4. Alex

Chapter 4

Alex

This suit's lining was itchy as fuck, the velvet fabric was crusty, and the cottony beard felt like razor burn against my cheeks. Somehow, only three days after I'd flown home, Grace and Dad teamed up to enlist me in this ridiculous situation.

"This is the best we can do?" I asked, flicking my wrist as the cheap fur caught on my watch.

"Next time I'll see if the hospital has an Armani Santa suit."

"Is that so much to ask?" I said, only half joking.

Twenty minutes ago, a panicked Grace staggered into Dad's room in a tacky getup: a ratty red faux-velvet jacket down to her calves, wire grandma glasses, and hair pulled up into a fuzzy shower cap. After several seconds, I realized she was Mrs. Claus, but God forbid the North Pole matriarch had a modicum of sex appeal. Guess that's why there aren't any little Santa babies … though if I had to provide Christmas presents for all the bratty kids of the world, I wouldn't want to add more to my Nice list either.

Since that midnight meeting three night ago, I'd seen Grace only briefly. I wasn't avoiding her, exactly, but when she came into Dad's room, a parade followed. Grace popped by to say something innocuous like, "I'm on my lunch break, want to play UNO?" Dad pressured me to join, discounting my work .

A train of hospital staff followed, drawn to Grace: nurses, respiratory specialists, occupational therapists … hell, even his official social worker chose those times to visit. Dad loved being ‘Grace's patient,' and a few called him ‘Grace's dad,' which really grated, because who the fuck was this girl, anyway?

The worst was that cardiologist, Chan or whoever. Yesterday, he was doing Dad's chest exam when Grace came by. His professional demeanor went flaccid and his competence melted into simpering puppy eyes, stopping mid-exam to flirt. Instead of getting rightfully annoyed, Dad egged him on, as if that douchebag was good enough for Grace.

The weirdest part: Grace didn't notice. Not in a girly playing-hard-to-get way … no, she seemed oblivious. She responded with warm courtesy as her eyes flit to me. Most staff ignored my scowling presence, and my noise-canceling headphones kept the riff-raff from interrupting unless Dad needed me.

But Grace never ignored me, even when I tried to ignore her.

The first morning had been the worst. Dad had been elated when I strolled in, excited to introduce me to Grace. She clearly expected the warm greeting she got from my family — hell, the entire damn hospital staff fawned over her. After politely nodding, I took out my computer to work from his bedside.

She seemed disappointed, like she expected us to be friends.

But I don't really do friends.

I used to. Between the baseball team and my college fraternity, I was always surrounded by friends and girls. Over time things shifted from, "Hey A.J., how long can you do a keg stand?" (67 seconds, beat that sucker) to "Hey Alex, you're a lawyer now, can you get me out of this speeding ticket?" (No, I'm corporate not civil) to "Hey Alexander, you've got a BigLaw salary so dinner's on you, right?" (Buy your own lobster, you mooch) to "Hey, you're Dominic Martin's brother, what's happening next season on The Twelve ?" (I don't even know where my brother is filming, let alone have time to watch TV.)

When Grace said, ‘That's what friends do,' I heard, ‘What can you do for me?'

Now when she walks into Dad's room, I greet her cordially — Mom would berate me if she heard I was impolite — and leave to work from the cafeteria.

Let Grace win over everyone else with those giant, innocent hazel eyes and rich, sexy voice. And how cute she is when she cocks her chin and declares, ‘I like to believe the best in people.' And how fucking radiant her hair looks in the moonlight.

I hadn't noticed, because I'm immune to her charms. Or I will be, if I can avoid her. No, not avoid her; I'm simply removing distractions, starting with Grace E. Alvarez, as the nameplate on her office door says.

I definitely didn't wonder what the ‘E' stood for.

But this time, I couldn't escape the atrocity of her hideous Christmas costume.

Grace said the hospital's usual Santa was delayed in a snowstorm. Dad asked if the sleigh had GPS and she cracked a grin, replying that Rudolph had a microchip installed in his nose. She slumped on the foot of his bed, explaining that the hospital staff was stretched thin, but the kids had been promised a Santa. She even asked the janitorial staff. I bet she knew all their names. I bet she baked them Christmas cookies. I bet they were fucking delicious.

