The One Night Stand Before Christmas: Reindeer Falls #3

by Aston, Jana

  The One Night Stand Before Christmas

  Reindeer Falls #3

  Jana Aston

  Copyright © 2019 by Jana Aston

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover by Kari March Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Have you met Dr Miller?

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Jana Aston

  The Reindeer Falls Collection

  About the Author

  Prologue

  I wake up, blinking against the sunlight flickering in through the windows as I take in the carnage from last night.

  On the floor, red pants trimmed with fake white fur. A matching jacket, with the equally hideous fake white fur lining the cuffs and hem. A wide black belt tossed on top of it.

  And, of course, the matching hat.

  I sort of hoped it wasn’t true. That I’d had too much to drink and was remembering the night prior through an alcohol-tinted lens.

  Except all I had was an overabundance of hot cocoa.

  And Santa. I had him too.

  Yup.

  I just had a one-night stand with Santa Claus.

  That’s one hell of a way to get on the naughty list.

  Chapter 1

  “Are you single? I have a grandson and he needs a wife.”

  If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been offered someone’s son or grandson or brother I’d probably have like… thirty or forty dollars. Still, they mean well so I just roll with it.

  Besides, I love my job so much I don’t even mind when they try to pimp me out to their grandsons. Much. I don’t mind much.

  “Why does he need a wife?” I ask. I’m curious to hear what she has to say because older folks tend to say whatever the heck they want and most of the time it’s pretty entertaining.

  “Every man needs a wife,” she replies, her tone implying this is fact and something I should already know. “He works too hard, and what’s the point if you don’t have a family to provide for? It’s time he moved back to Reindeer Falls and settled down. He’s coming home for Christmas and I need to marry him off before the new year so he doesn’t go back to the city.”

  I raise an eyebrow while trying not to laugh. “That’s not much of a sales pitch, Mrs Carrington. Besides, if he needs a wife no one will want him. All the good ladies like a man capable of taking care of himself.”

  “Oh, he takes excellent care of himself. It’s why he’s still single. Too damn good-looking for his own good, that one. Takes after his granddaddy, rest his soul.”

  “Perhaps he’s not the marrying kind,” I offer.

  “No man is, until he meets the woman he can’t live without. Mr Carrington was a scoundrel in his day. Then he met me and the man damn near tripped over himself wooing me.”

  Ah, the days of wooing. I don’t bother to tell her those days are over. Wooing in today’s age is waiting until the third text message to send a dick pic. “Well then, I hope your grandson finds someone.”

  “Oh, he will. I’ll make sure of it. He can’t run around getting the milk for free forever. Boy’s gotta buy the cow sometime.”

  If I was drinking coffee, I’d have spit it across the room.

  “Mrs Carrington!” I sputter around a hybrid cough-laugh.

  “He’s got a good job,” she adds hopefully, a twinkle in her eye that tells me she knows exactly how inappropriate she is.

  “Go find yourself a seat,” I instruct, doing my best to be firm and professional. It’s Canasta Day at the community center, which is why Mrs Carrington is here. To play cards and socialize, not to find a wife for her grandson. At least I hope that’s why she’s signed up for canasta. I wouldn’t entirely put it past her to have signed up as some elaborate plot to hand-select her future granddaughter-in-law. Mrs Carrington is a hoot. “Find a seat now or I’m going to write you up for impertinence,” I add as a joke.

  “Impertinence!” Mrs Carrington laughs in delight. “No one has called me impertinent in some time. I like you.”

  “I like you too, Mrs Carrington. But you need to let your grandson find his own wife.”

  “All right, all right.” Mrs Carrington makes a show of waving her hands about as if she’s put out by this, but she’s smiling. “Can’t blame a lady for trying,” she adds.

  “No, ma’am,” I agree. Then I spy Mr Owens peeking in our direction. And it’s not the first time, either. Mr Owens is somewhat new to town. He moved here to be closer to his grandchildren after his wife died a few years ago. “Looks like there’s a seat open next to Mr Owens,” I say, looking pointedly at the empty seat and then back to Mrs Carrington. Matchmaking is fair game, and there’s nothing like the holidays to make you believe anything is possible and it’s never too late.

  For Mrs Carrington, that is.

  As far as my own love life, forgive a girl for being a cynic, but I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Which is: he’s never the catch Grandma thinks he is. Never ever.

  * * *

  Once everyone is settled playing canasta I head back to my office down the hall. I’m a program supervisor for the city of Reindeer Falls, overseeing the adult programs, which includes everything from the softball leagues to the senior programs. Except we don’t call them senior programs anymore. Active adults is the preferred term now, in case you didn’t know. Older adults want to be appreciated for the place they’re at in life. Retired, but still full of vitality and energy. Our active adult programs are aimed to service the members of our community who aren’t anywhere near ready to leave their homes for a retirement village but perhaps need a bit of community. A place to meet and play cards or volunteer. That’s all coordinated through me.

