The Santa Accident
Gemma Brocato
Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Keep reading for a peak at another holiday romance from Gemma Brocato
Unexpected Daddy
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About Gemma
About the Book
What happens when a holiday adverse woman falls for a man who still believes in Santa?
A fateful shopping trip on Black Friday left Ivy Woods terrified of crowded spaces. Even she knows her career as a decorator in a large shopping mall makes no sense. While the work feeds her creative side, the long hours and horrendous crowds during Christmas make her rethink her future. When Ivy is nearly trampled in a shopper stampede in front of the toy store, she knows she won’t survive another terrifying incident with crowds.
For contractor Cole Petry, the holidays bring back bad memories of traveling to a prison to visit his mom. To make matters worse, the great aunt and uncle who raised him as their own truly believed they were Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. And each year, their holiday craziness leaves him questioning his own sanity. But his simmering attraction to the lovely Ivy is a fantasy come to life. Too bad she seems to hate the holidays as much as he loves them.
A freak accident, when Santa (aka Cole’s uncle) rear-ends her, throws Ivy and Cole together in an unexpected and delightful way. While working together on special building project for underprivileged kids, Ivy believes she might have found her new calling. However, taking a new job means a close working and possibly personal relationship with Cole, a man who still believes in Santa Claus. And when his mom turns up like a bad penny, their relationship could melt faster than snow in July.
Can all the glittery trappings that make the holidays help them overcome their differences in this romance between total opposites?
The Santa Accident Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Brocato
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are use facetiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Brocato, Gemma
The Santa Accident/Gemma Brocato
1. Christmas Romance 2. Romance, Contemporary 3. Romance, Holiday
One
Ivy Woods coasted to a stop at the red light, head bobbing forward as she braked. Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fingers around the wheel, nails biting into the leather. Crowds at the mall weren’t enough, now the streets were crowded as well, and it wasn’t even rush hour. Glancing at the dashboard clock, her frustration mounted. She was already fifteen minutes late.
She willed her fingers to relax while glaring at the traffic signal. Like that was gonna make it change faster. This wasn’t the first time she’d be late for a meeting with the blue-hair brigade, otherwise known as the Alpine Club Board of Directors. She hated being late, even when it wasn’t her fault.
It was early November, holiday time, and she was the visual designer for the largest shopping center in Cedarville. She was running late thanks to spending two hours trapped in the stock room trying to locate a sled they’d last used in a display three years ago. The antique Flexible Flyer was perfect for the Christmas season. Although the theme of their decorations was snowmen and ice-skating, for some reason known only to the general manager, he’d barked the demand this morning: Add the damned Flexible Flyer to the display or be written up.
Daryl, the maintenance worker assigned to help her, had only slowed the mission by trying to search her body’s curves instead. Her waist still ached from the excessive twisting, turning maneuvers she’d executed to escape his grasping mitts. She shuddered in the driver’s seat as she recalled how he’d brushed his crotch over her butt, supposedly trying to get past her in a cluttered storage area.
Tomorrow morning, first on her list of things to do was a call corporate HR. This would mark the second time she reported his unwelcome behavior, the first being a complaint she’d lodged with the mall manager. They’d have to do something about the guy. Because if there was another episode of the aggressive behavior, the employee handbook be damned; she was going to knee him in the groin.
Nerves bundling in her gut, Ivy checked the traffic to the left then looked right and left again. No cars from either direction. She eased the car forward. A BMW across the intersection turned in front of her. Ivy slammed on the brakes just in time. She took a deep breath and waited for the rest of the traffic to cross in front of her. While she waited, she dug in her purse for her bright red Christmas lipstick. The added lip color would keep the well-meaning blue-hairs from pointing out how wan she was, and how she needed a vacation as they piled an unreasonable amount of work on her. Some days, she regretted accepting a volunteer position as a board member in charge of marketing and development. But the boys and girls afterschool hang-out, combined with a day center for the elderly, was a great cause, and Ivy truly was pleased to be part of it, driving it toward success.
She inched forward a smidge, eyeing the traffic speeding through the intersection. Of course the board decided to start a major building project just as the busiest shopping season was about to explode. At today’s gathering she’d meet the contractor in charge of making their dream come true for the Alpine Club’s new facility. Her cheeks puffed as she expelled an exasperated breath. This time of year, it was all work, work, work. She counted herself lucky to grab a shower and apply a tiny amount of mascara.
For the most part, she was successful at hiding the truth. But come July she morphed into a frazzled mess that refused to vanish before the end of December. Ivy hated this time of year. She hated the crowds. Hated the music. And most of all she hated her job. Sure, she enjoyed her career in merchandising every other time of the year. But being the visual designer in a very large shopping venue during the holiday season literally sucked the life out of her. It wasn’t just a nine-to-five operation in October, November and December. Eighty-hour weeks were the norm for three straight months.
