Mason was a charmer. I’d let him drool on me. Now that he wasn’t scowling, I actually wanted to make eye contact.

  “Noted,” I quipped, dabbing at my sleeve. I was suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of my skin, the way my neck felt hot, the way I kept glancing at his mouth.

  He ducked around, found the Santa hat, gave it a shake, then gently fluffed it before placing it on my head. The effect made the suit feel…complete.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the steel closet door. Red suit, jolly belly, perfect white gloves. Mason’s eyes met mine in the reflection. The way he looked at me made it hard to breathe.

  He hovered just beside me, closer than he needed to be. “You look legit. Happy?”

  “Almost,” I said. “I’ll be happy when this is over and I’m allowed to go home and throw this thing into a bonfire.”

  “Santa shouldn’t play with matches.” That smile again, softer now. I wanted to ask if he ever relaxed, but right then, I sort of hoped he wouldn’t. The way he watched me made me feel…I didn’t even know. Seen? A few hours ago I didn’t want him to see me. Now I didn’t want him to look away.

  Today was one confusing day.

  He motioned me toward the hallway. “Let’s give them a show.”

  We stepped back into the chaos of the mall. The volume seemed to have doubled. Every sound echoed—shrieking children, bored teens, a tinny version of “Last Christmas” playing on a speaker with the flu. Cinnabon smelled stronger now, pushing out every other scent except for a hint of floor wax.

  The photo area had filled up again. The line coiled around a stack of fake presents. Parents scrolled their phones in bored solidarity. Kids bounced in place, half-dressed for snow and half-delirious on sugar.

  I squared my shoulders, determined to get through this with as minimal drool as possible.

  * * * *

  Possible lap-launcher incoming, Mason signaled with a small hand motion as the last kid walked away with a puzzled expression. He’d asked for a rocket. I told him to become an astronaut. His father clarified a toy rocket. I stood by my career advice.

  The next child in line had to wait until the last one cleared the red carpet, like they were at some sippy-cup celebrity premiere where the paparazzi consisted of tired parents who couldn’t figure out how to use filters.

  I used those precious seconds to position my arm and leg in strategic defense mode. No more human cannonballs. My thighs had the bruises of a UFC fighter, and twice now I’d nearly sung “Jingle Bells” in falsetto. They could drool, try to force-feed me their mushy Cheerios, and leave mysterious stains on my suit that I was choosing not to investigate, but I drew the line at soprano auditions.

  A demonic gleam entered the eyes of the approaching boy right as Mason gestured them forward. My arm shot up faster than a teenager's hand at a Beyoncé concert. What was with these tiny savages? The only thing I launched when I was five was Bryce’s stupid green army men after he stuffed them in my Mr. Potato Head. The man had a wife and children, for Christ’s sake.

  The kid bounced off my forearm like he’d hit an invisible force field. I placed him on my lap with a smile that screamed “Santa loves you” while my eyes said, “Try that again and you’ll get coal until college.”

  Mason had invented our little defense system after I’d taken an elbow to my foam-padded dignity. He’d analyze each approaching sugar-bomb, then flash me the “incoming missile” signal if the kid looked like they were gearing up. His success rate? A solid four out of ten. Not an exact science, but better than letting these tiny terrorists decimate Santa’s tender regions.

  Meanwhile, I was figuring out how to stop a squirming toddler from plummeting off eight inches of lap. The fake belly hogged most of the real estate on my short legs. One wrong wiggle and this kid was going to discover that gravity didn’t care if you’ve been naughty or nice.

  Just what I needed. “Mall Santa Yeets Toddler” trending on TikTok.

  Thank the North Pole the dad snapped his precious memory and collected his sugared-up monster before the next wiggle could make me infamous.

  Since our little supply closet moment, Mason had done a complete one-eighty. No clue what flipped him from Grinch to decently charming, but the personality transplant made working together almost fun.

