Dirty Santa
A Holiday MC Romance
Daphne Loveling
Contents
Mailing List
Credits
Dedication
1. Bailey
2. Bailey
3. Bailey
4. Gage
5. Bailey
6. Gage
7. Bailey
8. Gage
Epilogue
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About Daphne Loveling
Books by Daphne Loveling
Copyright 2018 Daphne Loveling
All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover design by Coverlüv
To my Divas: Merry Christmas!
And to Mr. Loveling, for always making me want to stand under the mistletoe.
1
Bailey
I’ve been a bad, bad girl.
Well, maybe not in reality. But if Santa can read my mind, I know I’m on his naughty list for the thoughts I’m having right this moment.
The object of my dirty fantasy is right outside my kitchen window. I’m stealing glances at him now — my handsome, tattooed next-door neighbor — as I finish up washing the lunch dishes. I don’t know his name, and I’ve never spoken to him in my life. But ever since the first time I saw him a few weeks ago, I’ve been catching glimpses of him whenever I can.
Today, he’s outside in his driveway, and looks to be doing some sort of maintenance to his car. The hood is up, and a few different tools are scattered on the ground around him. Inside the open door of his garage, a large, imposing Harley motorcycle occupies the second stall. The object of my inappropriate lust is tall — easily over six feet — and dark. Ink lines both of his arms, which are exposed today by the white wife-beater style tank that he’s wearing, even though it’s late December. The shirt is tight across his chest and back, giving me a very unsettling view of his muscles as they flex.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been divorced for six months, and because even before the initial separation, my sexual landscape was a dry and barren desert. But there’s something about my neighbor — something so raw, so frankly, unabashedly male about him — that whenever I happen to see him, my body seems to kick into some sort of weird sexual overdrive. Feelings I haven’t had in years — hell maybe ever — start to invade my brain, which in turn sends some very distracting signals to my lady parts. Signals that have me imagining all sort of scenarios from steamy romance novels, in which I’m the princess and he’s the handsome horse groomer, or I’m the maiden and he’s the —
“Mom!”
My eight year-old daughter Addison’s voice snaps me out of the fantasy that’s just starting to form in my head. Guiltily, I look around to see her sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of multi-colored construction paper in front of her.
“What, sweetie?” I say, too brightly.
Thank God she’s too young to know that the flush in my cheeks isn’t because of the steam from the dishwater.
“This is ugly,” she complains as she glowers at the beginnings of the paper-chain garland she’s just started to make. “Our tree is going to look ugly. I hate this!”
“Addi, it’s going to look fine. Better than fine,” I immediately add. Normally cheerful, Addi has been in a terrible mood all day. I’ve been going back and forth between irritation with her and sympathy. This is the first Christmas we’ll be spending without her father, and also without all the lavish presents and holiday trappings that her father’s money normally surrounded her with at this time of year. I’m trying hard to make the best of it for her, but I know she misses her old life.
“Our tree will be unique this year,” I soothe. “No one else’s will look like ours. That’s better than having a boring, impersonal tree filled with ornaments that don’t even mean anything, isn’t it?”
Even as I say the words, I know they’ll ring hollow with my daughter. And I admit, the trees we used to have back at our old house in Pennsylvania were something to behold. They would fill up the space in our large living room, right up to the cathedral ceiling. They were so large that Garrett had to have them ordered and delivered to us, and specially decorated by a service, because I was too terrified to get on a ladder that high.
In comparison, the small, artificial tree I purchased on sale from our local big box discount store doesn’t even come close to measuring up. I probably should have tried to get a real one this year, to make the transition a little easier. But my car is so small, and I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to tie a tree to the top of it well enough that it wouldn’t fall off on the way back home.
Plus, the tree I bought was cheaper, and of course reusable. And money is tight these days. I barely have the cash for Christmas presents for Addi as it is.
I know she blames me for how different Christmas is this year. And how small the tree is. And that we have to make our ornaments instead of having a big, department store-worthy tree. Of course she does. All she sees is that since Mommy and Daddy got a divorce, everything about her old life is gone. She doesn’t know about her father’s serial cheating, and that after the third woman in as many years, I finally had enough. She doesn’t know that Garrett hasn’t bothered to pay his court-ordered child support for the last four months. And I wouldn’t dream of telling her. My daughter deserves to have a father she loves and believes in. Even if that means I sometimes have to come up with creative explanations for his behaviors, or for why a promised phone call or Skype session doesn’t materialize. Or scrambling to buy her some last-minute gifts “from Daddy” because her father conveniently forgot to send anything.
“This is the worst Christmas Eve ever,” Addi murmurs gloomily. “Is Daddy at least coming tomorrow to open presents with us?”