  My co-worker Jillian supervises the youth programs, which covers everything from youth sports to summer camps to the crowning of the annual Candy Cane Princess each winter.

  Her office is directly next to mine.

  And it sounds like trouble is brewing in Reindeer Falls.

  Luckily I always have commiseration cookies on hand due to my sister being a baker, so I grab the tin filled with her latest offerings and head over to find out what’s happening.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, setting my coffee on the edge of Jillian’s desk before flopping into a stuffed armchair located in the corner of Jillian’s office. I pry open the tin without waiting on a response.

  Jillian doesn’t disappoint.

  “The Hobby Reindeer Championships,” she says, swiveling in her desk chair to face me, grabbing the tin from my hands the moment I’ve plucked one out for myself. “Ohhh, what’d Ginger make for us this time?”

  “I think they’re ginger scones,” I say before taking a bite. “Yup,” I add around a mouthful of scone. “She’s been on a scone kick e
ver since her Keller James crush went into overdrive.” The Food Network is filming a gingerbread-baking competition in Reindeer Falls and my sister Ginger is in the finals. Also in the finals—Keller James, a celebrity chef from Britain she’s got a massive thing for. I’m pretty sure those two are making out like teenagers every time the camera stops rolling. And the feeling is mutual based on the way he looks at her. I’m happy for my sister, of course I am. Both of my sisters. Because the other one is currently on a business trip with her boss whom she claims to hate but we all know she’s secretly in love with.

  Happy, happy, happy.

  “Can we focus on the Hobby Reindeer Championships? Tell me everything. Beginning with what a Hobby Reindeer Championship is.” I get comfortable in the chair, preparing for an entertaining story because with Jillian, they often are.

  “Okay, so, you know when you were a kid and you had a stick horse?”

  “Um, no.” I shake my head in the negative before reaching for my coffee and taking a sip.

  “Yes, you do.” She’s nearly aghast that I have no idea what she’s talking about. “You know, it was a stuffed horse head on a long wooden stick? Like a broomstick with a horse head? Surely you had one! Though now that I’m saying it out loud it does sound weird…” She trails off here, her face scrunched up while she mulls over the wonders of childhood.

  “Right, okay. I remember those. We used to gallop around the house with them pretending we were cowgirls.”

  “Right!” Jillian’s eyes light up. “So last summer I saw this documentary about hobbyhorse girls.”

  “Hobbyhorse girls?” I repeat, not sure I have a clue where this is going.

  “Exactly.” Jillian nods excitedly. “For years they were a secret society in Finland. For years,” she says again, stressing the importance of the words. “These young girls invented a form of hobbyhorse dressage in which they would prance and gallop like horses and enter competitions, but it was all very hush-hush.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out, even more confused than I was a moment before.

  “It’s a really big deal in Finland. They make their own hobbyhorses, enter into jumping competitions, go to hobbyhorse conventions.” Jillian pauses to stuff a bite of scone into her mouth before adding, “You should watch the documentary. It was really uplifting.”

  “Jillian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What does that have to do with the Hobby Reindeer Championships?” I prod, even though I have an idea exactly what it has to do with the Hobby Reindeer Championships.

  “Oh! Right. So I saw the documentary and decided I’d adapt it for Reindeer Falls. So I’ve got all the kids in the after-school program making reindeer on a stick for the competition next week.”

  “Right, right.” I nod along as if this is the most logical idea Jillian’s ever come up with. “As one does. So what is the problem exactly?”

  “Oh. Well, I realized I have no idea how to judge a reindeer trot.” Jillian shrugs and then grabs another scone from the tin with a big smile.

  “Riveting crisis, Jillian,” I deadpan.

  “I know. But I’ll figure something out.”

  “I know you will. I have faith in you.” I roll my eyes as I stand, ready to take myself and my cookie tin back to my own office.

  “Thanks, boo. But I do have one other teeny-tiny problem I could really use your help with.” Jillian looks at me beseechingly, her hands clasped together and tucked under her chin as she leans forward in her chair and does her best impression of puppy-dog eyes.

  I groan.

  Chapter 2

  Ugh, where is this guy? I bounce my knee nervously while glancing at the door. Pictures with Santa start in twenty minutes and Santa is missing. Or rather, the guy coming to put on the Santa suit is missing. But at the moment, it’s the same thing.

  I’ve got a room full of kids and no Santa.

  If Jillian’s brother bails on this gig I will kill him. And her. It turns out her work crisis has nothing to do with planning an event in which the kids are going to prance around the community center gymnasium on stick reindeer while jumping over obstacles she bought online. Obstacles meant for dog agility training, but whatever. Apparently one has to make do with what they can find until hobby reindeering takes off.

