Page 7 of Naughty-ish

I have no doubt the us means I’m to stay, and I couldn’t attempt to leave anyway as my feet feel pinned to the floor.

Once both women scuttle around us, Nick’s hands come to my shoulders, keeping my back to him. “What happened out there?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, lowering my head.

“Holliday.” My name from his lips is like a sip of wine. So full. So rich. So tangy on the tongue.

“My ex is an asshole.” I shrug with Nick’s hands still on me. My response is the long and short of it. Ten years of marriage all down the drain with a keg of beer and a football game.

Nick remains quiet behind me. I should really turn to face him. I don’t know why I’m hiding in this kitchen or why he followed me in here.

“If you don’t want a new man for Christmas, what do you want?”

I snort, and off the cuff state a worry on my mind. “I’d like for the old one to pay my mortgage.”

On that note, I spin to face Nick, and his eyes meet mine, searching them. I’m certain he reads everything. Pathetic. Desperate. Incapable. Unable to take care of things despite always preaching I can.

My parents are pushing harder for me to move in with them. They know I’m financially strained, taking on a new house with a single income paying barely over minimum wage. Mitch’s child support has been spotty at best, and I don’t have the means to take him to court again. I don’t want us to come to extreme measures. Not yet.

I shrug again while Nick watches me. His stare is eerie and strange, and eventually, my brows pinch.

“That was too much information. Just ignore me. I’m in a . . .”—a funk? A phase? I thought I’d be so much more at forty—“a mood. Bah humbug.”

Nick lightly chuckles. “I don’t think that’s it.”

He’s right. That isn’t it. I’m lonely, and I’m sad. The holidays are wearing on me when I don’t want them to. This is the happiest time of the year, right? I have children who make this time magical, but I’m finding it difficult to muster the jolly brightness I need.

I’d like a little seasonal cheer for me, and it’s not in the form of something bought in a store.

“You need a night off,” Nick states.

I laugh, waving a hand to dismiss the thought. “A night off? What’s that?” I pause. Maybe next year? “I’ll be fine.” It’s true. I will be.

Nick doesn’t believe my answer, and why would he? He mows my grass. He moves my garbage cans. When he’d hung Christmas lights on my gutters, my children were convinced the fucking elf did it for them.

And Nick . . . he just played along when Nash told him the next day the pimp of an imp delivered the magic to our roof.

“If you ask Santa nicely, he might give you anything you wish for,” Nick teases while his eyes don’t leave my face.

An anxious giggle ripples up my throat. I couldn’t possibly tell this uncharacteristically sexy Santa what I really want for Christmas.

“Just ask.” The drop in his voice is like a live wire right down the middle of my body and straight between my thighs. My core drums ba-rumba-dum-dum, and my mouth goes dry. I’d like to be naughty, so very naughty with him.

My breath hitches with the thought, and Nick’s eyes widen at the intake of air.

“Tell me, Holliday, have you been naughty or nice this year?” There’s no chance of answering him truthfully, and I’m saved from response when he leans toward me and winks again before spinning on his heels and exiting the kitchen.

My heart hammers, and I lift a hand to my chest, feeling the thumpity-thump.

Dear Santa, can I have Nick naked underneath my Christmas tree, please?

A sharp, sarcastic laugh bursts from me in strange relief at the fantasy and the fact I’m kind of not joking.

+ + +

When Mitch flakes on taking the kids for the remainder of the day as he promised, I ask my parents to watch them. My mom offers to have them spend the night. The nearly twenty-four-hour reprieve sounds like a godsend. While I’d love nothing more than to spend the remainder of the day taking a bath, a nap, and binge-watching television, I decide to brave the stores instead for the damn gaming system Mitch promised Nash. Eloise will be easier to please as she wants a special look-alike doll that I can order online and have shipped to the bank, so she won’t see the package.

As I battle the mall, searching all the locations that boast having the Zlot 720s, I eventually end up at a technology superstore. Turning down an aisle, as directed by one of the less-than-enthusiastic holiday helpers, I nearly collide with a large body.