Santa's Pet
Authors: Rachelle Ayala
Santa’s Pet
Book Two in the Jingle Belles Holiday Series
Rachelle Ayala
Amiga Books
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“Heart-melting, butterflies in your stomach, laugh out loud funny!” – Yomari Suarez
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Dedication
To my writing bestie, Brittney, who is brilliant and always there to pick me up whenever I need a friend.
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Copyright © 2015 by Rachelle Ayala
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.
Contact Rachelle at:
Brittney Reed’s life is boring, according to her flamboyant talk-of-the-town sister who drafts Brittney to be the sexy elf at this year’s Pet Rescue event at their Christmas Tree Farm.
Ben Powers has a single goal in life—to be drafted to play pro football. Unfortunately, his college team didn’t make the playoffs, and he’s spending Christmas at his grandfather’s place to avoid his football fanatic hometown full of siblings and fans.
Santa Grandpa needs his help, and when Ben meets Brittney, trouble and romance lock hands and follow them everywhere. Ben finds Brittney is more than a pretty face, and Brittney likes what she sees when she gets a peek beneath Ben’s armor.
When Ben is charged with a sex crime and Brittney is forced to give up her social media company, the Spirit of Christmas steps in and shows Santa and his favorite Elf that love is the answer to every question.
Praises for Santa’s Pet
Witty and sweet, Santa's Pet is all that you want and more to get you in the mood for the Holidays. - Aleen Davis
Santa’s Pet by Rachelle Ayala is a magnificently breathtaking story of realizing that no one is perfect but that we are all deserving of pure, unconditional love. - Amber McCallister
A hot Christmas romance that hits some real issues. You won't be able to stop reading this book! - Chantel Rhondeau
Love is worth it even when it's not easy, as Rachelle proves with her spin on the magic of the season! - Corissa Palfrey
I was sucked in right away and kept in the whole time. Slut-shaming is such a growing topic these days and this book covered the subject in a positive way. - Deborah O'Connor
It is hilarious, sexy but heartwarming and twisty Santa's Pet that you cannot imagine. - Jessica Cassidy
Not your typical Christmas story but heartwarming and enduring none-the-less ... another great book by Rachelle. - Kristine
Heartwarming Christmas love story filled with humor, mystery, intrigue and the magic of Christmas. - Reggaewoman
This is another wonderful book written by a fantastic author, Rachelle Ayala, her characters and locations are so rich and wonderful. - Neena Martin
I couldn’t put this book down, I got hooked at the start and can’t wait to read the next one in the series. - Patricia Shepard
This beautiful story shows how a Christmas disaster can be turned into a real Christmas miracle. - Rebecca Austin
The magic of Christmas Spirit truly comes to life in this wonderfully written story by Rachelle Ayala. Do You Believe? - Terri Merkel
Heart-melting, butterflies in your stomach, laugh out loud funny, romantic comedy of the Holiday season! - Yomari Suarez
~ Brittney ~
“Why do I have to look sexy?” I tug at the cheap polyester fabric of my sister Lacy’s skimpy elf costume. My boobs are bigger than hers, and even with the fake fur trim, my cleavage is as big as a sumo wrestler’s butt crack.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not overweight, but having double D’s means I’m top heavy, always in danger of toppling, or even worse, busting out with a wardrobe malfunction. Which is why I prefer to be behind the checkout counter at our parents’ Christmas tree farm or even better, facing a huge computer screen and writing code, not on display as an elf helping Santa give away rescue pets.
“Sexy sells,” Lacy says, handing me fishnet stockings. “Put these on under the fluffy, furry elf boots.”
Uggs they’re not. These “boots” have six-inch spike heels and fur.
“Seriously?” I dangled the stockings sold only in adult specialty stores or online and delivered in brown paper. “I’ve never seen an elf wear fishnet stockings. Where’d you throw the candy cane striped ones that came with this?”
“Trust me,” my sexy sister, known as Racy Lacy, says. “You don’t want candy cane legs. They’re unflattering and will add twenty pounds to you.”
“Only because I’m wearing this mini dress. It’s so short and tight, I can’t even bend down.”
“Yes, you can.” Lacy’s eyes glint with mischief. “And won’t old Santa get an eyeful.”
“Oh, you’ve gone too far.” I roll my eyes back until they scrape my frontal lobe. “I’m supposed to be helping kids find pets to rescue, not flirt with Grandpa Powers.”
Every year, the Powers Pet Store helps the Ragamuffin’s Rescue charity run an adoption event at our Christmas tree farm during the weekends leading up to Christmas. Dogs, cat, birds, bunnies, farm animals, and an occasional squirrel are brought in from rescue centers all over the San Francisco Bay Area and given the opportunity to meet prospective owners. The highlight of the event is taking a picture with an authentic Santa Claus, that is, one who is well over seventy years old and has a real white beard, a jiggly jelly belly, and a hearty deep ho, ho, ho.
My outgoing, flirty elder sister, Lacy, had always been the elf who helped the parents, usually the fathers, decide to spring for the pets. But this year, she’s pregnant and none of the maternity Christmas elf costumes are racy enough for her. Since Grandpa Powers is my grandfather’s best buddy, I’m stuck substituting for her at the pet rescue gala.
