Naughty Santa

CHAPTER 1

It was official, Paris decided.

She’d landed in hell.

And the Bible was wrong. Because it wasn’t hot here at all. It was frigid, freezing, wet, windy and...white.

God.

It was so freaking white.

Louis had started whimpering the moment they stepped out of Terre Haute International Airport, and she felt a bit like joining him. It’s okay, baby. Paris tried to soothe her sweet little bichon, wishing she had bought him—and herself—a thicker sweater.

Briefly, she considered turning around and getting on the first plane back to L.A.

She probably would if she hadn’t just endured a red-eye from LAX trying to get to this winter hellscape. She’d had a layover in Minneapolis at four a.m. while sitting in a waiting area with a screaming baby and an obnoxious man loudly talking to someone the entire time on his cellphone.

Who the hell could he have been talking to at that time of the day? And why did he think the rest of them gave a shit that the Red Wings were playing like shit this season?

Considering it had been the middle of the night, and she’d gotten zero sleep on her earlier, overcrowded flight, she’d seriously considered going over to the man, grabbing his phone, and smashing it under the heel of her boot.

Violence wasn’t usually her thing, but damn she’d been tempted.

When it was apparent she wasn’t going to be able to close her eyes for a few minutes and rest in Minneapolis, thanks to the disgruntled hockey asshole, she had stumbled around in search of a Starbucks, waited in line for thirty minutes to order, and finally boarded a frighteningly small plane to Indiana.

Paris was exhausted and running on nothing but a soy latte and organic chickpea puffs. High functioning wasn’t a word she’d use to describe herself at the moment.

She briefly let go of the handle of one of her Steve Madden bags, as she hitched the shoulder strap of her Vanderpump Pets dog carrier higher on her arm and adjusted Louis’s sweater. The poor baby was shivering.

Paris set him down to do a tinkle, but all he managed was bouncing from paw to paw and a half-hearted potty before looking at her in desperation. She scooped him up and put him back in the carrier, hoping it would at least add a barrier against this brutal wind for him.

She wasn’t quite that fortunate because the air hurt her face.

Why in the hell would people choose to live in places where the air actually hurt their faces?

Someone was supposed to be here, she murmured to Louis, wondering what the hell she would do if the store employee was a no-show. Renting a car and trying to drive in all this snow seemed like a very, very bad idea for a California girl.

Once again, she tried to figure out what kind of lunatics would live in a place like this voluntarily? Had no one in Indiana ever been to L.A. with its bright sunshine and warm breezes?

Sure, there was smog, but that felt easier to breathe than this crisp, cold air that burned all the way to her lungs. Finally, she went back inside the airport because if left to the elements, she would freeze to death.

Paris spent the better part of twenty minutes dragging her two oversized bags, Chanel tote, and Louis around the baggage claim area searching for her name on one of the drivers’ signs, just in case she’d missed it earlier. When that proved fruitless, she returned to the tundra, aka the passenger pickup area outside. She got all her bags aligned on the sidewalk and spit the hair out of her mouth, blown there courtesy of the wind, which kept hurling it across her face, forcing it into her lip gloss.

Blinking rapidly, Paris pulled her sunglasses from her purse and put them on. Not because there was any actual sun in this godforsaken waste land, but because they served as a protective barrier from the snowflakes gathering on her eyelashes.

Now she understood why skiers needed goggles.

Also, why was there no overhang here? Didn’t most airports provide shelter for travelers? She added no overhang to the running list of complaints she was compiling about this place in her head.

Uh, Miss. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Paris glanced around to see an elderly man pointing to where her suitcase was rolling away from her.

Shit, she muttered, grabbing the handle of her other bag and dragging it behind her to chase her luggage. Not an easy task in Fendi heeled boots. She had almost reached it when her foot slid across a slick patch of ice, and she did the world’s most ungraceful windmill as she tried not to fall on her ass.

It was official.

She hated Indiana.

Paris? a female voice called out.

Paris turned to see a gray-haired woman standing next to an ancient pickup truck that was older than she was.

Oh God.

That wasn’t her ride, was it?

No. Please, no.

But just then, another frigid blast of air hit her in the face, and she changed her mind.

Fuck it. She needed to get off this sidewalk.

Is that you, honey?

Paris grabbed the handle of her runaway suitcase, took a fortifying breath—that almost froze her lungs into two solid ice cubes—and walked over to the woman.

Yes. I’m Paris, she said warily.

The woman shocked her by wrapping her up in a tight bear hug that ended when Louis, who was being squished, yipped.

