It's All Thanks to Santa Read online

  It’s All Thanks To Santa

  Kayt Miller

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Books by Kayt Miller

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Thank you!

  Sneak Peek: Bedhead

  Prologue

  I’ve got issues.

  Lots of them.

  Too many to count, really.

  Like the fact I’m twenty-four and living in my parents’ basement… again. The last time I lived here was right after college. I couldn’t find a job related to my field of study: Linguistics. Also known as: the scientific study of language and its structure.

  What? You can’t believe I’m unemployed?

  I can. After my job hunt was futile, I googled “careers in linguistics,” thinking there’d be a plethora of jobs out there for someone with my expertise. *snort* Well, it turns out there are basically seven possible jobs in that field:

  Computational linguist in the tech industry: Yeah. No. I can barely boot up my computer.

  Linguistics professor: Now, this one sounds ideal, except I need at least four more years of college and a Ph.D.

  Translator: That’d be perfect if I spoke another language with proficiency. I do not.

  Forensic linguist: This one sounds the funnest (jk) the most fun. In that job, I could work with the FBI or a legal firm to analyze someone’s writing or speech or a bunch of other stuff. But, there again, I’d probably need a Ph.D. Hell. A master’s degree at the very least.

  Technical writer: Nope.

  Lexicographer: I had to look this bitch up. Lexicographers write, compile, and edit dictionaries for native speakers, learners of English, professionals, and bilingual speakers. Do I even need to comment?

  Teach a foreign language: See # 3.

  I mean, shouldn’t someone in the linguistics department at my university, like an advisor or something, have told me there are no jobs in linguistics in Chicago or anywhere? Well, okay, I’m being a little overly dramatic. There were one or two open jobs in that field, but I didn’t qualify for them. Employers want people with experience in linguistics, but it’s hard to get experience if no one will hire you. It’s what we call in the biz a clusterfuck.

  No matter. I landed on my feet––for a while. I got a job at an online newspaper as an administrative assistant. My boss was an asshat, but I sort of liked him. No, I didn’t like him that way, but I appreciated his dry humor and disdain for the human race. We had a system. I did whatever he told me to do, and he paid me. It was perfect. Until it wasn’t. Until that fateful night two weeks ago at the company holiday party (God forbid they call it a Christmas party!). But I digress.

  Here’s what happened: I’m at the company Christmas party where everyone was boozing it up. Things were getting rowdy; there was dancing on the desks. You get the idea? Anyway, I was getting into it too, drinking my share of the doctored punch. At one point, I made out with Petra, one of the IT guys I’d had my eye on for a while. After that, I danced a little, sang some terrible karaoke, and then I took one teeny tiny copy of my ass on the company photocopier and Oh. My. God. My boss went batshit crazy. You’d have thought I stole a million bucks from the till the way he reacted.

  Needless to say, my asshat boss fired me the following Friday. He waited to fire me because he had a big presentation that week and needed my help. So, once that was done, he canned me. He kept the pictures of my ass, by the way. The pervert.

  Wow, I really got off topic there. Where was I? Oh, right.

  I’ve got issues.

  Lots of them.

  I’ve already addressed a big one, but that one doesn’t hold a candle to the shit storm going down in my parents’ kitchen this lovely Christmas Eve morning. It’s a tradition for us to have a big Christmas Eve breakfast. “Where we can all talk about your lives, reconnect with one another, discuss fond memories from the past year, and dream of what’s to come in the new year, without worrying about gifts.” Those words, right there? My mom says them Every. Single. Year. the minute we sit down to eat. Just wait. You’ll see.

  With this family tradition also comes the realization that my sister will make her annual appearance. She’s too busy to visit more than once per year, so it’s her one and only chance to tell us, face to face, all about her amazing life as an up-and-coming Chicago lawyer, on track to be a partner by the time she’s thirty. She’ll regale us with stories of fabulous parties she’s attended and will attend, as well as come-from-behind courtroom victories, and she’ll whisper things to Mom about buying a new this or a new that, and the two of them will giggle.

  It’s stupid.

  My God, do I sound like the biggest whiner or what? Wait. Don’t answer that question. I already know the answer. Honestly, my life isn’t all that horrible. While I’m not excited about living in my parents’ basement again, at least I have a roof over my head and my parents are pretty cool––most of the time. Sure, they can be annoying, but show me a parent that’s never annoying, and I’ll call bullshit.

  They actually encouraged me to move home. Correction, Mom encouraged me to move home. Dad wasn’t all that thrilled—probably due to the fact I took over his man cave since my old bedroom is now Mom’s craft room. Something had to give, and Dad’s space was it. I sort of like it, even though I sleep on a sofa bed. My dad’s sixty-five-inch smart TV is a big-ass bonus. I’m able to keep up with all my reality TV needs, and I don’t have to pay for cable. Bonus two is the fact that I’ve got a washer dryer right in my unit. No more schlepping my dirty laundry up and down three flights of steps and four blocks down the street and paying three bucks a load. Nope. It’s free and so dang handy. See? What’d I tell you? I’m living the life. I live rent-free, so almost every cent I make at my part-time gig at the grocery store goes right into my pocket. I say “almost” because I have a tiny, itty-bitty addiction to Totino’s Party Pizza. Seriously, it’s an a-d-d-i-c-t-i-o-n. If my mom told me she was serving turkey and Totino’s for Christmas dinner, I’d do a frigging happy dance. Sign me up, bitches.