“You’re a natural.” Lacy brushes blush over my pale, sallow cheeks. “Blonde, blue-eyed, so white you look like you came from the North Pole. Won’t Grandpa Powers’ eyes twinkle when he puts you on his lap?”
I slap at my sister’s fluttery hand. “I’m not sitting on his lap.”
“You used to. It was the highlight of your year. You couldn’t wait to sit on Santa’s lap.”
“That was before I knew Grandpa Powers wasn’t really Santa.” I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. “I was a baby.”
“Oh, come on, you were fifteen before you stopped sitting on Santa’s lap. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. Dad says his health hasn’t been the best.”
“In that case, I better wear something more modest, like maybe an angel costume.”
Lacy clapped her chest. “Heaven forbid. You might scare him straight to the next world. You look beautiful. Go to the barn and do your job. We’ve got over a hundred pets who need new homes. Last year was such a big success that we doubled the number of animals.”
Grrr … My sister’s a marketing consultant. She has people skills. She’s sparkly and charming, a real extrovert. She could talk penguins into buying snow tires and mosquitos into giving blood. Me? I’m a computer nerd. I started my own software company before I was out of braces. I don’t socialize, I social media. I don’t gossip, I instant message. I don’t flirt. I use emoticons.
And I have no idea how I’m going to help Santa give away a hundred pets.
I’m so screwed, I need a miracle.
~ Ben ~
Ben Powers was too big for the Santa suit. At two hundred and forty pounds, he was looking to be one of the top pro draft picks next spring until his team, the University of California Goldrushers, blew the season with a 6-6 record. What horrid luck to end his senior year season with no chance of a bowl game appearance.
Now, he wasn’t sure he’d be ranked high enough, despite leading the regular season with stops and slamming quarterbacks left and right, earning him the nickname of Bamm-Bamm Powers from the press.
“I’m not sure you want me ripping up your suit,” Ben said to his grandfather, Jon Powers, the usual Santa who represented his pet store at the annual Christmas Rescue event held at the Reed Christmas Tree farm.
“No time to find another one,” Grandpa said. “You’ll just have to fit into it without the fake belly.”
Ben stretched the suit over his broad shoulders, unable to button it to the top. “This isn’t working. Isn’t there a Santa agency where you can call for a substitute?”
“Not this close to Christmas. Besides, I’ve always wanted one of my grandsons to follow in my footsteps.”
Grandpa had suffered a mild heart attack earlier this week and had been ordered by his doctor to take it easy, which meant no picking up children and bouncing them in his lap. Some of the toddlers could be pretty hefty, and oftentimes, parents wanted their twins and triplets to all climb aboard for a single photo.
Since his playing season was over, Ben had volunteered to help Grandpa. Anything was better than going home to a snowy, windswept ranch in Wyoming where the entire town lived and breathed football, and every family gathering centered around the large screen TV. Usually, he wasn’t home since he had to train with his team for the bowl game, and he knew that the entire town would tune in to watch him play. Unfortunately, this year, he was sidelined, and the last thing he wanted was to be on the audience side of a TV screen.
Ben pulled up the plush red pants and cinched the generous waist. “The legs are too short.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be wearing boots.” Grandpa hobbled to the closet and dug out a pair of shiny plastic boots with fake fur lining. “These might be a squeeze too, but you won’t be walking much.”
Ben snagged the boots, shaking his head. This gig was going to be a shit-show. Not only did he have to wear this hot, uncomfortable and itchy outfit, he’d have to endure grubby fingers pawing him and slobbery kisses from the little darlings.
But he owed it to his grandfather for helping him escape the ranch. Ben’s father had married a widow whose husband had left her with a huge spread of ranchland. Suddenly, twelve-year-old Ben and his elder brothers, Damon and Nash, were shipped from San Francisco to a sprawling ranch outside of Buffalo, Wyoming near the Bighorn Mountains to blend in with an existing family full of kids. Only big brother Braden got away, since he was already going to college, although Ben hadn’t seen him since then. Seems like after Mother died, Braden cut all ties to what was left of the family.
“How many hours do I have to be in this costume?” Ben tugged the boots in place. Yep. They were tight and pinched his toes at the tip.
“Woorrroooaahh!” Treat, Grandpa’s elderly basset hound raised his head, howling his disapproval. Either that, or he was begging for a treat.
Grandpa bent over and scratched his dog all over his neck and long, floppy ears. “You silly dog, that’s Ben pretending to be me. It’ll be eight hours in the suit, but it’ll go fast. The elf will bring the kids and pets to you, and all you have to do is sit still while she arranges them for the picture. You don’t even have to smile, since no one can see your face behind the beard.”
“Buh-buh beard?” Ben rubbed his smoothly shaven jaw as horror dawned on him. Not only was he going to be stuck for eight sweltering hours in a barn surrounded by barks, squawks, and howls, but he’d be behind a mass of yucky hair or polyester or whatever fake beards were made of.
