Page 94 of Santa's Baby

Shame that the word impulsive might as well be my middle name. I hate hanging in no man’s land.

I take my phone from my pocket, and Reuben does a double take when he reaches for the butter – catching sight of it in my hand. He knows what app I’m scrolling through. The look between us says it all.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Upstairs earlier, I got jealous, and possessive, and that isn’t fair on you. It’s your career, and your accomplishments at stake, not mine to impose upon. I need to keep myself in line.”

“Nah, you don’t,” I say, and turn the screen around. I rub some fake snot on my sleeve with a sniffle. “Had to message Orla and break the news to her. Seems I am coming down with flu after all.”

24

REUBEN

I’ve always loved the grotto – that’s no secret – relishing the Christmas spirit of the families enjoying the run up to their festivities, but watching Tiffany as an elf, singing along with the children in the queue is raising things to a whole new level with every passing moment. It also reminds me of the true needs I’ve been masking for years.

It’s just gone ten when a toddler enters the room with her father. She’s barely able to walk yet, gripping her daddy’s finger as she toddles along. She has a bright smile and a twinkle in her eyes, and so does her father. He’s so obviously proud as she lets go of him and toddles on over to me. I pick her up with aho, ho, hoand she giggles as she pulls at my fluffy beard.

Her humour and enthusiasm pain me today as well as bring me joy. I wish that I was her father, with her tiny hand gripping my fingers.

“This is Santa Claus,” her dad tells her, then looks at me with a grin. “She’s been such a treasure this year, even through the teething.”

“I’m sure she has.” I bounce the little tyke on my lap, with anotherho, ho, hoand she giggles as though she’s on a fair ride.I see Tiffany in her eyes. I see the joy and the amusement. The life and soul.

I want a child like this one of my own, birthed by the woman handing out candy canes in the queue outside.

Tiffany cancelling the founders’ proposal was a huge statement this morning, spawned by an impulsive move of jealousy that I should never have allowed myself to make. I feel disgusted at myself for it.

Tiffany is a woman with an impressive career, who has built up her reputation over four years. She may be an elf volunteering at a mall grotto right now, with her stripy tights and bobble hat, but she is a sex goddess. A hardcorer. One of the Agency’s finest.

I’m torn in two different directions. For once, I have no clear route in sight.

The tiny sweetheart on my lap holds out her arms with adadaonce her picture is taken. Her father sweeps her up, and I hand him a goodie bag with a miniature reindeer and some penguin stickers.

“Have a wonderful Christmas,” I say. “Ho, ho, ho!”

“You, too, Santa.”

I can only hope, since awonderful Christmasdoesn’t usually bless me. This year the potential of spending the holidays with a woman like Tiff has given me a light on the horizon I never imagined coming my way, but it might be a high before a terrible low.

Can Tiff give up the Agency? Her career? Truly?

Would she want to?

I know that sex workers build relationships with each other. I’m well aware that they can separate their personal lives and their professional careers, with no jealousy or suspicion whatsoever.

But I’m not an entertainer like Tiffany, and I’m not a man who will be able to bear my jealousy easily. I want monogamy, with Tiffany, in my home and by my side.

Even if I was able to bear my jealousy, our liaisons are strictly forbidden. It’s not only Tiff who has deep connections with the Agency and what she has accomplished there. I’ve been a proud stakeholder for years, creating a safe space for both entertainers and clients while making a killing on the back of it. It’s a huge part of my life. A staple in my portfolio.

Me and Tiffany are both playing with a fire that is far more powerful than a warm Christmas hearth. It’s got the potential to blow our world to smithereens.

Fuck it. I have to cast the thoughts aside for the sake of sanity.

The next little boy is around eight years old. He dashes in with aSanta!and I’m enamoured as he lists off his amazing achievements this year, counting them out on his fingers.

I kept my bedroom tidy.

I cleaned out Lily’s hamster cage every day.

I played in the football team every single weekend, AND I scored six goals.