Dylan swallowed the excuse on the tip of his tongue—that really hadn’t been his fault, but he’d probably pushed his luck enough for today—and did what he was told.
The leather seats were warm and comfortable. Dylan shifted uncomfortably as he sank into them.
“Where are we—”
Somerset closed the door before he could find out.
It felt like High School all over again.
Dylan, wedged into the back seat of the sedan as he stripped out of his jeans, snorted to himself at that thought. High School on the TV maybe. Foster kids with a chip on their shoulder tended to have a very different experience.
He kicked the ball of damp denim under the seat and bent forward to pull the hoodie up over his head. When he looked up, he caught Somerset’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Heat flushed up from his chest and stung his ears. He wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t as if Somerset hadn’t seen it all before.
“I thought we were back to pretending we don’t know each other,” Dylan said.
The corners of Somerset’s eyes crinkled. Dylan didn’t need to see his face to imagine, in detail, the quick flash of a smile.
“I don’t need to know you to enjoy the view.”
Dylan snorted and reached into the bag Somerset had handed him. He pulled out…
Santa’s clothes.
Sexy Santa, apparently, in starched white shirts and waxed denim. It wasn’t what Dylan had expected. He wasn’t sure what hehadexpected. His own clothes, maybe, or a Santa suit like he had moonlit at a mall.
“Don’t tell me,” Dylan groused as he pulled the shirt on and buttoned it up. The light cotton felt warm against his skin, as if it had been hung in front of the fire instead of stashed in the trunk of a car. It wasn’t a spell, exactly. Things made in the North Pole just tended to be cozy, to be comfortable. “Another of my grandfather’s hand-me-downs?”
Somerset snorted. “If I’m caught going through any of Santa’s drawers, it won’t be your grandfather’s,” he said. “You have your own wardrobe.”
That felt… Dylan paused halfway through buttoning his cuffs and tried to decide what exactly it did feel like.
Convenient, he supposed. But it did raise one question.
“How did they get my size?” he asked.
Somerset reached up and adjusted the mirror. Instead of his eyes, the only reflection was the street, the sidewalk wet and gritty with salt and snowmelt. A homeless man huddled on the steps of a building, bundled up in a ratty old coat, and two women with coffee cups in their hands gave him a wide berth as they walked by.
“Jars probably sent brownies to measure you in your sleep,” he said.
“What!” Dylan sputtered. That wasnot… OK, he didn’t know what answer he had expected, but it wasn’t that. “Are you serious?”
Rather than answer, Somerset just got out of the car. He slammed the door behind him.
The women had nearly reached the car, arm in arm now as they put their heads together. Even with the heavily tinted windows to protect his modesty, Dylan still flushedas he grabbed the jeans to put them on. He wasn’t sure if it was the situation or Somerset’s joke that made him feel exposed.
“It better be a joke,” Dylan muttered under his breath as he hurriedly pulled thick socks on and shoved his feet into black leather ankle boots. He’d just finished and moved on the coat when the back door opened and Somerset bent over to look in.
“Ready?” Somerset asked expectantly.
Dylan shrugged to settle the black denim on his shoulders and glanced down at himself. Brownie measurements or not, the clothes fit him like a glove, and the warmth soaked down into his cold bones. He supposed that he was as ready as he was going to get, although…
“Ready for what?” he asked as he slid over the leather seat to the door. “Where are we, and how will they help get Alice back?”
Somerset held out his hand. “You’ll see.”
Dylan stared at it. He wanted to take it and feel the press of Somerset’s cool, callused fingers against his palm. Except then he’d have to let go, back to pretending that Somerset was just his bodyguard.
“What if someone sees?” Dylan asked dryly. “Is this appropriate for a bodyguard and his boss?”
