Chapter One
As far as hangovers went, Nick Santos woke with one that deserved a “Best in Show” blue ribbon.
Merry fucking Christmas to me .
No doubt he was in need of some Christmas cheer, but he’d gone way, way overboard last night. And it was only December thirteenth—twelve whole frickin’ days from the Big Holiday Bang.
Not that there was much to cheer about in North Pole, Maine these days. Nor was there any sort of holiday bang of late. It was more of a holiday fizzle.
He sighed as he rolled onto his back, incapable of cracking even one eye open, knowing it’d be bloodshot and blurry as hell. And his head... The incessant throbbing made him feel as though it’d been used as a soccer ball in a world championship game, getting kicked up and down the field with no reprieve in sight. For sure, he’d killed off some brain cells last night.
What had possessed him to get sufficiently sauced with his old high school pals Kris and Rudy was beyond him. Thank God Jenny Bells had stopped into the bar to make a late-night delivery from Sugar Plums, the bakery down the street.
“Soak up some of that alcohol, boys!” she’d said to the poor slobs starving at half-past midnight.
Then she’d taken pity on Nick and his friends and had offered to drive them home. Otherwise, they would have stumbled around the town square, making asses of themselves the way they’d done in their younger years, before Rudy had moved away.
And speaking of home... Was Nick even in his own bed? Had he stayed put when Jenny had dropped him off, or had he made a house call? Lord only knew where he’d ended up in his drunken state—and that dream he’d had! What a doozy it’d been. He’d actually dreamt he was at the North Pole. Not the small town where he’d lived all twenty-five years of his life, but the alleged one, frozen tundra and all. In his reverie, Santa Claus had been miffed at him and had put Nick on his Naughty List.
Oh, yeah...big surprise there.
He snickered and it sent a shockwave of pain down his neck, making him wince. He’d had some wild times in the past, no denying it. In fact, there’d been one extremely memorable night a couple of years ago when he’d done it up right with two girls he’d met at Yule Tide’s—the same bar where he’d gotten schnockered the previous evening with the boys.
The women had been from San Diego or San Jose or maybe even San Francisco. He’d long since forgotten where they’d hailed from and what their names were. But he certainly hadn’t forgotten those decadent hours they’d spent together, naked limbs entwined, various positions explored, lots of moaning and groaning going on.
For sure, that wicked threesome merited him a top spot on Santa’s bad-boy list. Not that he hadn’t deserved the self-indulgence, given the depressed state of affairs in his life and the town, but he could concede the fact that he might have pushed some boundaries in the ecstasy department.
Sadly, it’d been the only high point of the last few years. He easily surmised that living in the Christmas Capital of the World—or at least, it had been until the economy had tanked and their local department store Santa had passed away—was what had made Nick think of Santa in his inebriated state.
He grimaced.
Seriously? Santa Claus?
Shoving aside the bizarre image in his head of the decidedly not -so-jolly one wagging a finger at him and making a disappointed tsking sound, Nick finally opened his eyes, propped himself up on an elbow and surveyed the room.
Yep, it was his. A hint of relief washed over him. He really hadn’t wanted to discover he’d made a reverse booty call. True, his Little Black Book held the phone numbers of a multitude of single gals in northern Maine and across the western border into Quebec and the eastern one into New Brunswick, but he wasn’t inclined to whip out said book these days.
Truth be told, he hadn’t been the least bit enticed by the handful of
As far as hangovers went, Nick Santos woke with one that deserved a “Best in Show” blue ribbon.
Merry fucking Christmas to me .
No doubt he was in need of some Christmas cheer, but he’d gone way, way overboard last night. And it was only December thirteenth—twelve whole frickin’ days from the Big Holiday Bang.
Not that there was much to cheer about in North Pole, Maine these days. Nor was there any sort of holiday bang of late. It was more of a holiday fizzle.
He sighed as he rolled onto his back, incapable of cracking even one eye open, knowing it’d be bloodshot and blurry as hell. And his head... The incessant throbbing made him feel as though it’d been used as a soccer ball in a world championship game, getting kicked up and down the field with no reprieve in sight. For sure, he’d killed off some brain cells last night.
What had possessed him to get sufficiently sauced with his old high school pals Kris and Rudy was beyond him. Thank God Jenny Bells had stopped into the bar to make a late-night delivery from Sugar Plums, the bakery down the street.
“Soak up some of that alcohol, boys!” she’d said to the poor slobs starving at half-past midnight.
Then she’d taken pity on Nick and his friends and had offered to drive them home. Otherwise, they would have stumbled around the town square, making asses of themselves the way they’d done in their younger years, before Rudy had moved away.
And speaking of home... Was Nick even in his own bed? Had he stayed put when Jenny had dropped him off, or had he made a house call? Lord only knew where he’d ended up in his drunken state—and that dream he’d had! What a doozy it’d been. He’d actually dreamt he was at the North Pole. Not the small town where he’d lived all twenty-five years of his life, but the alleged one, frozen tundra and all. In his reverie, Santa Claus had been miffed at him and had put Nick on his Naughty List.
Oh, yeah...big surprise there.
He snickered and it sent a shockwave of pain down his neck, making him wince. He’d had some wild times in the past, no denying it. In fact, there’d been one extremely memorable night a couple of years ago when he’d done it up right with two girls he’d met at Yule Tide’s—the same bar where he’d gotten schnockered the previous evening with the boys.
The women had been from San Diego or San Jose or maybe even San Francisco. He’d long since forgotten where they’d hailed from and what their names were. But he certainly hadn’t forgotten those decadent hours they’d spent together, naked limbs entwined, various positions explored, lots of moaning and groaning going on.
For sure, that wicked threesome merited him a top spot on Santa’s bad-boy list. Not that he hadn’t deserved the self-indulgence, given the depressed state of affairs in his life and the town, but he could concede the fact that he might have pushed some boundaries in the ecstasy department.
Sadly, it’d been the only high point of the last few years. He easily surmised that living in the Christmas Capital of the World—or at least, it had been until the economy had tanked and their local department store Santa had passed away—was what had made Nick think of Santa in his inebriated state.
He grimaced.
Seriously? Santa Claus?
Shoving aside the bizarre image in his head of the decidedly not -so-jolly one wagging a finger at him and making a disappointed tsking sound, Nick finally opened his eyes, propped himself up on an elbow and surveyed the room.
Yep, it was his. A hint of relief washed over him. He really hadn’t wanted to discover he’d made a reverse booty call. True, his Little Black Book held the phone numbers of a multitude of single gals in northern Maine and across the western border into Quebec and the eastern one into New Brunswick, but he wasn’t inclined to whip out said book these days.
Truth be told, he hadn’t been the least bit enticed by the handful of
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