Santa's Broody Helper Read online

  Santa’s Broody Helper

  A SLEEPING WITH THE SCROOGE Short Story

  Amelia Wilde

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Connect with Amelia

  Also by Amelia Wilde

  Matthew

  Christmas Eve, and Snowdon is covered in snow. Ha fucking ha. The only thing worse than being a tech-startup millionaire out on his ass and waiting for stock options cash is making ends meet by delivering packages in a brown uniform. It’s a far cry from the Italian shoes I used to wear. And the bastards gave me a hoodie. Do you know what wet snow does when it meets a cotton hoodie? It makes a wet hoodie. Soaked to the bone. Chilled to the core. I’ll never warm up.

  I steer the truck through the snowiest street in Snowdon, keeping my eyes on the road. It’s tough, cause every other second it’s a damn whiteout. What asshole is dreaming of a white Christmas? Probably whatever asshole lives in the last house on my route tonight. I’m late. I’m sure to get written up or talked down to by Patrick, who is nominally my boss. Patrick, who has never been a CEO in his life. Patrick, who never will be. That fucker will have the nerve to say something on Christmas Eve. You bet he will.

  The back of the truck is empty, but for the most forlorn package I’ve ever seen. One end is crushed, exposing a layer of bubble wrap that probably didn’t do a damn bit of good. It’s not my fault. If people want nice things, they shouldn’t wait until the last moment to buy everything. But it’s also not my problem. Whatever’s in the box can be reordered in time for New Year’s. That doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to the final delivery encounter of the evening.

  Through the snow I can just make out the front of the house. White, with multicolored Christmas lights strung over the porch. Over the entire porch. There’s a string on the little peak of the house, and another one on the porch railing. Is that...garland? It is.

  God.

  The door opens with a clang—it’s on the truck crooked, but I can’t leave it open anymore, not even to speed up my deliveries. It’s too cold. One step outside, and I’m up to my knees. Well above my boots. God rest ye merry gentlemen, it’s up to my fucking knees. I’m picturing the person who’ll open the door. Somebody old, probably. Someone who will take a long time to reach the door and open it while I stand in snow-soaked pants and a hoodie that might as well be paper towel. Someone who won’t even look at me. They’ll take the package from my hands, turn back to the family that waits for them inside, and slam the door in my face.

  At least after this the night will be over. At least, after this, I can go back to the rented apartment above the video store, where I have one bed and one recliner, and stare at Netflix the rest of the night.

  The porch steps are clean-swept. Someone’s shoveled recently. Not an old person, then. Or someone who has a snow removal service. As part of my rent, I’ll have to clear the snow from the front of the video store tomorrow. All six feet of it. The cold seeps down the back of my neck and stabs me through the kidney.

  An antique doorbell graces the siding next to the door and I punch my finger into it. There’s no time for finesse. I’m fucking freezing. And I want to get out of here before the clock strikes midnight and I’m spending Christmas Day delivering packages to people who are pissed about their twenty-three-hour delivery taking a full day.

  The door opens in a blaze of light and heat. I get a lungful of gingerbread cookies and something else—is that chocolate? It reaches inside my chest, wraps a fist around my heart, and squeezes. Soft Christmas music, something instrumental and light, fights its way through the snow. Wind whips through my ears, through my hoodie—but in this instant I feel...warm. And safe. Like I did when I engaged the security system in my penthouse in LA, before everything went to shit. I want another breath of that.

  It’s so powerful that it takes me a minute to notice the woman who’s standing in the doorway.

  Big blue eyes peer out from a fresh face—so fucking fresh. Pink cheeks. Creamy skin. Her lips are slightly parted and a shade of red I want to swipe across with my tongue. No—need to swipe across with my thumb. My heart wrenches out of its spot in my chest and tries to get to her. It wants to fly out and become part of her chest. Which—now that I’m noticing it—is un-fucking-believable. I know I’m not supposed to look at her breasts, and I don’t. I definitely do not flick my eyes downward to where a red tank-top skims her cleavage. I can just sense it, see it, because it’s right there in front of me like a sign from heaven.

