The Naughty List: A Christmas Romance

by Hazel Kelly

  T H E N A U G H T Y L I S T

  A S E X Y C H R I S T M A S R O M A N C E

  Hazel Kelly & Chloe Clark

  © 2016 Hazel Kelly

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  O N E

  T W O

  T H R E E

  F O U R

  F I V E

  S I X

  S E V E N

  E I G H T

  N I N E

  T E N

  E L E V E N

  T W E L V E

  T H I R T E E N

  F O U R T E E N

  F I F T E E N

  E P I L O G U E

  N O T E F R O M T H E A U T H O R

  O T H E R S E R I E S B Y H A Z E L K E L L Y

  O N E

  As I pull my green and gold striped tights up, I can’t help but think how surprised I am that it’s come to this. I mean, I knew it would be a while before acting paid the bills, but I always hoped the first time I got dressed up as an elf would be for a bit part in my very first Christmas movie… or at the very least, a music video.

  Then again, I suppose working in a department store isn’t really anyone’s dream job until they’re forced to convince themselves otherwise. But it could be worse.

  The woman at the agency said it was either shifts as one of Santa’s helpers or dressing up as a Chili dog outside Nero’s on thirteenth street, and at least this role actually involves some genuine acting… though it’s hard to keep up appearances when the rest of the elves- and sometimes Santa himself- lose the will to play along.

  “You wreak like cigarettes,” I say when one of the other elves greets me.

  “Yeah, well, you wreak like syrup.”

  I choose not to argue since I know it’s true. I covered for one of my coworkers at the diner on the early morning shift, and I haven’t yet found a way to keep my thick brown hair from absorbing the surrounding breakfast smells.

  I stash my purse in one of the nooks and crannies behind “Santa’s Village,” though Santa’s Throne would be a better way to describe the set up, and take my place at the front.

  I like being the one who gets to inject a bit of Christmas cheer as soon as the little ones arrive. Plus, it means I’m close enough to hear what the kids say to Santa, which always warms my heart.

  Considering all the sad things going on in the world today, it’s nice - if only for a few hours- to pretend that all is well and that the only thing that would make it more perfect would be if little Sally got a pink scooter and little Bobby got that Star Wars Lego expansion set that he’s been such a good boy for… though the bags under his mother’s eyes often beg to differ.

  After resisting as long as I can, I glance at my watch. I only have to survive six more hours on my feet and then I can crash. It’s a special treat that I don’t have to work at the diner tonight since I swapped for this morning’s shift, and I plan to make the most of it.

  Sure, I feel guilty about not working every chance I get since that’s the only way I’ll be able to afford decent Christmas presents for my friends and family. But I still have a few weeks before Christmas and if I burn out, I’m more likely to get sick during the double pay shifts closer to the holidays, and that’s a risk I can’t take.

  I need at least a few of those to get the cashmere scarf I have my eye on for my sister and the iPad I want to get for my parents. It’s more than I can afford, but Christmas is a big deal at my house, and there’s nothing worse than receiving big without giving big in my opinion.

  My ex used to say I should give in relation to what I earn, but I doubt a dozen donuts is going to cut it on Christmas morning after my mom’s spent the whole week cooking themed desserts and decorating the house even better than this department store.

  Besides, it’s the giving I like best... and not just because it gives me an excuse to binge watch videos about flamboyant gift wrapping on YouTube, which mesmerize me for some reason I can’t quite figure out.

  Anyway, I’m calculating how many extra shifts I’d have to secure here at Burke’s department store to spring for a nice iPad case when the most handsome man I’ve ever seen walks towards the little red runway up to Santa’s throne.

  He’s wearing a suit that says he’s far too important to be here right now, and there’s a sharpness in his dark eyes that makes him look intimidatingly intelligent. I’m convinced his black hair smells good before he’s even near me.

  Beside him, a little blond boy focuses on an iPhone while the man pushes him towards me.

  “Welcome to Santa’s Village!” I say too enthusiastically to the handsome man before turning towards the kid. “Can I have your name please?”

  The man nudges his son. “Give me the phone and give the elf lady your name,” he says, putting his hand out without taking his eyes off me.

  His smooth voice is so deep it takes me by surprise.

  “Creighton,” the boy says, looking up at me. “Are you a real elf?”

  “Of course,” I say, pretending to check the list of names in front of me. “What’s your last name, Creighton?”

  “Who’s asking?” he says, squinting at me.

  “Sorry,” the man mouths.

  “I am,” I say.

  The boy cocks his head. “And who are you?”

  The man pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m Holly,” I say. “And it’s my job to check if you’re on the nice list or the naughty list because only the kids on the nice list get to meet with Santa.”

  “Oh.” The kid’s expression changes and he stands up a little straighter. “My last name is Wharton.”

