Bad Boy Santa: A Second Chance Christmas Romance

by Sophie Brooks

  “You should, because it’s a damn good book.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. For making all this possible. Even if we’re not… even though we…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish. “I’m glad we can work together even though we’re not…”

  “But we are.”

  Startled, I looked up at him. “Are what?”

  “Whatever you were going to say. Friends. Lovers. More.”

  He was toying with me. If he really felt that way, he’d never have done what he did with Beatrice. Especially not twice.

  I stood, and he sprang to his feet, blocking my way before I could head inside. As if reading my mind, he said, “She never meant anything to me. Less than anything. And I regret with all my heart that I made you think she did.”

  Tears rolled down my cheeks, but my voice was steady. “It certainly looked pretty damn cozy when she was on your lap the other week.”

  “It probably did,” he said, his hands on my shoulders as he stared at my face. “But it wasn’t. She showed up with her children, and she was aggressive. Telling her kids that she and Santa were good friends and that they’d gone to high school together. She threw her arm around my neck and sat on my lap and I let her. Not for her—not for me—but for her kids. I didn’t want to make them feel like their mom was a liar, so I played along. And when you showed up, the only reason I didn’t jump to my feet and run after you was I didn’t want to risk her falling on her kids.”

  His description of Beatrice and her pushy ways rang true. Under other circumstances, I might’ve believed him, but he’d failed to account for two very important points. “If you wanted to explain it to me, why haven’t I seen you in two weeks? And if she meant nothing to you, then why’d you sleep with her on prom night?”

  “I didn’t,” he said with a sigh. “Would you please sit back down? There’s a very long-overdue conversation I need to have with you.”

  The porchlight wasn’t all that bright, but I could still see the green of his eyes as he stared at me, willing me to comply. At long last, I nodded.

  Once we were back on the porch swing, Jackson folded his knee up on the wooden seat so that he could face me. I stared straight ahead, trying to steel myself for whatever he was going to say.

  He tried to take my hand, but I moved it away, so he placed his hand on his thigh and sighed. “I never slept with Beatrice.”

  What? That patently false statement was enough to make my head swivel toward him in surprise.

  “It’s true,” he said.

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “Then why did you let everyone at the party think you did?”

  “Because I was an ass.”

  That wasn’t a statement I was going to argue with, but my mind was still reeling, unsure how to feel. I still didn’t know if I believed him or not. “If you didn’t… do that with her, what were you doing together up in the bedroom?”

  “Making the biggest mistake of my life, but it wasn’t the one you thought it was. When you bolted to the bathroom, I was disappointed, really disappointed, but also a little… relieved. You were my best friend. You were so important to me that I was afraid of messing things up between us. And I knew it was your first time—it was mine too, and I wanted it to be special. Fucking on top of a pile of coats in Angie Henderson’s parents’ bedroom was not special.”

  I blinked in surprise at him in the dim light. “Your first time? But you said you’d done it with Gina Thresh.”

  “I lied. Most high school guys lie about their sexual experience. Anyway, I was shocked when you ran out. I’d just pulled my pants on so I could look for you, but then she came in. I didn’t see her lock the door, I was looking for my shoes. She came onto me, big time, but I turned her down. I swear to god I didn’t touch her except to push her hands away from my pants. But she kept teasing me, she took off her shirt, and I—”

  I looked away. I didn’t want to hear the details of this.

  “Honest to god, Liv, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. But I was a horny young guy, and still very turned on from lying in bed next to you. And then Big Tits Beatrice was there, pulling off her top, unfastening her bra, practically offering her breasts to me on a platter. And I’m ashamed to admit that it took me longer than it should have to tell her to put her top back on. To look away. I was a young, inexperienced guy and a woman was flashing her boobs at me.”

  He paused, and I could feel his eyes on me but I stared resolutely ahead. “But then I did look away, and I got dressed and went to find you. I swear, I never touched her. I never fucked her. I never wanted her—I only wanted you.”

  I digested that information slowly. I didn’t like hearing about him with a half-naked woman on what was supposed to be our special night, but his story rang true. Part of me was beginning to believe him, which threatened to bring an onslaught of emotions. But first, I needed to know the rest of it. “But… I was waiting for you downstairs. And after you came down…”

  “What part of ‘I was an ass’ aren’t you getting?” He gave a half smile, but I wasn’t going to soften just yet. Not when it had hurt for so many years.

  “When I went back downstairs, all I could think about was finding you. I didn’t think about how it would look for me to come bursting down the stairs with her following right behind me, her shirt buttoned barely buttoned. Everyone assumed we’d fucked, and she did nothing to dispel that notion, grinning and putting her hand on my ass. And all those jerks who used to give me such a hard time were suddenly on my side. I finally had their respect. It was for a totally fucked up reason, but they admired me. They approved of me. And I realized that if I told them nothing had happened between Beatrice and me, they’d turn on me again. And—I know this is terrible, but I didn’t want that to happen.”

  I was silent for a long moment as I took that in. “I hope that saving face was worth losing me.”

