Page 63 of Santa Baby

“Spending my hard-earned money on people who actually deserve it.” I tilted my head toward the table we were standing around. “See anything that sticks out to you?”

I already knew the answer. She was hovering near a scribbled, lengthy Christmas list. June, eight, from Brooklyn. June loved to draw, which was apparent based on the doodles covering the page, front and back. She’d listed at least a hundred different things.

“She wrote out the specific colors of color pencils she wants. Every single one.”

“By color?”

Fia nodded wistfully. “She reminds me of me just based on her list. My favorite Christmas present to this day was an art kit my dad gave me. One of those big, wooden boxes that open up in three ways, with chalk and pencils, a whole set of oil pastels. I still have it, the box at least. Sometimes, when I have a little extra money, I go to the fancy art supply store in midtown and pick up a few pencils to put in the box. They’re expensive.” She slid her fingers over the list. “Like ten dollars a pop.”

“Did you ever take art classes?”

“Not outside of school. Mom taught art, you know, so she taught me everything she knew. I’m not an artist by any means but I love to draw. I’d draw all day long.” She sounded so wistful, like she was locked in a dream. I watched the emotions play over her face as she smiled dreamily.

I picked up a pen and began to sign my name, with a twist.

“Art classes at the Met?” Fia looked up at me, shocked. “Mason, those classes are insanely expensive.

“It depends on who the artist hosting them is, but she’d enjoy it, don’t you think?” I wrote down Gabby’s contact information for the parents so they could get in touch with me about the classes, and clicked the pen, setting it back down on the table. “What do you want for Christmas, Fia?”

“Are we doing gifts?” She smiled up at me, shaking her head. “I didn’t think⁠—”

“I’d like to get you something, something that matters. Not jewelry or dresses.” I thought I knew her. I was already thinking about marrying her a few weeks in, anyway. But there was still an undertow of newness to this relationship. Yeah, this felt more natural and more right than anything I’d ever done, but there were still layers to Fia I hadn’t been able to explore, not yet.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, blushing. “I’m not easy to shop for.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I like everything.”

“Well that makes this even harder.” I led her away from the table, toward the bar, where she ordered a festive drink made with spiced vodka and cranberry juice. I watched her raise the glass to her lips. Her dark red lipstick smudged the crystal and I felt out of my own body for a moment. We hadn’t slept together yet. Being a man who only hooked up, this was new, and I loved it, the anticipation of it, the getting to know her first. “Come home with me.”

Her dark eyes met mine, shining in the dim glow of the Christmas lights all around us.

“Spend the night,” I continued, my voice dropping an octave. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

She smiled but it wasn’t the kind, bright smile I was used to. It felt darker, more sensual, and I started to come apart at the seams with heat.

But then a shrill feminine voice cut through the heated tension swirling between us. I turned to find Abigail Astor Aberfeldy waltzing in our direction, swinging her gilded cane at the ankles of everyone in her way.

“Great,” I muttered, draining my drink.

“What?” Fia laughed, just as Abigail came to an abrupt stop in front of me, several inches too close for comfort.

“Mason O’Leary, you shady bastard.”

“Merry Christmas, Abigail. You look absolutely ravishing, as usual.”

“Don’t butter me up, boy. I know for a fact you didn’t respond to my invitation to my Christmas Tree Ball on Monday night. Making a mockery of me, are you? Heather Schuyler has been going on and on about the fancy party she’s throwing, trying to upstage me, and guess what I heard through the grapevine?”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

Hard of hearing, Abigail barreled forward. “That you’re going to her party and not mine.”

“I’ve had my fill of auctions, Abigail, you can’t blame me⁠—”

“Are you this blundering idiot’s girlfriend I’ve been hearing so much about?” Abigail turned to Fia, who was grinning with amusement.

“Yes, ma’am.”