When Dad started to pull himself up on his IV pole and asked where the suit was, Grace shot him a death glare. "Absolutely not. You can't risk another heart attack lifting those patients onto your lap, I need someone big and strong …"

Both their necks swiveled reluctantly to me. Their last choice. Fuck.

I tried to evade, but Dad told me to put down the laptop and help her out, because that's what Clarkes do in a crisis, we stick together. Like this random friend of my annoying kid sister was part of my family.

Now I glanced at my reflection, a begrudging Santa glaring back. How many other people have sweat in this suit? Could my hands catch Athlete's Foot from these dingy polyester gloves?

As I sneered, she asked, "Do you want sterile gloves underneath?"

Hmm. It would mitigate the transfer of sweat, but leave a chalky residue, gross. "Don't bother. Let's get this over with."

Her lips tightened in annoyance. I pressed my fingers into the bridge of my nose, but felt the scratchy gloves and dropped my hands. "I didn't exactly get Santa training at Stanford Law."

She rolled her eyes at my blatant name drop. "You think my social work degree required Mrs. Claus 101? Growing up, my father said Santa was a distraction from the ‘true' meaning of Christmas. But there are twenty kids with heart conditions who expect a magical visitor from the North Pole, and this will break up the monotony of echocardiograms and blood tests. For some of them, this will be their last Christmas." I winced, and she seemed gratified that her message was sinking in. "I was hoping you could put on that charming grin that makes my knees weak and force out a Ho Ho Ho," she smacked my chest with each Ho, "but if you can't fake it for sick kids for half an hour, you're not as much like your dad as I hoped you were."

Her cheeks flushed as red as her velvet cape as she glared through those ugly glasses. I didn't expect her outburst, but apparently if you mess with a social worker's kids, it brings out the Mama Bear.

Wait a minute. Makes her knees weak? File that away for later.

I must have scowled, because my North Pole wife threw her hands up. "Fine, if you can't handle it, give me the jacket and I'll do it myself."

What? She couldn't … I shook my head. "You can't be Santa."

"You don't think Santa could be a woman? You really think a straight married white man manages the list of what every kid wants?"

Well no, obviously not, that's why he has elves. He delegates.

Before I could protest, she held up an accusing finger. "Bet you can't keep track of your own family. Quick: When's Mallory's birthday?"

"April … 12."

"It's May 1."

Ha! I knew it was in the spring.

"I know all my brothers' birthdays … but I bet the only one who knows mine is my identical twin." She held out her open palm. "Give me the coat. Forget these heteronormative gender roles. You don't want to be here, fine. I'll do it alone."

"No, Santa can't be a girl."

A flash of surprise crossed her face before it was replaced by determination.

"You're right, the kids expect a man, so I'll be a male Santa."

I ran my hands along the fake fur lining, suddenly possessive. Ew, why was it sticky? "You think you can pretend to be a man? Nobody will buy it."

Her snort was quick. "You don't think I could pass as a man?"

I put my hands on my hips in a silent dare to prove it. She angled her boots to widen her stance. Tilting her hips forward to make a small belly, her hands rest on its sides and her shoulders curled to disguise her breasts. She made direct eye contact with me, tucked her chin, and cleared her throat.

"Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas," Grace's voice rumbled, recognizable but pitched deeper. The transformation was uncanny, and honestly, disconcerting. My brother Nick had done acting exercises, bullshit about ‘embodying the character's physicality,' but even he wasn't that convincing … and he's won two Emmys.

I crossed my arms defensively. "You can't choose to be a man."

"Sure I can." She crossed her arms defiantly, mirroring my stance. "Gender is a social construct."

"Stop it, it's weird. What if I decided I was a woman?"

"I'd say, ‘Welcome to the club, we get manicures on Tuesdays.'" She glanced at the clock and held out her palm again, voice firmer than ever. "For the last time, hand over the jacket."

The kids wouldn't believe her. And if Dad found out I backed out …

I would do this for Dad, and for the kids I guess, but definitely not for her.