  “It wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But I was an idiot. Those guys had spent so many years picking on me. The nerdy kid with the camera. Remember how bad they could be? To both of us. And then suddenly they seemed to admire me. I’m not proud of it, not at all, but I didn’t want to ruin the illusion and go back to being the kid they picked on and teased. I—I was pretty desperate to prove myself back then, and for some fucked up reason, I thought that maybe that was the way to do it.” He paused and leaned toward me, waiting until I finally met his eyes. “I never, ever meant to hurt you like that. Please believe me. Please forgive me.”

  And part of me wanted to, and tears streamed down my face, but that wasn’t the only thing he’d done. “We had one more week of school left. You could have told me you didn’t sleep with her at any point during that week.”

  “Actually, you skipped Monday and Tuesday, remember? And you never missed school, so that’s when I realized how upset you were. Over me. And that’s when it dawned on me that maybe you had the same kind of feelings for me that I had for you.”

  What? Hearing him say this should have been cathartic after six years of thinking he had never cared, but instead it led to more confusion. “Shouldn’t that have been even more of a reason to talk to me about it?”

  “Probably,” he said. “But I’d been keeping a secret from you. Remember how often we talked about all our plans for the summer? And about going to the same university in the fall? You were so excited about it, and I got caught up in it, too. But there was something I hadn’t told you. I’d sent a portfolio of my photos to a news organization, and they’d called me up for a phone interview. I never thought I’d get it—I was eighteen, and they were a major media company. But two days after prom, I got the job offer with the caveat that I’d start right after graduation. They said they were sending me overseas right away. I knew I’d be letting you down again. And so I began to think that since you were already upset with me, maybe it was easier to just… slip away.”

  “Easier for you,” I said, the tears falling harder. “I never even got to say goodbye to you. Or anything to you. One minut
e I was in the arms of a guy I cared about and the next minute I was humiliated, thinking it had taken him all of thirty seconds to replace me. And then you were gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I truly am. I know it was cowardly to leave without saying goodbye. Without apologizing. But I guess I figured that since you weren’t talking to me anyway, it might be easier to just have you go on hating me. Rather than tell you that I did care for you and hated the thought of missing out on spending the summer with you. I thought you’d think that I was choosing my career over you.”

  “You were.”

  “I know,” he said with a sigh.

  “But… you needed that opportunity to become a better photographer. It was the right call. But it was the wrong call to leave without talking to me.”

  “I know. If I could change that, I would. I’d give anything to. But I can’t. It was six years ago. All I can try to do is to fix the mess I’ve made now.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked warily.

  “First, to tell you that I’m sorry. I know I hurt you. I know I should’ve told you long ago. But I am. What happened at that party is the biggest regret of my life, and trust me, that’s saying something. I’m truly sorry, Liv.”

  His hand closed around mine, and I no longer felt the need to pull away. “And the other day with Beatrice? You’re sure that didn’t mean—?”

  “She means less than nothing to me. And I doubt I meant much to her. Chris said something about her once. It sounds like she’s a pathetic woman unhappy with her life. With her marriage. So she’s lashing out, trying to ruin other people’s shot at happiness. She’s got nothing to do with us. There’s only one woman I’m interested in, and it’s not her.”

  No words came to me, which was ironic considering that I was now an author. So I just waited for what he was going to say next. Waited and hoped that whatever it was would build me up, not tear me down again.

  “I have something for you,” Jackson said, and he released my hand and bent down and picked up a large box. In the dim light, I hadn’t noticed it before. He scooted back and put the box between us. There was a smaller package on top. Jackson set it aside and then pushed the big box closer to me. It made an odd clinking noise when it moved, and it was obviously very heavy. It was obviously heavy. “It kind of explains why I waited until tonight to come see you. Go on, open it.”

  Gingerly, I did. Inside were bottles. Well over a dozen of them at least. Some clear. Some tinted. Some full, some half full. I held a few up to better see in the dim light. Two were vodka. One was gin. The next one was whiskey. “Why did you… you know I don’t drink this kind of stuff.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling at me. “And you know that I do. Or did. Because this is my way of saying that I’m giving it up. Gonna go cold turkey and see where that gets me.”

  Staring at him, I tried to assess if he was serious. If so, this was a big deal. I didn’t have enough experience in this area to know if he had an out-of-control drinking problem, but clearly his drinking wasn’t healthy for him. “Really?”

  “Really. I had a few false starts, but this time it took. I haven't had a drink in four days. I didn’t want to come see you until I had a couple of days of sobriety under my belt.”

  “How… why did you decide to quit?”

  His smile was almost enough to thaw my heart. “Because it was a crutch. I thought it was a way to help me transition back to a normal life away from the horrors I’d seen, but instead I used it as a way to mask my feelings. To hide from having a normal life. But then I started working with you, and I saw how enthusiastic you were about everything. How you saw the good in everyone. How you made life seem magical and special.”

  He paused. “I—I don’t think I’ll ever be that kind of person, but it did make me realize that life is too short… too special… to waste half my day drinking, or thinking about drinking, or recovering from drinking. So I want you to take all of it. Drink it, throw it out, use the bottles for target practice, whatever you’d like. I don’t need it anymore.”