  That’s a direct quote, bless her heart.

  Anyway.

  No. Her crisis was that her boyfriend surprised her by planning a weekend trip, not realizing it was the same weekend as the fundraiser pictures with Santa at the library. An event that Jillian arranges as it falls under youth services. An event I’m now overseeing because Jillian’s skiing with her boyfriend.

  So here I am. Ho-ho-helping.

  All I have to do is get Santa into the Santa suit and ensure none of the children knee him in the balls. That’s the gist anyway. It’s a bigger problem than you’d think. As is finding someone to put on the Santa suit. All the professional Santas get snapped up by the big payers—the River Place Shops, the Christmas-themed hotel with an indoor water park. Heck, Otto’s Christmas Mart keeps three full-time Santas on staff year-round. Besides which, Jillian blew most of her budget on the hobby reindeer supplies so she wouldn’t have been able to afford a premium Santa even if she had been able to book one.

  Hence, she’s booked a second-rate Santa. Her brother.

  “Teddy’s a flirt,” she said. “He’s currently unemployed and living in our parents’ basement, so save yourself the hassle.”

  Noted. At least she’s not trying to set me up.

  She promised him fifty bucks to show up, which is more than I got, now that I’m thinking about it. But I don’t mind helping. I really don’t. As long as her brother shows up to put on the Santa suit.

  I’m giving him another ten minutes before I place an emergency call to my dad and beg him to fill in. He’d probably be happy to do it, as I’m sure Mom’s got him on wrapping duty. He hates wrapping presents. If he doesn’t line up the pattern perfectly she makes him redo it. Then he suggests gift bags and then she tells him gift bags are for quitters and, well, things can get a little tense this time of year.

  I’m just about to call when a man I’ve never seen before enters the library. He’s carrying a couple of books and headed toward the return bin, but then he sees me and pauses, something like recognition crossing his features. Granted, I’m standing in the lobby and I’m staring right at him, but he’s giving me that look that you give to strangers you’re meeting up with. Anyway, I think I’ve got my Santa. Finally.

  “Teddy?” I ask, fighting the urge to look pointedly at my watch as a not-so-subtle reminder that we’re on a schedule.

  He dumps the books into the return slot and then closes the distance between us with a slow stride, like a guy with no job and no use for time constraints. He’s good-looking. Of course he is. Men who come with a warning always are.

  Crap.

  He’s the kind of good-looking that makes my heart rate speed up. And he’s got sexy eyes. Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds dumb, but you know the type? They light up when he talks and they smolder when they look at you. He’s tall with wide shoulders and narrow hips. Strong jaw and perfectly symmetrical features. He’s the kind of attractive that you know is going to age really well.

  And yeah, I want to punch myself in the face for even thinking sexy things about Jillian’s brother.

  He stares a moment longer before shrugging and saying, “Sure,” with a small laugh as his eyes trail over mine. Heavy-lidded brown eyes the color of a swirl of caramel in a pecan pie, which has always been my favorite of the pies. “And you are?”

  What a dick. Who says “sure” in response to “hello”? This time I make a show of checking my watch before I respond. “I’m Noel. And you’re late.”

  “Ahh, you’re Noel. From the community center.” He says this as if it’s all clicking into place for him. As if he’s just remembering he was meant to do something at the library besides drop off books.

  Super bright
, this one.

  And I bet those books were overdue.

  I refrain from grunting as I tell him to follow me and spin on my heel, talking as we walk, reminding him of what Jillian has surely already explained to him. Santa. Kids. Pictures. It’s not hard. We should have this wrapped up in a couple hours and then he’s free to go.

  When we reach the office he’s smiling. “So you need me to put on a Santa suit and play Santa?”

  “Yeah, that’s the general idea.” I’m not sure why he’s so seemingly amused by this. He’s almost acting like he’s doing me a favor when really he’s doing the favor for Jillian. And the fifty bucks.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he finally replies.

  “Put this on,” I respond, shoving the Santa suit into his hands. When he simply grins and starts unbuttoning his pants I take it upon myself to step into the hallway because it’s pretty clear he’s got no relationship with modesty. It’s also clear why Jillian sent the Santa padding along with the costume because her brother does not have the body to play Santa. Unless it was a male stripper version of Santa—that he could definitely do, I think with a peek through the open door. “What were you expecting?” I find myself asking against my better judgment.

  “You were described to me as sweet,” he answers, laughter in his voice.

  “I am—” I start to object but I cut myself off with a shake of my head. I don’t care what this guy thinks. Jillian warned me he was a flirt. I need to stop engaging with him. A guy like Teddy is the last thing I need. Call me crazy, but I find employment and a place of your own really attractive in a man.