Gripping the fur, I dipped my chin in contrition, "Fine, I'll do it."

Her eyebrows lifted in disbelief that I'd apologized. Well, technically I hadn't apologized or admitted fault, because I wasn't wrong … but she reacted like I had. Her smile lit up her whole face. Or the pretty part underneath the ugly mop cap, anyway. "You'll do it?"

I faked a strained grin. "Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas."

My performance was flat, but her eyes warmed. Releasing a relieved breath, she realigned herself — shoulders back, chest out, hips back, feet together — and shifted her gaze away, and it felt like Grace was back.

Holy shit, she'd called my bluff.

I was widely regarded in legal circles as one of the best negotiators on the West Coast, and she'd gotten me to act out of my own best interest. I'd agreed to put on this farce without any concessions, and when I balked, she called my bluff.

Damn, she was good.

"That was a solid BATNA," I admitted as her brow furrowed. "Best Alternative to a Negotiated Agreement."

"This isn't a negotiation, it's a favor. "

"Everything's a negotiation." That's what makes conversations fun. Just like we'd negotiated the first night: I'd convinced her to let me into Dad's room even though it was after visiting hours, then leveraged it into a ride home. But if she considered that a favor …

Who behaves unselfishly without capitalizing on it in a future bargain?

When my hands involuntarily flexed under the itchy material, she tugged gently on the fabric at my fingertips until the glove slid off. "Is it better if we skip the gloves?"

I held up my other hand. As the awful polyester left my skin, I sighed in relief. She dropped the grayed gloves on her desk and I inspected her costume up close. The whole ensemble was a travesty, but most of all, it was a shame to disguise those stunning eyes behind cheap grandma frames.

"Those are part of the costume," she protested when I slid off her wire glasses, itching to free her hair from the ugly cap.

She frowned stepping into a nearby supply closet and returned with a small pillow. Unbuckling the belt, I held open the red velvet jacket. Her cold fingertips touched the pillow to my undershirt, grazing my stomach as she positioned it and fiddled with the belt, repositioning my false stomach to adjust the belt lower. And lower.

Oh my god, I cannot play Santa with a hard-on. I wrenched the belt from her grip and tightened it myself.

To regain composure, I reached into my briefcase for mints, holding out the tin case. "Santa's breath probably smells like candy canes, right?"

Her smile widened as she took a mint. Maybe I could actually pull this off.

"Ready?" Her eyes brimmed with hope, looking ridiculous in her costume, yet somehow adorable. A genuine grin crossed my face.

Maybe we could pull this off.

"Ready as I'll ever be, wife."

Her brows lifted in surprise as her gaze dropped to her fidgeting fingers.

Oh shit, I had to nip this in the bud.

Since I'd slipped on the ugly jacket matching her awful cape, I'd been thinking of her as my North Pole wife … but I hadn't meant for that word to slip out. Girls got the wrong impression when I gave them even a shred of attention .

My career came first. Aside from this quick cosplay, there was no chance of a Mrs. Alexander Clarke, at least until I made partner, and no family until I could financially support them.

I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt tight.

"Hey, I know I'm playing your husband, and this sexy beard and suave suit make me practically irresistible," my voice dripped with sarcasm, and those cautious hazel eyes lifted. As I ran my hand over the scratchy beard, my cheeks warmed. "But you have to agree not to fall in love with me, ok? And …"

To make things seem fair, I added, "I promise not to fall in love with you."

Like that would ever happen.

She lifted her little finger like kids making a playground dodgeball alliance. "Pinkie promise?"

My little finger wrapped around hers. She brought our interlocked hands to her lips and kissed her thumb. Even though it felt super childish, I sealed the vow, only the width of our joined hands between our lips, my gaze locked on her striking hazel eyes.

Every day, I wrote contracts securing deals into the millions; somehow, for a flash, this agreement felt just as significant. Which was ridiculous. It was a pinkie swear, for Christ's sake, between two consenting adults.

"I should remind you I'm not your lawyer and this agreement is in no way legally binding."

As she unraveled our grip, she mockingly replicated my stern expression. "I'll take that under consideration, Counselor."