  She presses her lips together and they curve up into a smile that steals my breath. Time slows, each moment like a drip of water from a faucet. I can feel them passing as acutely as I felt the moment when the board voted me out for being too in-charge of the company I helped build. Only this time, the heat in my face has a pleasurable edge to it. An edge that has an echoing effect down between my legs.

  I could avoid the erection. I know I could. If it weren’t for the silk pajamas.

  Because over that red tank top, she’s wearing white silk pajamas. Pure white, with white buttons that look like they’d come off with a firm tug. The perfect waves of her hair brush the shoulders of those white silk pajamas. She tips her head toward the door, studying me. What cold? What snow? I could stand here all night.

  I’m standing in front of a fucking angel.

  The lights dance off her hair, different colors flickering away while she watches me.

  Say something.

  “Delivery,” I say.

  She brings her hands in front of her face, like there was any chance a man wearing my uniform was doing anything other than delivering a package. For a moment tears gleam in her eyes. What the fuck is going on? And then those baby blues skim down from my face, stop lightly on my chest, and lower to my hands.

  My hands, holding the crushed package.

  The angel’s face falls.

  Holly

  The crushed package looks like a broken, gaping heart. Because maybe it is. Honestly? It totally is. I know with one glance that what’s inside is no longer viable. A whoosh of anger and shame and righteous fury goes through me like a bomb. Damn. Damn! I got totally ripped off. Clearly. No reputable sperm donor would send the precious goods in bubble wrap and cardboard. I’d expected—I don’t know. A foam cooler inside a layer of packing peanuts inside a metal case, like they do for heart transplants. At least, I think that’s what they do for heart transplants. Seems right.

  And here I thought I was experiencing a Christmas miracle.

  God, he looked so good when I opened the door. And yes, I have put some thought into the Christmas decor in my house. I made sure everything was and continues to be bathed in a soft, warm glow. That’s the kind of glow I want to bring a child into. One that feels like love. And home. And family. Especially since I don’t have one.

  And sweet baby Jesus, I tried. Man after man. None of them worked out. None of them felt right. So this year I decided to take things into my own hands. I literally decided to take sperm from a donor into my own hands. Or a turkey blaster. Whatever.

  My lip quivers.

  I hate it, but it quivers, and he sees.

  “Is everything all right?”

  The man outside is devastatingly handsome. He is far too handsome to be working as a delivery man. Dark eyes peer out at me from a face so chiseled it could carve a path through the ice that covers my driveway. I spent way too long staring at him before I noticed the tragedy in the palms of his hands. His body is half-turned from mine—ready to go to his truck—and this guy doesn’t need to hear about any of my problems. Not when he h
as people to get back to. Not on Christmas Eve.

  “It’s great. Thanks for the delivery.” I reach forward to snatch it out of his hands, but he doesn’t let go right away. He holds on. My eyes lock on his. Is the delivery man...fighting with me? About the package?

  “I can see the tears in your eyes.” His voice is so low and smooth, but there’s a sharpness there that makes me think he hasn’t spoken in a while. “Is there something I can do?”

  “You’ve done everything.” The helpless note in my voice cancels out all the good feelings I carefully crafted, what with the music and the pajamas and the cookies fresh out of the oven. I didn’t plan on the pajamas and cookies at first, but the estimated delivery got later and later until I’m standing here now, in front of him, barefoot and on the verge of tears. “You did what you were supposed to do. I—I’ll handle it from here.”

  He lets go.

  I cradle the box in my hand, knowing full well that the sperm inside is dead.