  After I survived one particularly difficult child, he slipped me a candy bar and soda with a conspiratorial, “Keep this on the down-low unless you want to witness what happens when thirty kids discover Santa has a Snickers.”

  For the past hour I’d caught Mason stealing heated glances at me. Instead of looking away when I’d busted him staring, he’d grinned wickedly. Sweet Christmas stockings. I knew that look. The elf wanted to pound his North Pole into Santa.

  I was an idiot for even considering letting him jingle my bells in the supply closet.

  He owed me an explanation for acting like a holiday dictator. Until then, my chimney was off-limits.

  The Snickers was scarfed as soon I opened the wrapper, followed by my stomach demanding actual food. The smells from the food court had me salivating. I was so hungry I’d nearly let the next kid shove his cookie into my mouth.

  When Mason announced Santa needed to feed the reindeer so he was taking a thirty-minute break, I practically launched the five-year-old at the mom still taking pictures. Good thing she had excellent reflexes.

  The parents waiting in line let out a collective groan. One guy even flipped me off. I ignored him.

  “Buy you a meal?” Mason asked from behind me. “You’ve earned it.”

  “You might go into debt from how hungry I am.” I pressed a hand into my lower back and winced. “You’d think they would supply a better chair knowing how long Santa has to sit. My back hurts, and my butt’s numb.”

  Mason glanced at my ass. Perv. “A massage would help improve your circulation.”

  “Is Santa’s little helper offering his services?” It struck me that I was flirting with an elf. That was the coolest and most bizarre bragging right.

  We’d stopped in front of Hibachi Express. The smells were about to make me feral. So was the way Mason stood behind me, like he was claiming space. I sucked in a sharp breath when his lips touched my ear. “Nothing little about me.”

  This man did not just make me rock-hard in a mall food court. I glanced down to see if I had a tent in my red pants, but the foam belly blocked my view. Maybe I still had a chance to become infamous on TikTok. “Santa Getting a Boner for Hibachi Express.”

  Some people squeezed between us and the dining area wall. Mason pressed into my back to give them room. My body moved before my mind knew what it was doing, leaning into him like I had every right. I didn’t even care if people saw Santa leaning into his tall elf. I just liked the way his fingers flexed on my hips, as if to say he liked it too.

  “We could take our food to the maintenance hallway. Wouldn’t want any kids seeing you without your beard. There’s a small room behind the supply shelves. Has a table and chairs.”

  He had a point. Plus, it would be nice to get a break from the beard and hat. Let my face breathe for a bit. Still, I knew damn well what would happen in that room once my second belly was full. “You have to tell me one thing first.”

  We moved a step forward. Only four ahead of us now. “What?”

  I pulled away and turned to look up at him. “Why did you hate me on sight?”

  Mason’s brows furrowed. “I didn’t hate you, Alex.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” I folded my arms and glared at him.

  His lips twitched.

  “I have a right to know what I did to piss you off.” My arms dropped, and my shoulders sagged.

  “Nothing.” He held my gaze. “I sincerely apologize for the way I acted toward you.”

  “People don’t act like a dick, which you did, because of nothing,” I said. “There had to be a reason I sparked such a reaction in you.”

  Mason gently gripped my upper arms and moved forward as I moved backward, staring straight ahead. Then his eyes lowered to mine. “You did spark a reaction in me, Alex. And I fought against it.” His tongue rolled over his bottom lip.

  “You’re saying you were attracted to me?”

  The guy behind me made a disgusted sound.

  “Mind your own business,” I snapped over my shoulder. “Nobody asked for your damn opinion.”

  “Santa…” Mason said like I was being the unreasonable one.

  Fuck that. I wasn’t ashamed of who I was. I’d dealt with assholes like him before, who thought their narrowminded opinion needed to be heard, who thought shaming someone for being gay was their right. If he could be an asshole, so could I.

  “Santa,” Mason repeated.

  “What?” I snapped. Oh shit. I’d actually answered to that name. If I didn’t get out of this place, I might end up wandering the parking lot looking for my sleigh.