  Ooh, did I mention that I’ve got access to Mom’s deep freeze and the toaster oven I had at my shoebox apartment in the city? Swear to God, I got a chill just thinking about my stockpile of party pizzas at my fingertips. What the hell was I complaining about before? Life is good.

  Chapter One

  “Josephine!”

  The second I hear someone shouting the name on my birth certificate, I pull the blanket over my head and moan.

  “Josephine!” the voice shouts again. This time it’s even louder, like it’s getting closer.

  No, don’t come any closer. I pull the pillow out from beneath my head and cover my face with it. If I push hard enough, maybe it will ease the pain in my head. It could also suffocate me, so that’s not going to work.

  “Jesus! Wake up, lazy ass!”

  And then it hits me. I know that voice. Gisele.

  Suddenly, my head hurts ten times worse. Her voice…. I feel as though I may hurl. Luckily, there’s a makeshift bathroom down here that I’ve dubbed the man-bathroom because it’s sort of gross and my dad doesn’t mind showering down here. I don’t even think
he notices the mold or anything. Women would prefer to bathe in a mold-free space. Just sayin’. Now, if I could just roll out of bed and onto the floor, I could crawl to the toilet. But how am I going to do that? Everything hurts. Some of it is a good kind of hurt. The rest? Not so much.

  “Josephine!”

  God, why does she insist on calling me by my full name? Everyone else calls me Jo. Oh, but not my sister. My perfect sister, Gisele, who’s named after my maternal grandmother while I’m named after my paternal grandfather. I told you I had issues. It starts there.

  No matter, Gisele’s glamorous name fits because she’s a snob. Honestly, I’ve been dreading her arrival like I do my annual lady exam. I know Mom already told her I’d been fired because Mom tells her everything. I hope that means she won’t interrogate me about all that. It’s just… I can’t compete with her. She’s literally perfect.

  Maybe I’m jealous. We’re opposites in almost every way—from her hair and body down to her drive and tenacity. She’s got lady balls. I guess I admire that part of her a little. Not only that, people say she’s prettier than the Brazilian one by the same name who’s married to the pro football player. Everything about her is long and lean—long legs that go up to her neck, long arms, elegant fingers, and shiny, dark hair that reaches the middle of her back. Then, there are her eyes—cerulean blue surrounded by thick, dark, natural lashes. On top of that, the bitch has got about 5 percent body fat.

  She’s smart too, graduating at the top of her class at the University of Iowa School of Law. She passed the bar on her first try. My parents were so impressed, Mom made us all T-shirts with her Cricut machine that said things like “Mother of Gisele Foster, Attorney at Law” and “Father of Gisele Foster, Attorney Extraordinaire.” Mine just said, “Gisele Rocks!” because Mom ran out of that iron-on shit. S’okay. I’m happy to report that mine is wadded up into a ball in the bottom of one of my still unpacked boxes. They tried to make me wear it, but they bought me a medium women’s tee, and that doesn’t cut it. Not by a long shot. Not with these boobs.

  Yeah. Okay. I’m jealous.

  I’ve always been jealous of my older sister. She was homecoming queen, prom queen, and student council president. She was a cheerleader, a basketball star thanks to her height, and she dated the hot-as-sin quarterback in high school and the one in college.

  God, she’s a walking, talking cliché.

  On top of all that, she’s also been a vindictive bitch from the moment I was born. Mom likes to joke about it, saying, “She tried to smother Josephine several times when she was a baby.” Then she giggles.

  Smothering is not funny. It’s a freaking crime.

  Deep breath, Jo.

  I guess I should apologize. I’ve done nothing but rant, bitch, and moan since the beginning. I’ve got a good excuse, though. I’m a little hungover.

  Ha-ha. Just kidding.

  I’m a lot hung over.

  I went out with my best friend, Clancy, from high school last night and we drank ALL the booze at the town bar, Dingus’ Bar & Grill. It’s exactly like you think it’d be—dark, dank, and filled with idiots. Myself included. And they don’t grill shit. Trust me, I asked. Anyway, it was just me and Clancy, whose real name is Shawna Clancy, but she hates her name because she thinks “Shawna” is a stripper name. I can see that. And I get it. I’ve had issues with my name for years. She should live with my name. Walk a mile in my shoes, and all that. Honestly, it’s not so bad. Little Women was one of my favorite books, and the main character, Jo, was the bomb.

  Anyhoo, back to my hangover. It’s up there as far as hangovers go. I should never have added tequila to the mix of beer, wine, and “just a sip of whiskey.” God, whiskey…. “You’ll love it,” Clancy said. “You’ll thank me!”

  I didn’t love it. And No. Thank. You.

  Fucking Clancy.