  It has to be. One corner of the box is completely crushed, like the delivery truck ran over it. A sad curl of bubble wrap graces the empty tear. I give it a tentative shake. Plastic on plastic. There’s no point in opening it up. If there’s any sperm inside, it’s no good now. If it was ever good. Whoever sent this probably took my money and used ranch dressing as a substitute. I resist the urge to lift the box to my nose. No. Too far. Way. Too. Far.

  I can’t stop my shoulders from sagging, and this is too much for the delivery man. “What was in there?” A strange light comes into his eyes. “Listen. I don’t have any more deliveries. If there’s anything I can do, you name it. I think the Walmart down the highway is still open, if it’s something I can grab from there.” He looks over his shoulder, then back at me. “I don’t want you driving in this snow.”

  A weird, high laugh bursts out of me. “Do you think they sell sperm at Walmart? Maybe I could get some at a rollback price.”

  Those dark eyes narrow, my porch lights illuminating them with red and green and orange. All the colors wheel through in the blink of an eye. But he doesn’t look shocked. His cut jaw stays firmly in place, full lips pressed together. “Sperm?”

  “Yeah.” I toss the box out onto the porch, where it falls with a defeated thud. “I’m trying to get pregnant tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.” I put my hand on the door. “And now that dream is dead. I was stupid enough to think—” My throat closes before I can finish the sentence. “You don’t need to be here for this. I’m just going to turn in. Merry Christmas.”

  I go to push the door shut, only to meet...resistance.

  His big hand is in the center of the door, keeping it open. A gust of icy wind slips through the opening, cutting through my pajamas and making my nipples peak. Is it the wind that’s stoking this fire low in my belly, or am I just thirsty for a sperm donor? Am I thirsty for the way his muscles look, even in a nondescript brown hooded sweatshirt?

  “I need your signature,” he says, and a deep part of me bursts into flames. “I can’t leave without it.”

  He can’t leave without it.

  The world shifts around me. My house leaps up from the ground and falls back in a different place. Either that, or I’m seeing it differently. I thought he’d ruined everything, but now, with his eyes piercing into mine, I’m thinking about other ways he could pierce me.

  He said he didn’t have any more deliveries.

  “No.” The word comes out on a whisper at the same moment the wind picks up.

  “What was that?”

  I clear my throat. “I said no. I’m not ready to sign yet. You didn’t deliver anything worthwhile.”

  Matthew

  I don’t know what this angel is thinking, but I know what I’m thinking. Dirty thoughts. Filthy thoughts. Thoughts about popping off the buttons on those silk pajamas and bending her over the nearest available piece of furniture. I’m thinking of taking her mouth with my cock. It’s off the fucking charts. I haven’t thought about a woman like this since college, but now my need for her rages through my veins like pure fire. “You won’t sign?” I can feel myself standing taller, looming over her. She’s petite, but curvy in a way that makes me want to sink my fingers into her flesh. It’s been too long, my body sings. All of it. Every inch of it. Including the throbbing erection begging for release between my legs.

  She lifts her chin, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. And then that precious creature shakes her head.

  She’s daring me.

  We stand frozen in our places like two figurines in a snow globe.

  “Then I’m coming in,” I announce. “Special delivery.”

  She gasps, her entire face lighting up like someone’s shone a spotlight on her. It takes everything in me to keep my feet planted on the porch. I’ve announced my intentions. If she wants to shut me out now, I’ll take my hand off the door and let her. I’ll walk away. I’ll go back to Patrick and let him read me the riot act about taking longer than necessary on a delivery.

  But she doesn’t do that. She takes her hand from the door and steps back, chest rising and falling with the force of her breath.

  I burst in through the door, letting the signature pad fall from my belt onto the floor. It’s loud, but I don’t care, and she doesn’t either. She’s got her face tipped up toward mine, lips parted. The angel backs up toward the banister until there’s nowhere left for her to go.

  I shrug off the hoodie to reveal my plain black t-shirt. Then her eyes do drop below my face—scanning down over the body I’ve spent years perfecting. I haven’t missed a day at the gym in a decade. Thank you, past self. You fucking did it.

