Desperately Seeking Santa Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Also by Eli Easton

  Readers Love Eli

  Copyright Page

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Eli Easton

  Desperately Seeking Santa by Eli Easton

  Journalism student Gabe Martin gets his first professional assignment—to write about a Christmas charity dinner that benefits a children’s home. It sounds like a total snooze-fest until Gabe learns that the event’s Santa is a mystery man. He shows up in costume and no one has a clue who he is. Uncovering Santa’s identity sounds like the perfect angle to turn a fluff piece into serious journalism.

  Mack “The Mountain” McDonall, at 6’10”, is University of Wisconsin-Madison’s enormous star wrestler. When Gabe first claps eyes on him at a wrestling match, it’s lust at first sight. Gabe’s friend, Jordan, sets up the pair on a date. But when Gabe chatters on about his plans for outing Santa, Mack goes cold, and their first meeting becomes an epic fail.

  As Gabe researches the children’s home, he learns that Mack has secrets a guy famous for being a brute wouldn’t want the world to know. Can Gabe find his holiday spirit, write a killer article, win the heart of a surly giant, and give everyone a very merry Christmas?

  NOTE: This 50,000 word short novel features a new couple but includes Jordan and Owen, from the author’s book “Superhero”. It can be read as a stand-alone.

  Endless thanks to my beta readers: Jay Northcote, DJ Jamison, NR Walker, Sloan Johnson, RJ Scott, Carmella Rosenbach, and Veronica Harrison. Also thanks to my dedicated editor, Jason. It takes a village! (Or at least a pack of fellow nerds.)

  The gorgeous cover is by Reese Dante.

  To my husband and best friend. Merry Christmas.

  From Dreamspinner Press

  Superhero

  Puzzle Me This

  The Trouble With Tony (Sex in Seattle #1)

  The Enlightenment of Daniel (Sex in Seattle #2)

  The Mating of Michael (Sex in Seattle #3)

  A Prairie Dog’s Love Song

  The Stolen Suitor

  Heaven Can’t Wait

  The Lion and the Crow

  Snowblind

  A Second Harvest (Men of Lancaster County #1)

  Tender Mercies (Men of Lancaster County #2)

  From Riptide

  Five Dares

  From Eli Easton

  Before I Wake

  Blame it on the Mistletoe

  Unwrapping Hank

  Midwinter Night’s Dream

  Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles

  Falling Down

  How to Howl at the Moon (Howl at the Moon #1)

  How to Walk Like a Man (Howl at the Moon #2)

  How to Wish Upon a Star (Howl at the Moon #3)

  How to Save a Life (Howl at the Moon #4)

  For “Unwrapping Hank”

  “Queen of the sexual tension, she makes us wait for the love scenes…. When the sex arrives it’s always hot and deliciously satisfying and in my opinion all the more sizzling for the delay.”

  —Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews

  “I love Eli Easton’s books and this one is just the right book to sit with the Christmas tree and lose yourself in. Funny, endearing, happy, loving, and it left me smiling like an idiot.”

  —author RJ Scott

  For “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, M/M Goodreads Group award winner

  “I got hooked on the story and could not keep that goofy smile off my face.”

  —Head Out of the Oven Blog

  “This is a wonderful little gem of a holiday story. I enjoyed every moment I got to spend with these beautiful boys.”

  —Gaylist

  For “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”

  “I really loved this story and would put it up as one of my holiday favorites. Easton brings so much warmth and emotion here, both good feelings and some darker ones, and this story has just the perfect tone.”

  —Joyfully Jay Blog

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles is an excellent example of what Christmas means and has just cemented Eli Easton as the Queen of Christmas romance in my book.”

  —Padme’s Library

  Published by Pinkerton Road

  Pennsylvania, USA

  First edition, November, 2017

  Kindle Edition

  [email protected]

  www.elieaston.com

  Desperately Seeking Santa

  © 2017 Eli Easton

  Cover Art by Reese Dante

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution.

  Please do not loan or give this ebook to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means.

  The author earns her living from sales of her work. Please support the arts! DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK.

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Also by Eli Easton

  Readers Love Eli

  Copyright Page

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Eli Easton

  Nov 28, 2017

  Madison, Wisconsin

  “You want me to write a story about what?”

  Visions of cutesy reindeer automatons, paper snowflakes, and cheesy mall Santas danced in my head as I stared in horror at my editor.

  Randall glared at me from around the papers on his desk. His whole office looked like it should be on a reality show called Hoarders at Work. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines, enough coffee cups to supply a Mormon family reunion, his commuter biking clothes, and even a small fake Christmas tree resting on a cardboard box. The Christmas tree was not a sign of the impending holidays. It had been there since I started as an intern in August.

  “The Elks Christmas Charity Dinner,” Randall said slowly, as if I were hard of hearing. “It’s a city tradition.”

  “So is roto-rootering the toilets at the YMCA. But we don’t write about that,” I pointed out.

