Stuck with Mr. Ex-Bodyguard on Christmas Eve? That wasn't on my wish list, Santa. But then again, neither was falling in love.
Please tell me this is just a remake of Nightmare on Elm Street—the Christmas version. I'd sooner face Freddy Krueger with a Santa hat than deal with this. My phone is blowing up. I'm surely going to get fired. I might as well crawl under a Christmas tree and never come out. Maybe I should travel to the North Pole and ask Santa for help.
I pull my oversized scarf tighter around my neck, eyeing the treacherous sidewalk beneath me. If I fall flat on my ass now, that would be the perfect cherry on top of... oh, crap. Three more messages. I must not think about the fact that the entire town must have read that letter... oh, and let's not forget my mother. Or Damian. No, no, no.
Dear Santa,
Why is it that every time I close my eyes, I'm haunted by the memory of his biceps flexing as if auditioning for a superhero movie? And don't get me started on his eyes - so blue, so treacherous, they should come with a rip current warning. And his voice? Deep. Smooth. Velvety. Especially when he confessed how much he wanted me.
The funny thing is, I don't even like him. And he doesn't like me. Plus, he hates Christmas. Who hates Christmas?
Why are my thoughts more tangled than last year's Christmas lights? And why am I craving another round with Mr. Ex-Bodyguard? My vibrator just doesn't compare to... him.
With love,
An overly caffeinated, slightly embarrassed columnist.