Finally, the light turned green. She tossed the lipstick tube back into her handbag and checked traffic again. Seeing the coast was clear, she eased forward, peering around a two-story pick-up truck on her left. From the corner of her eye she caught a blur of cobalt-blue streaking toward the intersection against the red light. She jammed her foot down hard on the brake and jolted to a stop.
Bam!
Her entire body rocked forward, the safety belt locking up and biting hard across her shoulder and chest. The steering wheel loomed in her sight, and only a fast jerk backward kept her forehead from connecting with the top part. In her rearview mirror, she saw a large black truck, practically in her back seat.
“Oh no! Not today,” she moaned, her hand clutched to her throat. “I don’t have time for this.” Mumbling under her breath, she shoved the gearshift into park and depressed the button for the hazard lights. The safety belt click-click-clicked as it retracted on itsel
f.
Indulging in a tiny tantrum, she beat the side of her fist on the wheel, the horn bleating out a protest. She further vented her spleen by letting loose a string of expletives. She never swore, but this seemed the right time to throw it out there.
Behind her, a large man exited the truck that had crashed into her. The passenger side door swung open as well. Just great—two people to contend with. The driver of the vehicle was elderly, long white hair curling over the collar of a red and black checked coat, a neatly trimmed but longish beard hiding his neck. Laugh lines creased deeply around his eyes and ruddy color stained his cheeks.
Ivy dropped her head back against the headrest and swore again, not so softly this time. “Rear-ended by a damn Santa Claus wanna-be.”
She put her shoulder to the door and shoved it open as she grabbed her wallet. Her shoulder and neck muscles twinged uncomfortably, and she did a mental review of the contents of her purse. Had she replenished her supply of aspirin?
At the last second, she dropped the clutch to the console next to her. She wasn’t at fault here. She’d survey the damage and snap pictures of it and his insurance and license, exchange phone numbers and then be on her merry way.
“Merry. Yeah, right,” she groused.
A cold breeze hit her in the face as she stepped out of the car. She clutched the neck of her coat closed with one hand, and shoved the other, holding her cellphone, into the deep side pocket of her bright blue wool overcoat.
She confronted the would-be Kris Kringle with a snarl. “What the hell were you doing? Checking the naughty and nice list?”
The passenger from the truck started laughing, but covered it quickly with a dry cough. Ivy kept her attention on the driver.
“I thought you were going.” The guy’s voice quavered as he moved toward the spot where their cars were jammed together.
“Obviously not. Are you blind? You weren’t paying close enough attention. Driving distracted is a huge problem.” At least he was too old to be texting behind the wheel. “You could have forced me into the path of that speeding maniac. You could have killed me.” A shrill edge made her voice sound like glass grinding together. Adrenaline buzzed through her body, thinning out her vocal chords and making her limbs tremble. She’d come too damn close to something a lot more major than just a fender bender.
“I’m so very sorry. That other truck obstructed my line of sight. I didn’t see him coming until after I’d already pressed the gas. That other driver must have been going fifty through that intersection. Darn careless. You were right to stop.”
The man’s sincerity made her feel like a piece of foul, offensive goo she’d scrape from the bottom of her shoe. Contrition blossomed in her chest and she opened her mouth to apologize, but snapped it shut again. She wasn’t at fault here.
The elderly man reached a shaking hand toward her arm, stopping short of touching her. “Are you okay?”
Ignoring his question, she shuffled around him to peer at the rear of her car. Her stomach swirled at the bashed-in bumper, broken taillights and crumpled lift-gate of her SUV. Breath clogged in her throat. “I’m not sure. But this,” she gestured to the damage, “makes me sick.” She dug her fingers into her neck, right at the hairline.
“Golly, I’m so sorry.” The man twisted his hands together, clutching them against his rounded belly.
“Uncle Chris, maybe you should get out your license and insurance card.” The passenger’s deep and smooth voice held equal parts of gruff and kind. A voice that could calm snappy puppies and crying babies.
Ivy dragged her gaze away from her bumper and focused on the speaker. Her first impression was filled with magnetic blue eyes glittering in the glare from the back window of her car. The man was a tall drink of water, well over six feet, which made him nearly a foot taller than Ivy. He wore a dark tan canvas jacket and heavily scuffed workman’s boots. Worn blue jeans molded to his thighs like a second skin, and his legs were longer than Ivy’s days had been lately.
His expression was grim, but Ivy would bet her right arm that when he smiled it would be a thing of pure beauty. The guy’s dark blond hair brushed the collar of his coat, and waved back from his high forehead.
“I’m Cole Petry.” He offered her his hand.