  Randall glared harder. “You’ve been bugging me for weeks to give you a story. I finally give you one, and all you do is complain. What? You got something against Christmas?”

  I squirmed inside. He was right. I’d been working at the Wisconsin State Journal for only three months. So far, my part-time internship had been spent editing other people’s work or doing basic cut-and-paste columns like the weather and stocks. I’d begged Randall for a chance to do an original piece and knew I should say “yes, sir, thank you, sir.” But I couldn’t help my disappointment.

  “Hey, I love the holidays. It’s a break from class
es,” I said cheerfully. “But if I have to write a story about Christmas—”

  “Your employment was ‘at will’ last time I checked,” Randall retorted dryly.

  “—how about something interesting? Like an exposé about how the bell ringer at the East Towne Mall spent his take on booze? Or black market scams for the most-wanted Christmas toys? Something that can draw more than regional interest?” I added a hopeful and deliberately cheesy smile.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Randall wiped his face with his hand. He was in his fifties and had been at this newspaper since his first toddling steps as a journalist. I respected his editing skills and his instincts, not to mention the fact that he still had all his hair and was in pretty good shape for an ancient person, being a big bike rider and all. However, in my humble opinion, he’d lost his hunger. Fortunately, I had plenty of my own.

  “Gabe,” he said patiently. “I need a nice, cheerful piece for the holidays. Something feel-good. We’re not the Washington Post and you’re not Bernstein.”

  “Who?” I frowned. Honestly, my first association was the Berenstain Bears. Then my history class clicked in. “Oh. You mean, like, Watergate?”

  Randall rolled his eyes. “Anderson Cooper then. You’re not Anderson Cooper.”

  I made a face.

  He sighed. “Okay, then who? Who’s your idol, Gabe? Seriously?”

  “Is this a ‘understanding millennials’ sort of question?”

  “Yeah, let’s call it that.” He folded his hands on what looked like a stack of invoices on top of a Chipotle wrapper.

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Will Ripley. Errol Barnett.” They were two of my favorite international CNN correspondents. In the trenches. Reporting from war zones. Standing firm against hurricanes. That was my future.

  Randall’s dry expression said I was naive. “Okay. Well, right now, you’re not Will Ripley. Right now, you’re an intern for a little Wisconsin print newspaper. So we’re not going to do a thing on black-market crimes during the holidays.” He glowered. “Cutesy. Christmassy. Heart-warming. That’s what I want. You have to start somewhere, kid. Christ, I wrote recipes as Mama Llewellyn for three years before I got a break.”

  I snorted. “Mama Llewellyn? Seriously?”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “She was a widow from the U.P. Hey, I got fan mail! Even a marriage proposal from a farmer once. Don’t knock it.”

  I had a good chuckle over that one before remembering my own predicament. “But… an Elks charity dinner?” I gave him one last pleading look. “Will anyone read about the Elks? Aren’t they all, like, over eighty years old? I’m asking for business reasons. Surely you have subscription quotas to fill.”

  Randall jabbed a finger at the door. “The dinner is Saturday, December 16th. So you have two weeks to dig up some background. You’ll attend the dinner and your piece will run the following Monday. If you’ve got that much fire in your belly, Gabe, take this story and make something out of it.”

  I walked to the doorway and turned around. “Oh I’ll make something out of it!” I insisted, in a tone that promised I’d show him and his little dog too.

  But later, as I slumped at my desk, I despaired. I had no idea how I’d make something out of a bunch of seniors sitting around in some crusty old dining hall eating mashed potatoes and turkey.

  Mierda.

  That night, I met my friend Jordan Carson at Union South to get a snack before our evening festivities. It was already dark at 6:00 p.m., and it was damned cold outside. The lounge was all decked out. There was a huge Christmas tree in the center of the space, and greenery and fairy lights were draped over the fireplace and around the coffee bar. The campus had been tinsel-bombed since Thanksgiving break, as if fashionista elves had invaded the UW while we were away. The place looked and felt cozy as fuck, though I would never have admitted that out loud.

  “I can’t believe I’m going with you tonight,” I said with genuine amazement as we stood in line for coffee. “Dios. I feel so sporty.”

  I thought I looked sporty too, with my black skinny jeans and red Badgers hoodie under a black parka. My mom was originally from Mexico City, and I had her dark hair and eyes, plus pale skin from my gringo dad, so I looked good in black. It made up half my wardrobe. The red, however, brought out my inner matador, which was apropos tonight.

  “I can’t believe you’ve known Owen and me for three years, and this is your first time going to a wrestling match,” Jordan complained. “What kind of friend are you again?”

  “Well if someone had only invited me….”

  Jordan rolled his eyes so hard it was practically a selfie MRI. He only invited me constantly, but this was the first time I’d agreed. It wasn’t that I fundamentally objected to the idea of seeing two sweaty guys in tight singlets grapple with each other. But I wasn’t a sports fan, and it sounded like it’d be boring after the initial ogle. Like, paint drying boring. Like tennis and golf on TV boring. My Texan father was very much a “guy,” and he always had ESPN on. It made me want to run around his house naked singing “Oklahoma!” in sheer rebellion.

