Page 16 of Santa's Baby

I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

One orgasm about Reuben should be more than enough to send me right off to dreamland, but my head is too wound up. I drift in and out – my hand sliding down between my legs whenever I picture my perfect Santa. I must be on round three by the time afternoon hits, and I can’t stand it anymore. Sleep is lost to me. So is my fucking mind.

I know what I have to do. Call it wacko autopilot.

I go for basic makeup since my hands are too wired to work their magic on contouring. I do decent catflicks and slap on some heavy duty lashes, and freshen up the waves in my hair.

I don’t want to go hoodie and jeans today. I grab a purple dress with fishnets and lace up my trusty big spiky boots. I wrap myself up in a fluffy leopard print coat, like I’mCruella de Creamgirl. Kind of suits me.

I look good in the mirror. Memorable.

As always.

I almost break and message Josh once I’m out in the open and about to hop on the tube. My fingers hover over the message icon, but I can’t do it. I know full well he’ll talk some sense into me, and I don’t want sense, I want the world of crazy. It’s screaming my name.

I’m a fucking idiot on a dangerous mission, stalking Santa, but I don’t care. It feels like destiny calling – but it’s just me, sky high in fantasy land.

Stalking Santa hardly sounds like a romcom with a cutesy happy ever after at the end of it, but Santa was the one who started it in the first place. He was the one in the club last night with a wine glass in his hand.

Central Parade is rammed, with kids everywhere, but my edginess around happily families hardly touches me as I head for the grotto. I take a seat at one of the indoor benches with a decent view of the grotto. I could join the queue myself, and the temptation calls, but it’s Reuben Sinclair I want to see today. Not just Santa.

The grotto closes at five, so I’ve got forty-five minutes of phone scrolling before I stand a chance of getting a glimpse of him. I barely look at the bullshit on my feed, because I’m too transfixed by the door at the grotto exit.

With only twenty minutes left to go, I give up pretending altogether. I let myself fantasise like a crazy.

Reuben could fuck me in the grotto and slap my ass for being a naughty girl, or he could drag me away and punish me for even daring to cross his path uninvited. He could keep me bound and out of view for a whole weekend straight, like the founders have done before. Hooded and at his mercy.

Or he could tell me to fuck off. Blank me like I’m a nobody, or give me a blasé wave and walk away.

Those thoughts hurt, like pokers in the ribs. The idea of being rejected nearly sends me running for the tube, and I kind of wish it would. I could rebook more sessions with my psychotherapist, and fess up to Josh, and avoid diving headfirst into a muddy pit of my own making.

Still, I can’t do it.

I’m already locked in.

The minutes count down, and my breaths get so shallow, I struggle to breathe, but I need to see Santa –Reuben. I need to see Reuben.

An assistant elf puts theclosedbarrier across the walkway with a few minutes left to go. I watch on until the last little boy in the queue heads on in with his mum. Five minutes later he’s jumping and clapping as they come out from the exit. The little guy really thinks he’s met Santa, the greatest man in the world, and I’m shuffling in my seat as they pass me, because shit, this is about to get serious.

The teenage photographer heads out first, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Then it’s one of the elf volunteers, a young looking blonde who waves at a man in one of the shop doorways and goes to join him.

Come on.

Another elf comes out – an older one this time – and a woman appears for the bucket of donation cash. Shit. I’m twitching with panic, hyped for the grand finale.

It’s like I’ve been hit by a cannonball, straight in the guts when he steps out from behind the grotto door. He’s still in his red Santa outfit, but there are no pillows stuffed inside his jacket. His hat is off, and so is his fake white beard. He’s the man I’ve stared at for hours online – Reuben Sinclair – and he’s nodding as the woman with the cash bucket talks to him. They smile, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. Friendly.

Fuck my fucking life, I’m actually doing this. I’m stalking Santa.

I’m stalking a multi-millionaire, charity donating, mall owner.

And oh fuck, when he turns in my direction and looks right at me, it’s obvious he knows it.

I wonder if I stand any chance of a last-minute dash for the exit while he finishes up talking to the bucket woman, but I’m stuck to the bench like glue. I hate it. I feel so fuckingsick, like I’m in purgatory, my heart dependant on some insane judgement from a man I shouldn’t even know. I’m ready to hurl when he says goodbye to her and walks in my direction. He towers above me when he steps up to the bench.

“What are you doing here, Tiffany?”

I suck in a breath, dragging my character back in place.