  I looked deep into his eyes, and I could tell he meant it. He really did. The fact that he would recognize it was holding him back and do something about it showed so much about the kind of man he once was and could be again. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s probably the best present I ever got.”

  He smiled. “Well, don’t go saying that just yet, because I got you something else. I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it, though.” He handed me the other package. It was flat and about the size of a calendar. Once I had it in my hand, I knew what it was but not why he was giving it to me.

  I unwrapped the package and pulled out a copy of our book. Though I’d found it too painful to give the book more than a cursory glance, I had several copies of my own. I didn’t understand why he thought he had to give me another one. Tilting my head, I looked up at him quizzically.

  “There’s something I wanted you to see,” he said. “Turn to the last double page spread.”

  That was journalist talk for the last two facing pages, I decided. After flipping rapidly through the book, I found the pages and looked at it while he dug in his pocket. It was a busy photograph, one that had taken us forever to set up. We’d done our best to make it look like I was at Santa’s workshop even though we’d staged it behind a counter at the department store when everyone else had gone home. There were shelves behind me piled high with presents including all the fake ones we’d used around the Christmas tree. And there were tools, too, on every surface. And in the middle, I was peering at a toy, looking as if I were about to try fixing it by smashing it with a huge hammer. It was a cluttered shot, but it really captured the magic of Santa’s workshop, in my opinion.

  “It turned out really well,” I said.

  “Have you ever really looked at it?”

  “No,” I admitted, glancing back down at the book on my lap. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “A word,” he said. “Look up near the top right hand corner.”

  “You wrote something on here?” I asked, squinting at the area he’d indicated.

  “No, it’s in the photo itself.” He handed me a magnifying glass. “See if you can find it. Oh, and you’d better take this,” he said, digging into another pocket and pulling out a small flashlight. “I didn’t think we’d be doing this on a dimly lit porch, but I always have one with me. Old habit.”

  Holding the flashlight, I peered through the magnifying glass at the spot he was pointing too. Squinting, I burst into a smile. There were three little bronze letters balanced on the shelf. LIV. “It’s my name.” How come I hadn’t seen that before? Even without the magnifying glass, it was visible if you looked closely. “Did you put your name in here too?” I asked, panning the flashlight around the rest of the page.

  “No,” he said. “And it’s not your name.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him, a smile at my lips. I didn’t know what the future held, but Jackson had freed me from the pain of the past. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

  He chuckled, a low sexy sound. “I mean, it’s not just your name. It’s part of a message. See if you can find the other words.”

  I stared at him in surprise for one long moment. Whatever this message was, he’d hidden it in the picture weeks ago when we’d just started to work together. What could it be?

  Before long, I found the word “you.” I also found a pile of little toy figurines that appeared to spell the word “ill,” but Jackson laughed and said that was coincidence.

  With a few hints from him, I located a wooden block showing the letter “I” near the bottom of the page. “Just one more,” he said, and my heart started beating faster.

  I looked all over the photo, and at every spot I noticed the craftsmanship he’d put into setting up the picture. And into the lighting. And into capturing my expression. He’d put so much care into this photo that it was astonishing to realize he’d done even more than I thought.

  At last, I spotted somet
hing that looked like an “e.” Moving my finger to the left, I saw the other letters. They were embroidered on a little pillow on the second shelf from the bottom. My hand stilled even as my heart skipped a beat. The letters spelled “love.”

  Suddenly, my head felt too heavy to lift. Too heavy to turn and face him. So he reached for me, lifting my chin with his finger, turning my head toward him. “It says, “Liv, I love you.” He let go of me and moved the box of bottles off the bench between us. Moving closer, he said, “So, what do you think of that?”

  For a long moment, I didn’t know what to think. How to feel. Then suddenly I did. “That’s not what it says,” I whispered.

  “I’m pretty sure it is,” he said, echoing my earlier words.

  “No, it’s not,” I breathed. “Because look here, at these two toy boomerangs leaning against the remote controlled race car. Know what those are? Those are commas. So what it really says is: “I, Liv, love you.”

  His smile of delight was quick and genuine. With a sure, confident movement, he grasped me around the waist and picked me up, depositing me on his lap. “Have you been a good girl this year, Liv?”

  “Yes, Santa,” I said.

  “Then it’s time for your third present.”

  Surprised, I looked around, but then I realized what he meant as he lowered his head toward me. “Funny, I got the same thing for you,” I said as I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  When our mouths met, I didn’t care about the cold. I didn’t care about the past. And I definitely didn’t care about a pathetic hussy who’d tried to turn the head of the man I was meant to be with. Twice.

  All I cared about was him. And us. And our future.

  That was best Christmas present ever.

  Epilogue

  Jackson

  It was springtime, and I was visiting a local second grade class. My girlfriend’s class, actually. It was my second time there. The first time, I’d shown her students my cameras and a slide show of some of my best nature shots and portraits. And we’d sent each kid home with a photo release form for their parents to sign. Today, I’d be taking some candid classroom shots.