  I pretend to search the list of names, scrunching my face into all the elfish expressions of concentration I can think of. “Oh here you are,” I say. “Right this way.” I lead Tweedledum and his handsome escort to the base of the stairs. “Wait here,” I say, skipping on tip toes up to Santa where I whisper in his ear while I pretend to show him my list.

  As soon as I’m happy that we’ve built some suspense for the little shit, I wave him over. Then I return to his dad’s side because being near his broad shoulders is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in weeks.

  “What did you whisper to Santa?” the man asks, slipping a hand in his pocket.

  “That’s between me and Santa,” I say, deciding it would be inappropriate to say I was telling him how long before his next smoke break.

  “Oh. I thought maybe you were pointing me out and saying I was what you wanted for Christmas.”

  I turn to look at him and swallow as I clock the mischievous sparkle in his eye. “I’m not sure you’d fit under my tree.”

  He checks me out so hard I feel like I’m not wearing any clothes at all, much less a green and gold elf costume.

  “Is Holly your real name?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Anthony,” he says, extending his hand.

  I go to shake it and he leans forward to whisper in my ear. “I’m hoping to make the naughty list now that I’ve met you.”

  It isn’t until he lets go of my hand and takes a step back that I can breathe again.

  “Can I take you to dinner?”

  I look between him and the kid, who looks like he’s giving Santa a piece of his m
ind. I cross my fingers and hope he doesn’t reach for the beard. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Part of me starts mourning the loss of my relaxing night in while another part remains skeptical. After all, even if this guy is the hottest dad I’ve ever met, I’m in no position to be a mother to his son right now, especially when all I want is to be his dirty little fuck buddy. Plus, the guy’s probably married. Not that I can tell with his left hand in his pocket.

  “Is your wife cooking?” I ask casually, determined to avoid another cheating bastard.

  “I’m not married.”

  I squint at him. “Do you have a babysitter?”

  “A babysitter?”

  I tilt my head towards Santa’s throne.

  “Oh- he’s not my kid.”

  I crane my neck forward. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who borrow other people’s children so you can hit on department store elves because there’s a special place on the naughty list for guys like-”

  “He’s my nephew.”

  “Oh.”

  “My sister’s kid,” he says.

  My heart does a cartwheel, but I try not to let it show on my face. “So you’re a single, childless man with a regular elf fetish then?”

  “It’s not an elf fetish that I have.”

  “What is it then?” I ask, folding my arms.

  “It’s a fetish for beautiful women.”

  I press my lips together and feel relieved that there are already red circles painted on my cheeks.

  “When do you get off work?”

  I scrunch my toes in my jingle bell slippers. “Seven.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty outside the front entrance.”

  “Okay.”

  “Make sure you wear the elf costume,” he says, watching his nephew climb off Santa’s lap.

  I open my mouth to object as he turns into my personal space.

  “That was joke,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “Wear whatever you want. I’m only going to take it off anyway.”

  T W O

  I am disappointed to learn that elves are not eligible for the Burke’s employee discount, which really stinks because the last thing I can afford right now is to spend money on myself.

  Okay, perhaps that’s the second to last thing because the very last thing I can afford is to go out with Anthony in the uniform top I wear to the diner. Not that I don’t look good in the collared shirt with tacky branding on it, but no amount of free sprays in the perfume department is going to overwhelm the stench of syrup that hits me when I go change from my elf garb.

  Fortunately, I have enough in my checking account to get a flirty top on clearance and a pair of black boots, which will have to be my Christmas present to myself because I don’t have time to go home.

  Why I didn’t think to move the time back escapes me.

  Perhaps it was his chiseled features or how small I felt from the moment his large hand enveloped mine, but I was obviously not thinking clearly.

  Even the way he spoke to me was completely inappropriate. Any other man would’ve gotten a slap in the same situation. Except he wasn’t any other man. He was like a professional seducer or something and his inappropriate confidence had totally disarmed me.

  Hopefully I’ll be a little less flighty at dinner.

  If he’s even going to take me to dinner. Maybe he’ll take me straight to a hotel and treat me like the naughty, irresponsible girl I am. Then again, as appealing as the bolder part of me thinks that sounds, I am starving.

  Regardless, it feels like the fact that I always wear nice underwear might finally come in handy because if this stranger murders me in a hotel room later tonight, at least I won’t be found in granny panties.

  I pull my coat around me and rock back on the heels of my new boots, which are nice and clunky in case I have to run for my life.

  A moment later, a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pulls up along the curb.

  My knees go weak when he gets out of the backseat and holds the door open.

  “You don’t have your license, huh?” I say, pressing my cheek to his because making a joke in this situation is my best shot at not making an ass of myself.

