held out a candy cane to the boy.
Owen paused to ask her, “You’ll make sure Santa can get down my chimney, won’t you?”
“You bet I will,” she promised, with a wink and a smile for the boy.
Bailey paid more attention after that, to avoid another slipup. When all the children had expressed their wishes to Santa, he and his wife wished everyone a Merry Christmas and headed backstage again.
By the time he made it to the dressing room, Bailey was more than ready to shed the red coat and everything it represented, but Mrs. Claus walked into the room right behind him.
Closing the door firmly at her back, she faced him with her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why anyone would ask someone with such an obviously lousy disposition to play Santa, but you have no right to ruin Christmas for the kids who actually look forward to celebrating the holiday.”
Bailey already felt guilty enough for his unthinking response to Owen, but he didn’t appreciate being taken to task—again—by a stranger, and instinctively lashed out. “A lecture from my loving wife? Now I really do feel like we’re married.”
“I’d pity any woman who married you,” she shot back.
His ready retort stuck in his throat when she took off the granny glasses and removed the wig, causing her long blond hair to tumble over her shoulders, effecting an instant and stunning transformation.
Mrs. Claus was a definite hottie.
Too bad she was also bossy and annoying. And...vaguely familiar looking, he realized.
She twisted her arm up behind her back, trying to reach the top of the zipper, but her fingertips fell short of their target.
While she struggled, Bailey removed his own hat, wig and beard.
She brought her arm around to her front again and tried to reach the back of the dress from over her shoulder, still without success.
He should offer to help. That would be the polite and gentlemanly thing to do. But as his sister-in-law had noted, he was a Grooge and, still stinging from Mrs. Claus’s sharp rebuke, not in a very charitable or helpful mood. Instead, he unbuckled his wide belt, removed the heavy jacket and padded belly, eager to shed the external trappings of his own role.
Finally, she huffed out a breath. “You could offer to help, you know?”
“If you need help, you could ask,” he countered.
“Would you please help me unzip my dress?” she finally said.
“Usually I buy a woman dinner before I try to get her out of her clothes.” He couldn’t resist teasing. “But since you asked...”
She turned her back to give Bailey access to the zipper, but not before he saw her roll her eyes in response to his comment. “Do you have to work at being offensive or is it a natural talent?”
“It’s a defense mechanism,” he said, surprising them both with his honesty. “I screwed up in there—I know I did. I knew I would. That’s why I didn’t want to put on the stupid suit and pretend to be jolly.”
“You ever try actually being jolly instead of just pretending?” she asked, as he tugged on the zipper pull.
“Yeah, but it didn’t work out so well.”
“I’m sorry.” She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and let the bodice fall forward, then stepped out of the skirt to reveal her own clothes: a snug-fitting scoop neck sweater in Christmas red over a pair of skinny jeans tucked into knee-high boots.
A definite hottie with curves that should have warning signs.
He looked away from the danger zone, pushing the suspenders off his shoulders and stepping out of Santa’s oversize pants, leaving him clad in a long-sleeve Henley and well-worn jeans. He picked up the flannel shirt he’d shed before donning the Santa coat and put it on over the Henley.
She neatly folded her dress and tucked it into a shopping bag. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, unable to shake the feeling that, though he couldn’t think of her name, he was certain he knew her from somewhere.
Before he could ask her if they’d met before, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
They both said it at the same time, then she smiled at him, and that easy curve of her lips only increased her hotness factor.
The door opened and Annie poked her head in.
“Oh, Serena, I’m so glad to see that you made it.”
“I did. Sorry I was almost late. There was some excitement at the clinic this morning.”
Serena.
Clinic.
The pieces finally clicked into place and Bailey realized why the substitute Mrs. Claus looked familiar. She was Serena Langley, a vet tech at the same clinic where his sister-in-law was the receptionist.
“What kind of excitement?” Annie asked, immediately concerned.
“Alistair