“Oh, Ads, honey, I’m sorry, but no.” I know she knows the answer to this already. We’ve been over this terrain at least four times by now. Maybe she thinks if she keeps asking for him, I’ll tell him how much she wants it and he’ll come. But I doubt Daddy’s new girlfriend would like that very much. Spending Christmas in Ironwood, Ohio probably wouldn’t quite compare to Christmas in Cabo, where they currently are.
I can just about picture them together: the girlfriend, whose name is Briana, is probably young and gorgeous, her stomach flat and unmarred by childbirth. I imagine her as a blonde, because that seems to be Garrett’s preferred type — if you can judge from the women he’s cheated on me with, that is. Self-consciously, I reach up to my own dark-brown hair, pulled up into a messy bun out of my face. I need a haircut badly, but there’s not really been money for that lately, either.
In my mind’s eye, I see Garrett and this Briana person lounging on the trampoline of a catamaran. Garrett is showing off his sailing skills to her. She’s decked out in a cherry-red bikini that shows off her golden tan, laughing uproariously at one of his jokes. Garrett is wearing the swim trunks I bought h
im two years ago, his body trim from regular trips to the gym to keep the beginnings of “dad bod” away. I know Garrett looks good for his age — and let’s face it, his money would certainly make up for any number of imperfections in the eyes of a lot of women. Especially the kinds of women he chooses.
Me on the other hand…
I catch my reflection in the plate I’m washing, and suppress a sigh. I’m certainly not old, but some days I feel absolutely ancient. I almost have to laugh at the irony of my situation. Garrett’s the one who cheated, but he’s come out of our marriage much less the worse for wear. He’s a rich bachelor again, without a care in the world. I’m a single mom, pinching pennies and lusting in private after my neighbor.
At least I have Addi, though. And for that reason alone, I wouldn’t trade places with my ex-husband for anything in the world.
I finish drying the last plate and unplug the sink to let the water run out. “Guess what?” I say, putting on my biggest holiday smile. “It’s time to make some Christmas cookies! Want to help me?”
The ritual is something I’ve done every year since Addi was a baby. She loves it. At least, she used to. But this year, instead of hopping up and joining me at the kitchen island, she just sighs dejectedly and lays down her scissors.
“No thanks,” she mumbles. “I’m gonna go in my room.”
My heart sinks as I watch her go. I consider calling her back, but I know that forcing her to help me won’t do anything but worsen her mood. I decide to let her be for now. Maybe when she smells the cookies baking, she’ll perk up.
2
Bailey
I open a cupboard and reach for the flour, shooting a glimpse out the window as I do. I’m disappointed to see my hot neighbor has gone inside. Sighing to myself, I shake my head and turn my attention to the task at hand. I pull out containers of brown sugar, eggs, baking soda, butter. Bending down, I open another door and find my large mixing bowls.
The familiar gestures make me feel happy in spite of everything, just like they always do. I always used to make a big production out of making Christmas cookies when I was married. I would send them with Addi to school, bring them to social functions, participate in cookie exchanges with my mommies group, and of course have them out for our annual holiday party. Back when I was a stay at home mom, I would devote two entire days to the process — not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I’d make chocolate cookies with candied cherries, Russian tea cakes, Spritz, lemon meltaways, chocolate-dipped shortbread… Every year I tried to mix it up, choosing new recipes to go along with the old favorites. It was something I looked forward to every Christmas.
Now I’ve had to scale way back, of course. I can’t afford all the lavish ingredients I used to — besides which, I haven’t made enough friends here to get rid of dozens of cookies, even if I did. So this year, I’m limiting myself to classic peanut butter blossom cookies (the ones with the Hershey’s Kisses on top — Addi’s favorite) and sugar cookies.
I cast a fretful glance at the aging electric stove in the corner, hoping the unreliable heating element won’t burn the cookies. I turn it on to preheat, then come back to the island and start combining ingredients for the peanut butter blossoms — a recipe I’ve made so often I know it by heart. A tension between my shoulder blades that I didn’t even notice begins to ease as I work. I’ve always found baking so soothing. It takes just enough physical effort and just enough mental concentration to push any worrisome thoughts into the background for a while. As I work, I turn on the radio to a local station that’s playing Christmas songs. As I combine the wet ingredients with the dry, I find myself humming along with the music.
Consciously, I start to count my blessings, knowing it will make me feel better. I have my health, and Addi’s health, too. And even though she’s in a bad mood today, in general my daughter is doing well. She’s thriving in school, and because I teach there as well, I can keep an eye on her and see how she’s doing for myself. And I have a job that I like. I was lucky to get this position teaching first grade in the Ironwood school district, even though I had been out of the profession since before Addi was born. If I hadn’t, who knows where we’d be right now?