  Besides, I was super busy. It was my senior year, and between my classes, working twenty hours a week at the newspaper, and trying to have a social life, this was my craziest college semester yet.

  “If you honestly loathe it tonight, I’ll buy you coffee for a week,” Jordan promised.

  “Ooh, that’s risky. What if I just say I hate it?”

  “You’re a smart-ass, Gabriel Martin, but you’re not a liar.”

  Jordan was right. Even if I hated it, I’d never tell him. I knew how much Owen meant to Jordan, and Owen was a big-time wrestler. It would be like insulting his family. Mi mama raised me better than that.

  We ordered our drinks, along with a huge peppermint cupcake for Jordan, and looked for a spot where we wouldn’t disturb people trying to study. We ended up at a small table by the window. As soon as we sat down, I told Jordan all about my less-than-exciting first byline story at the newspaper. The fabulous “Elks snooze in their eggnogs” story.

  He wiped chocolate crumbs from his mouth and shrugged. “It makes sense they’d start you on something small. See how you do.”

  “I know that.” I grimaced. “It’s not that I’m being a prima donna. It’s just that I didn’t think it would take until almost December to get my first shot. So I’m sort of screwed.”

  Jordan gave me a questioning look.

  I sighed. “I need a decent final project for my Advanced Investigative Journalism class, and I was hoping I could do it during my work hours at the paper. I pitched a bunch of different ideas to the editor that would have worked. But no, I end up with a fluff piece. Christmas cheer. Warm and fuzzy. Tra la freaking la. And I’ve only got a couple more weeks to turn in that assignment for my class.”

  “Ah! I see the problem. You procrastinated and now you’re fucked,” Jordan summarized cheerfully.

  I sipped my drink, giving him a death glare over it. “It was an efficient and logical plan, thank you very much. I told myself if I didn’t get a good story at the paper by Thanksgiving, I’d write something over the break. But then I ended up in Texas with my dad, step-mom, and her kids for Thanksgiving, which was so depressing it leached all the motivation out of my bones.” I made a dramatic slurping sound. “Honestly, I was lucky to even survive.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jordan said dryly.

  “Now I’ve got to do this silly Christmas Elks story and come up with my investigative project and finish all my other coursework and prep for finals.”

  “Sucks to be you,” Jordan said, but his smile was genuinely sympathetic.

  I huffed. “Sorry. ‘Do you want some crackers with that whine?’ Dios, I’m so boring.”

  Jordan laughed. “Boring is the last thing you are. And the whole point of having friends is so you can whine.”

  “True, but it’s your turn now. How’re things going?”

  Jordan smile was soft and his brown eyes were all happy. �
��Oh, you know. Busy. Between wrestling season, end of the semester, and getting ready to go home for Christmas, it’s a bit nuts. But we’re good. Very good.”

  It was always “we” with Jordan. He and Owen had been together since, like, the second grade or something ridiculous like that. Or at least they were friends for that long before they hooked up in high school.

  “I’ve got a couple of big art projects due by finals too, only mine are nearly done.” He gave me a gloating look. Asshole. “Owen is focused on wrestling, which is its own reality this time of year and pretty much takes over everything. But it’s fun too. I’ll miss it once we graduate. Hard to believe this is Owen’s last wrestling season, at least as an athlete rather than a coach.”

  “Fun?” I said dubiously. “Didn’t you tell me Owen spends all his time training and lives on salads and shit?” I nodded at the pathetic remains of Jordan’s peppermint cupcake, which consisted of a few crumbs too small for a mouse and a partially gnawed wrapper. “Obviously, sugar is forbidden at home. How is that ‘fun’?”

  Jordan smiled knowingly. “Tonight you’ll find out, my friend. Trust me.”

  We got to Field House at 6:30 for a 7:00 p.m. wrestling meet. A distinct odour d’ locker room hit me as we walked inside. I’d only been in the place once for a volleyball game during freshman orientation week. It was a good-sized arena, though not huge like the football stadium. There were tiers of risers on three sides, and a big red circle with a W in the middle of the shiny gym floor. Over the center hung a big black scoreboard with Wisconsin, in red along the top of it. So collegiate! I was glad I’d worn my Badgers sweatshirt. Like, me and the arena were twinsies. Jordan too, for that matter, only he was pretty much all screaming red with his red jacket, red T-shirt, black jeans, and red Converse tennies.

  He snagged us a spot in the middle of the first tier on the home side, an area reserved for friends and family. He said hello to approximately a billion people as we took our seats. He waved both arms overhead to a group seated up behind us in the second tier. They waved back with small rainbow flags.

  “Owen! Owen!” they chanted. I recognized some of them from the LGBT center on campus.