Ivy took it, and even with a leather glove on, the heat from his bare palm warmed her. “Ivy Woods.”
Something flashed in the man’s piercing blue eyes. Recognition? He glanced away, his gaze tracking the truck’s driver. “That’s my uncle, Chris Kerstman.”
Oh, jeez, the guy’s last name meant Santa Claus in Dutch. One year, Ivy had studied up on the Santa legends to create a multicultural display geared toward school kids. Figured this guy would try to look the part with that last name. At least he wasn’t driving a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, leaving a trail of stinking poo in the their wake.
She pinned Cole with a glare. “Maybe you should have been driving. We could have avoided meeting so abruptly.”
Color washed into Chris’s cheeks at the same time anger flooded Cole’s eyes. His lips compressed briefly, then relaxed in to a grin, revealing even, pearly whites. The smile didn’t reach his eyes at all.
He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “I’m a much worse driver than he is. I look at traffic signals and speed limits as goals the government sets for me. I always exceed my goals.”
Ivy jammed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what your day job is, but you should keep it. You’ll never make it as a comedian.”
Tension throbbed over her scalp, from neck to forehead, followed by a wave of dizziness. She braced a hand on the side of her car. The sudden blaring of a horn made her jump. The driver of a passing car shook his fist at her. She squeezed her own hands into tight balls, curbing the urge to one-finger salute the impatient bozo. Double fisted. The jackhole wasn’t the only person inconvenienced by this.
Cole shook his head with a growl. “What is it about this season that makes people so cranky?”
“Trying to do too much in too little time?” Ivy suggested. Heavens knew she was an authority on that subject. The too much part, not the cranky side. She wobbled dizzily and pressed a hand to her forehead.
Cole grasped her elbow, holding her up. “Hey there!” His warm breath caressed her face, almost like a gentle peppermint kiss.
Ivy slipped her hand down over her eyes, struggling to stay focused on the wreck, not how his lips might be as sweet and warm, touched to her cheek.
“Young lady, you’re hurt!” Chris scurried from the cab of the truck, wallet in hand.
“I’m okay, really. Just need a second.” She straightened, and pulled her elbow free and leaned against her car. Once the world stopped spinning like a Dreidel, she straightened, drew her phone from a pocket, and activated the camera.
While she snapped photos of the damage to her rear-end and the other front bumper, Chris fumbled with his wallet, his fingers chubby enough to make it difficult to grasp the license and insurance card.
“Can I help, Uncle Chris?” Cole asked.
Chris relinquished the wallet and laid his finger alongside his nose while Cole retrieved the documents. Crouching next to her bumper, Ivy stroked her thumb over a long, dented section, then touched the outline his license plate had creased into the bumper. She snapped a picture of the guy’s plate. Just to be safe. Her car was less than two years old and in perfect condition. Until now. It even still had that new car smell. She bit her bottom lip, holding in the urge to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both. She scanned the pictures she’d taken, satisfied they portrayed the exact nature of the damage, then checked the time as her phone buzzed with an incoming text.
So wirried. UR latr.
The message from Sylvie came with her characteristic typos. Texting wasn’t second nature to the octogenarian the way it was with the young store clerks working after school in the mall’s shops. Shoot, Ivy’s own texts were as typo-riddled some days as Sylvie’s were. Ivy tapped in a response that sh
e’d been delayed and fired it off. She stood to find Cole studying her, with Chris’s license and insurance card dangling between his fingers.
She accepted the documents from Cole and laid them on the hood of the truck. After clicking off two shots, she traded them for Chris’s vehicle registration. She handed everything back to Cole with a tight smile.
“Hang on, let me get one of my cards.” She ducked back into the car, snatched a business card and then scratched her cell number on the face with a felt-tip marker retrieved from the center console. Blowing on the ink, she headed back to two men. “I need to get your number, please,” she said as she handed the card to Chris.
Cole pulled his wallet out and fished in the worn leather. He offered her a card in exchange.
She glanced at the card. Petry Creations Group. Why was that name so familiar?
Chris offered his own card, distracting her. The small slip of cardstock had a red background, with white snowflakes drifting randomly on it. A tiny emoji of Santa angled in one corner. Deep forest green ink proclaimed him the owner of Kringle Photography.
“Oh! You’re the Santa from the mall.” Awkward was going to come with a capital A if this went south and she had to see him at the mall’s Santa display, fluffing the set and repairing the damage left in the wake of hundreds of little curtain-climbers. “I guess I’ll know where to find you.”
The guy chuckled, a ho-ho-ho sound possibly perfected over the years. “Except on Christmas Eve. I could be anywhere that night.”
“Chris, you should give her your other card, not that one.” Cole reached for it.
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