The woman released her, her eyes going wide when she spotted Louis. Well, look at that. You’ve got a puppy in your purse.

Paris nodded numbly; the cold was starting to freeze her blood. And then, because God hated her, another big gust of wind kicked up, whipping her beret off her head. She turned and watched the adorable red cashmere she had purchased a few days ago as an accent piece for her new winter wardrobe fly away.

She didn’t even bother to chase it. Instead, she blinked rapidly against the tears of frustration that threatened. She didn’t dare cry here because she really didn’t want her eyes to freeze shut.

What a shame, the woman said. Don’t worry, dear. We’ll get you another hat. One that’ll cover your ears and keep you warm.

As she spoke, Paris saw her gaze slide down, taking in her Dolce and Gabbana cropped cheetah print coat.

We’ll get you a coat too. I’m Sandy, the one you talked to on the phone last week.

Oh, Paris said in surprise. When you said someone would pick me up, I didn’t realize it would be you. I hope I didn’t put you out.

Not a bit, Sandy reassured her. We better get you inside the truck. Your lips are starting to turn blue.

Paris glanced around to see if there were any airport employees who could help her lift her bags into the truck, but before she could wave someone over, Sandy had taken the handles of both suitcases and dragged them to the back of the truck.

Let me get someone— She stopped as she watched Sandy sling both of her pushing-the-weight-limit suitcases into the truck bed. Um. Wow. You’re strong.

Sandy grinned. Been working at the Holly Jolly Feed and Seed with your great-aunt Lydia for close to thirty years. Those bags of feed don’t move themselves.

Sandy’s smile faded, and she quickly swiped at her eyes. That place just isn’t the same without Lydia. She looked at Paris, who got the sense Sandy expected some show of emotion. Paris nodded sadly but said nothing.

What could she say? She’d never met Aunt Lydia, though she had received a birthday card from her every single year of her life, always with a brand-new five-dollar bill in it. The card and cash had been thrilling when she’d been a kid, but as she got older, she’d started to roll her eyes and wonder why her great-aunt bothered. Paris felt bad about that now, especially when it was obvious Sandy had truly loved the woman Paris’s dad called Kooky Lydia.

Not that her dad meant that name cruelly or even literally. It was just because, well, the fact Aunt Lydia owned a combination Christmas shop and Feed and Seed store sort of opened her up for comments like that.

Paris glanced at the words, Holly Jolly Feed and Seed emblazoned on the side panel door of the truck as she climbed in, placing Louis in between herself and Sandy, who was sliding behind the wheel.

Is it okay to drive in this weather? Paris looked out at the snow which seemed to have started coming down heavier in the last few minutes. She reached up to shake the flakes from her now-wet hair.

Sandy grinned. This is nothing more than a flurry. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of snow in California.

Not where I live, she answered.

What a shame, Sandy said, and for a moment, Paris thought she must be joking. Then she realized the older woman meant it.

Mercifully, the old pickup had a functioning heater, and within minutes, Paris started to thaw. Louis had curled up in a ball and was sleeping peacefully in his carrier.

The radio was on, tuned to some country music station, though Sandy kept the volume down low so they could talk.

Paris liked to think of herself as a social girl, the type who could hold her own in any conversation, but she didn’t have a clue what to say to Sandy.

Sandy, however, wasn’t having the same trouble, and Paris realized the other woman was really excited to have her—a complete stranger—there.

I can’t wait to show you the store. You’re just going to love it, especially at this time of year. I mean it’s Christmas year-round at the Holly Jolly, of course, but we kick it up a notch or twenty in December. Joe, that’s my son, hung the lights last weekend for me because I wanted you to see how pretty the building is all lit up.

Paris nodded, mainly because Sandy, who would have been an amazing telemarketer, hadn’t left her an opening to reply.

For forty-five minutes, she filled Paris in on all the little stuff she thought she needed to know—about the town, the store, the Christmas party that was coming up in a few short weeks.

The more Sandy talked, the more horrified Paris became. Because it sounded like North Pole, Indiana was trapped in some sort of time vortex where nothing had changed since the fifties.

It also occurred to her, the closer they got to the town, that Sandy thought Paris was moving to North Pole to run the Feed and Seed.

Paris didn’t correct that misconception because, well, dammit, Sandy was super sweet. While Paris would wither up and die in Sandy’s sleepy, snowy hometown, it was obvious the other woman loved it. Paris would have to ease her into the idea of selling the store. Or hell, maybe Sandy would want to buy it herself.

"Lydia would be beside herself if she were