OMG! Santa’s got a Six-Pack!


3.00 · 1 ratings · Published: Nov 2nd, 2011 {{ book.ratingTitle }}
Not all Santas are fat, old bastards.
The only thing separating Kaz from his dream of becoming a top comic book illustrator is a model for his superhero. Enter one buff and beautiful married man, the epitome of everything Kaz desires, but Mr Perfect only wants to employ him to entertain at his son’s Christmas party while his wife is away. When Kaz sits on the party Santa’s knee, he gets the surprise of his life, feeling solid muscle beneath the padded red suit.
Levard gave me a cheery wave as he left the canteen, while Mr P. slid into a chair opposite me. I held out my hand. He looked at me, his handsome features screwed up with confusion.

“Well, Dr Crichton, aren’t you going to take my pulse?”

Discover for yourself, it’s racing.

He laughed. “I’m not a doctor.”

There goes my chance to impress the parents by marrying a medico.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I said. It came out a bit snarkier than I intended. “Look, I’d better get back to work; Thel can’t handle all those kids on her own.”

“You stay right where you are.”

He was so authoritative, I got hard.

“If I have to put up with half an hour of that slimy Levard then the least you can do is make it up to me by having breakfast with me first.”

“And that would make it all worthwhile?”

“Oh, yes. Very worthwhile.”

Shiver me timbers and call me Shirley, I do believe the man is flirting with me.

“What are you doing this weekend?” The smile that accompanied his question made me lose my sense of decorum.

“Why? Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I’ve never asked a man out on a date before.”

Don’t say it, Kaz.

But I did. “Why not?”

“You want me to ask you out on a date?”

Is the sky blue? Does bacon on a string pass straight through a goose?

“It would sure do wonders for my image.”

“Not sure what it would do for mine.”


At least he was still smiling.

“But seriously, what are you doing on the weekend?”

“I was serious,” I muttered to myself, but the look of surprise on his face suggested he just might have heard me. If he did, he let it pass.

“I’d like to make you a proposition. I’ll make it worth your while.”

I was taken aback. “When people proposition me, money is usually not involved, unless it’s taxi fare home.”

He seemed genuinely perplexed, and then blushed to the roots of his hair. “What? Oh god, no. Sorry, don’t misunderstand me. I am an awkward klutz sometimes. Not that sort of proposition. I mean a real job.” He looked at the expression on my face. “I’ve just made it worse, haven’t I?”

I nodded my head, my feelings fighting for space among my toes in my elf boots.
He took a deep breath. “Hi, my name is Patric Charles Crichton, no k on the Patric. What can I say, my parents were pretentious. I’m thirty-three years old and I’m offering you employment at a children’s Christmas party this coming weekend because I admire the way you handle the little bastards in large numbers.”

Effective way to get me onside then offside in the same breath.

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