He scowls down at himself. “This thing’s a fecking sauna. There’s no air in here.”
“Stop whining.” I step into his space and grab the beard, tugging the elastic up so it covers his own dark bristle. His breath ghosts over my fingers. “Hold still.”
His hands come up, big and warm, closing around my biceps to steady me when I wobble on my stupid curly-toed elf boots. It’s not a tight grip. Just enough to remind me that he could hold me still without trying.
“I am never, ever going to forgive you for this,” he rumbles, voice muffled under the beard.
I pat his ridiculous padded belly and reach for the belt, cinching it snug around his waist. “You’ll be doing this for me every Christmas before you know it, big guy.”
“Don’t start making traditions I have to live up to,” he mutters.
“Too late.” I step back to assess my work. Between his size and the suit, he looks like Santa’s meaner, hotter cousin. “You’re absurd. And perfect.”
“Holy crap, I need a picture.”
We both turn as Floyd appears in the doorway with his phone in hand, eyes bright.
“You guys are perfect,” he declares. “I think…yeah. Twiggy, can you stand on that present? It’ll highlight the size disparity between you. You really do look like a freaking elf; it’s crazy.”
I roll my eyes but climb carefully onto a sturdy faux present wrapped in red foil. Bran plants himself beside me, arms folded.
Floyd presses a smaller prop package into my hands. “All right, Santa, put your hands on your stomach and say ho, ho, ho.”
“Fuck you, you, you,” Bran says instead, deadpan.
“Bran,” I hiss.
Floyd groans. “Oh dear God. Don’t say that to any kids.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Bran says, which is not reassuring at all.
We pose anyway. The camera clicks.
I start to climb down, but Bran stops me, putting his hand on my ass. “Hang on. If we’re taking pictures, we’re getting a good one. Get one of these.”
Before I can saymerry motherfucker, he swings me up so I’m swinging behind and around his neck, one arm planted securely around my thighs with my ass in the air. “Smile, Tink.”
Laughing, Floyd snaps the picture, and then it’s game time.
Bran takes his place on the throne Floyd cobbled together from an old salon chair and a lot of gold spray paint. I stand at his right hand, little elf with a clipboard, as Floyd goes to unlock the front doors.
Bran hooks a finger under his collar. “This fecking suit itches.”
“Hush,” I say. “Here they come.”
Thefirstwavehitsall at once.
Kids in mismatched coats and dollar-store mittens. Volunteers from the children’s home in bright T-shirts over long sleeves. A couple of foster parents, faces already tired.
The air fills with voices and laughter and the sugary smell of hot cocoa from the refreshment table Floyd set up near the registers.
I slip into my role. Greeting each child, I crouch to their level, ask if they’re excited to see Santa, compliment a sparkly hat or a dinosaur backpack. A few of them are wary; more of them are vibrating with sugar and adrenaline, eyes fixed on Bran.
It’s weird, being on this side of it. I remember standing in this line myself, hopped up on the same cocktail of nerves and holiday magic. The crush of bodies. The too-bright lights. The way every noise seemed ten decibels louder because I was supposed to be having fun.
The only thing that’s changed is where I’m standing.
I help the first kid, a four-year-old with a head full of ringlets, climb into Bran’s lap. She studies him like a tiny interrogator, little fingers hovering near his beard.