“That’s the most important part of the costume,” Grandpa said. “Mine is one of the finest—made of hair from a yak’s belly. You’ll see. It’ll make you look and feel like a real Santa. Of course, I don’t use it anymore since I grew my own.”
Grandpa tugged at his own flowing, human-haired beard that he kept year-round.
“Yak’s belly?” Ben sputtered.
“And so’s the wig.” Grandpa tottered to his chest of drawers and extracted a flowy, shimmering mass of hair. “Even comes with a mustache and matching eyebrows.”
“How are you going to get all that on me?” Sweat popped over Ben’s forehead at the prospect of all that hot hair covering him. California was definitely not the North Pole, and even in December, the mercury could soar into the eighties. Add to that a stuffy barn full of animals. Cripes jiminy.
“Glue!” Grandpa dug out a small plastic bottle. “Don’t worry, this is medical grade. Hold still.”
For the next half hour or so, Grandpa meticulously applied glue and facial hair first to Ben’s chin and cheeks, and then his upper lip for the mustache. He pressed the beard with the side of a comb and ordered Ben to close his eyes while he fixed the bushy white eyebrows.
Never in all these years when his grandfather played Santa Claus, had Ben ever imagined how much time and trouble went into the prep work. He’d always looked forward to the gifts and when he was younger, sitting on Santa’s lap and pulling his beard to see if it was real. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and boy did it pinch.
The top of the suit wasn’t wide enough whereas the belly area sagged. Ben tried buttoning to the collar, but wasn’t able to. Fortunately the long flowing beard covered the part of his chest he had no choice but to leave exposed.
Grandpa stood back, hands on his hips and nodded, admiring his handiwork. “Put on the pair of wire-rim glasses and you’ll look just like me, a real Santa from the North Pole.”
“Woorrrooo!” Treat agreed. The loose skin hanging off his jowls flopped merrily, and he wiggled his fat rump on the floor.
“I’ll skip the glasses. Guess we gotta go get started?”
“One sec while I dress up Treat.”
“You’re kidding me,” Ben said, almost rolling his eyes. The glue on his face was so stiff, he felt as if he was encased in a mummy mask.
“He’s a big lazy dog anyway. Just feed him a doggy treat every so often and he’ll stay at your side. Makes people think you’re a real Santa with a real reindog.” Grandpa patted his ample belly and ho, ho, ho’d like a real Santa.
He rolled a red velvety tube over Treat’s head and stuck his front legs through two short cuffs of white fur. After untangling the dog’s floor-length ears from the costume, Grandpa buckled a harness full of jingle bells over Treat’s shoulders, and tied his waist with a black belt.
Treat stared dolefully at Ben, as if he too, would rather be anywhere else than encased in a red Santa suit in a barn full of kids.
“Ready?” Grandpa said, stuffing a handful of doggie biscuits in Treat’s mouth.
“As ready as ever. Are you coming along?”
“I’ll drop by later in the afternoon,” Grandpa said. “Gotta rest the ticker.”
“I’d do anything for you.” Ben stood to hug him. His shoulders were so cramped in the tight suit, he could barely move his arms, much less pick up children. Which might be a good thing. Let the elf do the hefting. Maybe she’d turn out to be a female linebacker this year. “So, who’s the elf? Is she going to be in charge?”
“Don’t worry. She does it every year.” Grandpa attached a leash to Treat, who groaned as if getting up was a pain.
“Good. Because I’m just going to just sit there. This outfit’s so tight, if I bend over, it might rip.”
“No bending needed. Lacy will arrange everything. You remember her?”
When Ben’s mother had died, he and his brothers had stayed with his grandparents while his father traveled in his job selling animal feed. For a short while, they’d lived next door to the Reeds who owned the Christmas tree farm.
“Yes, who wouldn’t?” He recalled the bright auburn-haired teenage girl who was the center of attention.
“She’s married now, so no flirting with her.” Grandpa poked his ribs.
“You know I don’t flirt.” Ben glowered, but his expressions were no doubt hidden by all that yak hair. Besides, Lacy was four years older than him and treated him like a brat. It was her sister, Brittney, the bookworm who’d been friendly to him. Too bad they hadn’t stayed longer than a summer before they were taken to Wyoming to live in snow hell.
“Might do you some good, buddy. Young buck like you, don’t you have a line of girlfriends?” He tossed another doggy biscuit at Treat who caught it and snapped it up crunchily.
“Girls line up, but who has time?” Ben was already fretting that this eight-hour Santa stint was going to cut into his weightlifting schedule. If he wanted to be ready for the pro football scouting combine in February, he had no time off for Christmas nonsense. He’d know by the end of December if he’d been selected, although his coach told him chances were good. He just needed to bulk up another five or ten pounds without losing his speed and agility.
“All work and no play …” Grandpa grabbed Treat’s leash. “At least be jolly, okay? Can’t let the kids down.”
“Of course, I’ll be jolly. I’m Santa, aren’t I?” He picked up Treat and rubbed the dog’s loose skin.
“Aaahrroooah,” the dog panted his approval.
Yep. If only women were as easily pleased as his Grandpa’s dog. A treat, a belly rub, and a chew toy. Who had time for more?