  My hands are freezing but when I run my fingertips down the side of her neck she closes her eyes and moans.

  Moans. Like she’s starving for touch. I’ve got plenty to share. I cage her in by the banister and do the only thing that makes sense—I take her fully into my arms and kiss her.

  At first, it’s tentative, soft. My lips are fucking frozen and I don’t want to hurt her. But then she darts her tongue out and licks me, and all bets are off. The silk pajamas feel like kingdom come against my skin. “Take them off,” she breathes against my mouth. “Take them off and give me the delivery.”

  “I need to warm up first.”

  I kiss her again, so hard and fast that it’s a pleasant shock to my bones, and then I carry her into the Christmas wonderland that is the living room.

  All of it’s meticulously decorated. Holiday throws on the couch. A fire burning merrily in the fireplace, flames neatly contained behind a grate. More stuff—so much Christmas stuff I don’t care about. I only care that the fire burns hot, because I’m going to have her naked before she can sing O Come All Ye Faithful.

  I set her down on her feet in front of the sofa and shove the coffee table out of the way. Hunger rips through me like the howling wind outside. I am hungry, but I’d starve if it meant staying with her. The top button on her silk pajamas comes loose underneath my fingers. Then her hands stop mine. Her soft palms light me up, an electric buzz, and I have to forcibly pull my gaze where she’s touching me to meet her eyes.

  Those blues are filled with heat and wonder, like I’m the angel in this situation. I am no angel. I am a delivery man who’s succumbed to a warm house and a warmer body. I shouldn’t be here at all. She clears her throat, wriggling her weight side as if she can’t bear to wait another moment but has to. “Before we—before you—” She swallows hard, tipping her head back to expose her throat. “My name is Holly. Holly Bliss. I thought you should know that.”

  Holly Bliss. You have to be kidding me. She’s better than a Christmas angel, and there’s no more perfect fit on the planet for this house, and this season. Everything good about this season. I didn’t think there was anything good about this season until she opened her front door, and maybe not even then.

  Now...

  “Matthew Hudson.”

  “Hi.” This, so softly it
might as well have floated down from the sky and breezed against my ear.

  “Hi.” The animal needs inside me for warmth and safety have been sated, but with every moment that passes another one roars louder. “I’m going to take your clothes off now, Holly. I need to see you.”

  “Do it,” she whispers. The next button on her pajamas pops off and falls to the floor with a tiny thud. The silk top melts away, Holly wriggles out of the pants. An actual choir of angels sings. Red panties. The red tank top, which isn’t nearly as sturdy as I previously thought. Her nipples push against the fabric. Holly lets me appreciate the sight for half a breath, and then she launches herself at me, a whirlwind of Christmas fucking cheer.

  She wraps her legs around me, her knees shoving my shirt aside, and I’ve never felt anyone’s lips this hot against my own. I’ve never responded with a growl, pushing my tongue into her mouth, exploring every inch of her. She’s wet through the fabric. The heat of her brushes against my hips. The heat of her is everywhere—on my skin, in the room, in the world.

  “I thought you’d never show up,” she murmurs against my lips. “I thought this Christmas Eve would be a total fucking disaster. And now you’re here. But you need to get dry.”

  I pull back. Did I just hear her correctly? “Dry? I’m perfectly dry.”

  “You’re not. Your pants are soaked.” She does a little move that should be illegal to extract herself from my arms and sinks to her knees in front of me. I moved the damn table, but the backs of my legs butt against it from the force of her attention. Holly undoes my buckle like it’s personally offended her, and then she yanks down the brown uniform pants. It’s never felt so good to take off pants in my life, and I’m a huge fucking fan of taking off my pants. She’s right. They were wet. My boxers might not be wet, but they’re also barely doing their job. My cock strains so hard against them that it’s a dangerous game, pulling them off my hips.