  “I do actually,” he says, extending a palm towards the back seat. “But I never drink and drive.”

  I slide into the black leather exterior and nod at the driver, who is actually wearing a small chauffeur cap. I wonder if he’s a real chauffeur or just another temping actor in a different style of uniform.

  Anthony slips in beside me. “Marco’s please, Stanley,” he says before pressing a button that makes an opaque window slide up between the front and back seat. “Actually-” He turns to me. “You don’t have any dietary restrictions you need to tell me about, do you?”

  I wonder if he’s being filthy, but decide he’s just being polite. “Anything but gingerbread.”

  He furrows his brow.

  “That’s what I had for lunch.”

  He smiles and nods.

  I decide he’s wearing too many clothes and that he smells too good. “Do you normally use a driver?”

  “Only when I’m trying to impress beautiful women,” he says, opening a small black cabinet. There are two single serving bottles of prosecco on a shelf inside over two overturned flutes.

  “I take it that happens a lot?” I ask, watching him fill the first glass.

  He hands it to me. “Not as much as I’d like.”

  “Maybe you’ll have more luck when the summer rolls around and your nephew has more time to be your wingman.”

  He fills his glass, puts the empty bottle back on the shelf, and closes the cabinet. “Here’s hoping I can manage the evening without his help,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

  I take a sip and the light bubbles burst against my tongue. I’m torn between wanting to know everything about this guy and wanting to know nothing. After all, I’m not in the mood to be disappointed, and the last dozen men I’ve gone out with would send a girl with a weaker stomach straight to the closest convent.

  “So how long have you been an elf?” he asks.

  “Since I graduated from Elf College last May,” I say. “It’s always been a dream of mine to be the girl that gets to Febreeze Santa’s beard on his lunch break, and thanks to a lot of hard work, I’ve finally gotten lucky.”

  He squints at me, and I hope he’s not put off by my smart ass answer. “So what do you do when you’re not elfing?”

  “I like that as a verb,” I say. “Elfing.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  “Would I have seen you in anything?”

  I sigh and wonder why people always ask that. Like, you’ve seen me before or you haven’t. Why do I have to be the one to help you figure it out? “I was in a commercial last year.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t really watch T.V.”

  “Me neither,” I say, shocked that we have anything in common.

  “What was it for?”

  “A smartphone.”

  “Which one?” he asks.

  “The one that started bursting into flames in people’s pockets.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Not as unfortunate as the fact that the company never paid me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “As serious as singed trousers. But it’s fine. The exposure ended up landing me two more auditions.”

  “And how did they go?”

  “Not good enough to quit my job at Lemmy’s, which is quickly becoming my life’s ambition.”

  “The diner?”

  I nod.

  “You work there, too?”

  “Temporarily,” I say. “But the experience might come in handy someday if I get lucky enough to score a job on a real film set. I’ve heard rumors that being able to make a good cup of coffee is the fastest way to a director’s heart.”

  “I see.”

&nb
sp; I take a large sip of prosecco and pray that I have the good sense to stop babbling soon. “What do you do?” I ask. “Besides hit on starving artists in funny costumes?”

  “I work in retail.”

  “Hence your immaculate suit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You must be pretty good at your job if you have a car with a prosecco closet.”

  He shrugs. “I’m still learning, but business has been good lately, and this is a profitable time of year.”

  “I bet.”

  “Have you been to Marco’s before?” he asks, his eyes dropping to my lips.

  I feel a chill run up my spine and think about the last time I was naked with a man. It must’ve been almost a year ago.

  I broke up with my last boyfriend more recently than that, but we hadn’t slept together in two months when I steamed open his credit card bill and realized he was taking pretty extreme liberties with his ‘working late’ excuse. “Is that the restaurant we’re going to?”

  He nods.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s nice,” he says. “You’ll like it. Especially if your diet usually consists of Lemmy’s and gingerbread.”

  “Let’s keep that gingerbread secret between us,” I say. “I’m not really supposed to eat that. It’s for the kids, but everything else edible I’ve found in the staff cafeteria has someone else’s name written on it in angry letters.”

  He laughs. “Anal retentive coworkers, huh?”

  “Seems like it,” I say. “So what kind of food do they have at this Marco’s place?”

  “Depends on the night,” he says. “The set menu changes all the time.”

  “So we don’t even have to order? Fancy.”

  “I haven’t had a bad meal there yet.”

  “Well if we’re disappointed, there’s always Lemmy’s.” I smile to myself at the thought of this guy eating in a diner. He probably doesn’t even realize paper napkins are still in production.

  “I do love French toast,” he says. “It’s probably my favorite food.”

  I look at him like he’s a serial killer and let my face relax when I realize the expression I’ve pulled. “French toast is my favorite food.”