Kissing Kris Kringle by Erin Quinn Page A

him another lick, pranced in a circle around his feet and then trotted over and peed on his kitchen floor.
    “Outstanding,” he said, shaking his pounding head. With a weary sigh, he got out the paper towels and disinfectant. The pup tugged at his pant legs as he cleaned the puddle, thinking it all great fun.
    “You may be cute, but you’re not that cute.”
    Deciding he’d better take the little mutt out before it decided to do other things to his floor, Kris scooped it up and headed for the door. The squirming bundle of fur thought this a grand adventure and nearly wiggled right out of his hands in its effort to lick Kris’s ears. Kris tried not to be charmed by the creature, but who could help it?
    He turned the knob on the backdoor and pulled. The door didn’t budge. He tried again, finally risking putting the puppy down so he could use both hands. He twisted and turned, pulled until the tendons in his arms bulged and it felt like his head might explode. Nothing.
    Cursing under his breath, he double checked that he’d thrown the locks, confirmed that, indeed, the bolts were back. But the damned door wouldn’t open. At his feet, the pup whined.
    “I know, I know,” Kris muttered.
    He moved to the front door, dog at his heels. That door wouldn’t budge either.
    “Damn it,” he shouted, putting his weight into the task, thinking the wood must have swollen in the damp. But it wasn’t damp out. It had been the driest winter anyone could recall. No snow. No rain. No hint of either. A heat wave in North Pole, Maine with Christmas just around the corner. It was beyond comprehension.
    Pissed off and hung-over, he turned around in frustration and let out a startled shout. The Santa suit and bag he’d left on the floor now lay carefully arranged over the back of his sofa. Jacket spread out above the pants, belt looped at the waist. Boots at the end of the white cuffed legs. Hat beside them.
    Kris looked at the puppy. The miniature Santa hat sat propped at a jaunty angle over one of its ears.
    “How’d you do that?” he demanded.
    Predictably, the puppy answered, “Wruff.”
    Angry now, feeling like the brunt of a joke he hadn’t gotten, Kris stormed to the back door and jerked on the knob again. It gave not an inch. Feeling trapped, confused, and at the end of his rope, he turned and found the Santa suit had relocated to the kitchen. With the same meticulous placement, the suit sprawled across his kitchen table.
    “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.
    Another ten minutes of trying to escape his own damn house and Kris grabbed a hammer from his tool belt and busted one of the panes of glass in the backdoor. He reached out and tried the knob from the other side with no success. Cursing wildly now, he busted all the glass panes in the door, pounded down the spindly frames and tried to climb through the opening.
    An invisible force pushed him back so hard he fell on his ass. Shaken, freaked out, pissed off and still hung-over, Kris gave it the good fight, trying again and again while the puppy watched with its head tilted curiously, offering encouraging barks every once in awhile.
    Finally, exhausted and so confused he couldn’t think straight, Kris collapsed on the floor, sitting with his back to the wall and his hands dangling between his bent knees. The puppy happily jumped on his lap and begin licking him again.
    A shower made him feel better. Clean, shaved, teeth brushed and three extra strength aspirin later, he’d convinced himself that he’d overreacted. The doors had been stuck—sure. But that stupid suit hadn’t moved and nothing had pushed him back from crawling through the broken glass to freedom. Obviously he’d still been a little drunk and considering he’d consumed enough to forget how he’d ended up with a puppy and the Santa bag, he shouldn’t be too surprised that a few hours sleep hadn’t cured his intoxication. But now he felt clearheaded and ready to face the day, return the