  “I need you to calm down,” he whispered into my ear. If I turned my head, our lips would touch. I was tempted.

  “Santa will not be silenced,” I whispered back, giving in to the urge to nip his chin. Stubble prickled my lips.

  Mason hissed. “Behave. And we’ll finish our earlier conversation in private.”

  “I think I’ve got it figured out.” We moved closer to the counter.

  “Impress me,” he said.

  My toes curled in my boots. For a moment, I lost the ability to think. I’d caught the double meaning. Blinking to clear the filthy thoughts from my head, I focused on our conversation and not those lips I was dying to kiss.

  “You instantly crushed on me, thought I’d feel it and become uncomfortable. So, to make sure your attraction didn’t become my problem, you decided to be a douche instead. Am I close or in a completely different zip code?” It hadn’t been hard to put together once I had all the pieces. Or I needed to hand in my amateur detective badge.

  I wasn’t sure which from the way he was staring at me. I had an urge to snap my fingers in his face. “Well?”

  “You nailed it,” he said. “Nobody deserves to feel uncomfortable, no matter the setting.”

  One person was now in front of us, pocketing packets of condiments while he waited for someone to take his order.

  “But you were a jerk to me,” I reminded him.

  “Apparently my logic needs some work.” He shook his head. Then we ordered our food.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the small, windowless room behind the supply shelves. The food was so good I could’ve cried. Rice, noodles, chicken. The works. For a second, I thought about proposing to the plastic take-out container. Half my meal was gone before Mason even finished his first bite. I forced myself to slow down, to savor the spices and enjoy the moment. We’d both ditched the hats and my beard on the supplied hooks, and my face could finally breathe. My skin still burned from the tape trauma. I probably looked like I’d lost a battle with an angry sea sponge.

  The little folding table rocked slightly and the overhead fluorescent bulb made it look like we were in an interrogation room. My gaze flicked to the door, waiting for a seasoned cop to barge in, pound the table with his fist, and accuse me of being an imposter before demanding to know where I’d hidden the real Santa.

  As I refocused on my food, I noticed Mason watching me. Not in a creepy way but like he was trying to decide if I was somehow trouble and a snack all at once.

  “My mind cannot take all this quiet.” I took a drink of soda to quench my dry mouth. “Talk about something before my imagination has me doing twenty-five to life.”

  He didn’t ask. Just grinned, like he thought I was adorable or he’d just found his soulmate.

  “Thought you’d want to decompress after hours of dealing with mall noise.”

  “Decompress, not sit in total silence.” I set down my drink. “My brain holds me hostage when it’s bored.”

  Mason’s lips twitched. “Makes you do twenty-five to life?”

  Picking up my fork, I told him about the interrogation between bites.

  His rich laughter drew me in without effort. “Does the prison term you mentioned mean you’re guilty?’

  I ran a napkin over my mouth, catching stray sauce. “Are you trying to get a confession out of me without my lawyer? I have an entire defense team that’ll eat you for breakfast, just as soon as they take a nap.”

  Mason grinned, eyes filled with amusement. The man looked unfairly good even when simply breathing. “You’re not the only one with connections out there. At least my defense team is potty trained.”

  For a heartbeat we stared at each other, then erupted into the kind of laughter that shook our bodies and made it hard to breathe.

  I couldn’t remember ever doing this before—eating with abandon and not caring if I looked like a total dork. Mason was easy to be around, easy to talk to, not only getting my humor but actively engaging in it.

  He exhaled once, slowly, like he was bracing for something serious after the laugh we just shared. “I owe you an explanation.”

  “For what?” My voice was thin, even to me. I wanted to sound casual. Instead, I sounded like someone who needed the Heimlich.

  “For how I was earlier,” he said. “For acting like you’d set the place on fire.”