And though money’s tight, I’m getting better at figuring out how to live on a shoestring. Part of my problem is that I’ve really never had to manage my money carefully before now. I met Garrett in my third year of college, right around the time I was getting ready to do my student teaching. Six years older than me, he was already a successful mutual fund manager at a prominent firm in the city, and making a salary somewhere in the low six figures. He was handsome, rich, and determined to sweep me off my feet — which he did, by paying for lavish dates and presents that I could never have afforded on my own. By the time we got married two years later I was already living with him, and he had generously paid off my student loan debt as soon as we got engaged. I thought I had it made — and financially, I did. I stopped teaching a year later, because we wanted to start a family and Garrett wanted me to focus on getting pregnant.
A movement in the window catches my eye, and I look up to see that the hot neighbor guy has come back outside. I can count that blessing, too. Even though we’ve never actually spoken and he’s just eye candy, he is awfully fun to look at. And fantasize about at night, if I’m being honest. More times than I care to admit.
I had barely even thought about sex in months, much less wanted it, until the first time I saw him driving up on his motorcycle one day not long after the school year started. I had just gotten home from work myself, and Addi was off on an after-school play date at the home of one of her classmates. I had just pulled into my own driveway, and was reaching for the door handle to get out of the car, but one glimpse at the taut muscularity of the man pulling up on his Harley made me freeze right where I was. I hurriedly ducked down and pretended to be digging for something in my bag as I spied on him through my lashes. I was fascinated, a tiny bit alarmed, and captivated by the raw maleness of him — so unlike Garrett’s buttoned up, polished manner. This man looked like he could pick me up and toss me over his shoulder to carry me inside like I was a rag doll. And even more intriguing and thrilling, he looked like maybe he might.
Not me, of course. But someone. Some woman who was hot and sexy and maybe even tattooed, just like him.
God knows how many times I’ve spied on him since then. Never for very long, of course. Just little glimpses of him here and there. But it’s enough to sear him into my memory. A few days after I first saw him, I found my thoughts turning to him one night as I lay in bed. Feelings that I had almost forgotten came rushing back to me, and before long I was reaching down under the covers with trembling fingers to find myself soaked. The shudders that rocked me a few minutes later were because of him. And that wasn’t the last time I would conjure him during the night. The mysterious neighbor — just close enough to be tantalizing, but still far enough to be safe.
Now, as I continue to watch from my kitchen window, my neighbor stands up from his bent-over position under the hood of his car. Lazily, he reaches his arms up into a big stretch, revealing his abs under his sweat-stained shirt. He grabs the hem then, and pulls the shirt up and off. I’m practically drooling as I take in the muscles of his back, and then his pecs as he turns away from the car. I draw in a shallow breath, holding it as I gaze at a scene that’s going to be over far too soon for my liking, trying to memorize the way his naked torso looks, knowing I’ll be thinking about him tonight and trying not to feel too guilty about it.
Hot Neighbor uses the shirt to wipe his face, and then under his arms. And then, before I can register what’s happening Hot Neighbor raises his eyes to the window. To me.
Our eyes lock.
He winks.
I pull back from the window, my stomach lurching like I’m on a roller coaster. Oh, God. I am mortified. He must have noticed me watching him earlier. He did all of that on purpose! He must think I stand at the window trying to catch glimpses of
him whenever he’s outside.
Which unfortunately isn’t that far from the truth.
Oh God oh God oh God… Is it too early to start drinking?
Cursing a blue streak in my head, I turn back to the kitchen island and cringe, knowing that the next time I see him is going to be unbelievably embarrassing. I wonder if there’s any way I can just stay inside and hide until spring?
Let it go, Bailey. You can’t do anything about this now. Besides, it doesn’t matter what he thinks of you. You’ve never even spoken to him. You don’t even know the guy’s name.
I wish I could believe it as much as my inner voice seems to want me to.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I turn up the Christmas music on the radio and resolve never to look out the kitchen window again. I even contemplate asking the landlord if I can install some blinds, and keep them permanently shut. I make myself start humming along with the music, and continue working on the peanut butter blossoms. By the time I’m portioning the dough out onto the baking sheet, I’m starting to feel a little better. Baking always does the trick.
Ten minutes later, the Kisses are sitting on top of the blobs of dough and the cookies are ready to go into the oven. Just then, I hear Addi come out of her room and down the hall.
“Hey, Mom?” she calls. Her tone contains none of the grumpiness of earlier.
Dirty Santa: A Holiday MC Romance Page 1