  Admittedly, it wasn’t all Clancy’s fault. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to drink like that the day before Christmas Eve breakfast. I knew Mom would frown at me, and Dad would pretend he didn’t notice, and Gisele, well, she’d make little passive-aggressive comments all day long. I’m used to it. But today booze isn’t the only problem. Add to that I only got about three hours of sleep, and we’ve got ourselves a perfect hangover storm.

  I’m never drinking again.

  All right, I’m off track again. Back to my issues. One was the living in my parents’ basement and the unemployment thing. Two is the fact that I’ve got to spend four days In. A. Row. with my perfect sister. And three? Well, three is a whopper. You see, my sister decided to bring her new boyfriend, William, home for the holidays. “He’s perfect,” she said on the phone last week. “He’s amazing” was one of the texts me and Mom received. “He’s ‘The One.’” She sent that out as a group text to about a million people. W.T.F.?

  In high school, she was pretty hot and heavy with Bradley Dean, the high school quarterback. In college, it was other athletes, most notably the division one quarterback. I told you that already. There were a few others in law school, but none of them were serious. Truthfully, none of them ever really meant much to her. They were good-looking guys that she was able to lead around by their dicks. Most of them were nice to my parents but never gave me a second glance. Now, that was one thing I didn’t care about because she and I have opposite taste in men. I like mine with balls, not pussy-whipped pretty boys. Anyway, I think they were just eye candy, people she could prance around with at parties and important functions. They were an accessory, like a purse or a necklace. But it’s been a while since she’s had what I’d call a fuckboy that she calls a boyfriend. Mom thinks this all came about due to pressure at her job to “settle down.”

  I laughed when she said it, but by the look on Mom’s face, she meant every word. “Companies don’t do that,” I’d said with an eye roll.

  “Don’t roll your eyes a me, Josephine. She works in a family-owned law firm. Of course they could say something like that. Remember, she wants to be partner by—”

  “By the time she turns thirty. I know.” God, I’ve heard it too often to count. Hell, I just want a job and my own place to live by the time I’m thirty. #goals.

  But now that Mom said all that, Gisele’s press release makes a little more sense.

  What? You think I’m kidding? I’m not. Not only that, the way she talked on the phone about him, this one really did sound serious. So much so, I was almost curious to meet William. Almost.

  “If you don’t get your lazy butt up here in five seconds, I’m coming down there and—”

  “I’m up!” I yell loud enough for her to hear. The last thing I want is for Gisele to slither down the steps and mock my new digs. “I’m up,” I say again for emphasis.

  “Hurry up!” she shouts again.

  Slowly, I crawl out from the dark pit known as my bedroom and tromp up the steps following the scent of coffee, ooh, and bacon. Just what I need to get through this godforsaken breakfast. At the top of the steps, I squint so hard I can barely see. I’ve got to use the smells emanating from the kitchen to lead me to the motherland. When I make it to the kitchen, I feel my way around until I have a cup in my hand and the nectar of the gods flowing down my throat. “Mm, fuck.” I sigh with relief. I can feel the caffeine bringing me back to life.

  “Nice jammies,” says a fake-ass, sweet-as-honey voice.

  “Gizzy,” (pronounced jizzy) I grumble hoarsely. “What up?”

  “Well, Josephine, it’s good to see you too. Looking good in last year’s homeless collection, I see.”

  I snort because that was kind of funny.

  “You even smell the part.” She sniffs.

  Fuck off. I think it but don’t say it. Instead, I drink more of the good stuff.

  “You’re being rude to my guest. If you’d open your eyes, I’d introduce you.”

  “What if I was blind, for realz?” I’m talking, but my eyes are still closed. I like fucking with her. “Would you tell me to just look? See? If so, that’s
not very PC of you, older sister.” She hates it when I bring up the fact she’s older. She’s sort of vain.

  Ignoring my insult, she snaps in her curt voice, “Open. Your. Eyes. Josephine.”

  Only risking the bright light in one eye, I slowly open the right one. I have to blink a few times for him to come into focus. I open up the second one, so I don’t get this wrong. I want to jokingly say, “I can see. It’s a miracle.” But this is not the time for jokes. William is tall, dark, and handsome. Really handsome. He’s dressed in a suit. A suit? For fuck’s sake. It’s Christmas Eve, William. You can dress down.

  I guess his suit makes sense because my sister’s wearing a pencil skirt with a sweater set and pearls. Yep. Pearls. They were my grandmother Gisele’s, so it makes sense she’d get them when she graduated high school. It’s okay, Grandma Foster made me a quilt for my graduation, and it’s the best gift anyone has ever given me. She worked her tiny ass off on it. Anyway, the thing is, the suit looks good on him. Perfect actually. Like it’s bespoke—you know, made just for his broad shoulders, trim waist, and tall frame. He’s got to be over six feet. His dark hair is styled perfectly too, like he just stepped out of a salon. His olive skin and dark eyes look perfect with his square-ish chin that’s shaved smooth. And I suspect he smells good. Hell, I know he smells good. You wanna know how I know that?

  Because I fucked William for about three hours last night. Except he wasn’t William then. He was Billy.

  I bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? Speaking of coming… sex with William “Billy” Mathers was the best I’ve ever had. He was a giver, if you know what I mean.