  He paused, like the words were hard, then pressed on. “Last holiday season, new Santa started. Seemed friendly enough. At first it was just, you know, jokes. Lame, but not offensive, until they were. I called him on it, said it was inappropriate considering our work environment. Most are in it for the paycheck. They forget or don’t care they’re representing the innocence of childhood.”

  Mason had been right to put a stop it. Childhood wonder had a ticking clock already. No one had a right to steal any part of it. I may not enjoy oozing kids or launchers, but they left Santa’s chair with a candy cane, a coupon, and career advice, not a small part of their innocence vaporized.

  “He chilled with them but started pushy flirting with me. Didn’t matter that I wasn’t interested. He crossed right over boundaries like he was oblivious to them. Caught him more than once following me around the mall. Compliments. DMs. Texts. Thing was, I’d never given him my number.

  Pretty soon, he was waiting for me by the car at closing.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath, clenching my hands under the table.

  “I told him to cool it,” Mason went on, his voice flat like he was recounting someone else’s story, “but he escalated. Started saying shit in public, getting pissed when I changed up my routine and where I parked, refusing to back off. It got ugly. He found my parking spot one night and tried to grope me. I snapped. I’d reached my breaking point. Security got involved. So did the cops. An ambulance pulled up to the scene.”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched. “He’s not here anymore.”

  My stomach twisted. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I know what it’s like to feel uncomfortable.

  I’m bigger than most, and some people find that intimidating. When you walked up…”

  “In a Santa suit,” I said.

  Mason shrugged. “Only the attraction was reversed and I tried to squash it.”

  He looked at me, something soft behind the green. “I refuse to make anyone feel like I did.”

  “This makes so much more sense. You weren’t a jerk because you were attracted to me. I was a trauma reminder all day.”

  He nodded. Then leveled me with a look that melted every muscle in my body. “The cognitive dissonance was hard to wrap my head around.”

  I thought about that for a second, then leaned forward. “Just so we’re clear, you haven’t made me uncomfortable. Not once. I mean, unless you count the beard tape, but that was my own personal hell.”

  He grinned. “Good. Santa shouldn’t feel threatened.”

  That made me laugh. “Santa takes his personal space very seriously. Unless he’s offered free food.”

  My back took that moment to protest the chair I was sitting in. I twisted to one side, hoping to stretch away my back pain. Didn’t work. Any chair that didn’t offer lumbar support should be outlawed. At the ripe age of twenty-five, I needed a chiropractor and a sciatica pillow for my butt. And ice packs for my abused thighs.

  Those drooling, cookie-munching toddlers were turning me into a ninety-year-old man. If I didn’t keep my guard up, I’d need a cane and a patch of lawn to protect.

  He pulled back, breathing harder than before. “Still hurt?”

  “My face or my ass?” I grinned at him.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Both.”

  “That chair’s a torture device.”

  He came around behind me, hands on my shoulders. For a second, I thought he’d push me down, but instead, he tugged the chair back from the table and crouched behind me, big hands kneading my lower back through layers of fabric. His fingers curled deep, right along the line where the suit bunched up.

  I groaned, because it hurt and helped, and it was embarrassing how quickly I got hard just from him working my muscles. He squeezed my hips, thumbs digging slow circles, then raked those same thumbs just under the foam padding.

  The Santa suit bunched awkwardly, so it was less massage and more Mason fighting my costume for control. He seemed to enjoy the challenge.

  “Relax,” he said, leaning low so I could feel his breath along the edge of my jaw.

  “Hard to do with a boner,” I muttered. “Are you always this good with your hands?”

  His lips grazed my ear. “You’ve got no idea.”

  He palmed my ass, pants still on, and squeezed. If I’d had the ability to melt, I would’ve puddled right onto the floor. The pressure was perfectly tailored to me—not too hard, not playful either, just enough to make me feel like he really meant it. He kneaded then let his fingers skate lower, tracing the undercurve of my ass before dragging them up again.

  My whole body went hyper, as if I was being touched for the first time.