All by my elf under the.., p.1
All by My Elf (Under the Mistletoe collection), page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2024 by Olivia Dade
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662528231 (digital)
Cover design by Hang Le
Cover image: © FoxGrafy, © kosmofish, © Realstockvector, © Veranika Dzik / Shutterstock
For Lauren. Thank you for supporting my writing from the very beginning.
Contents
Start Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Olivia Dade
When the SUV passenger in the left lane rolled down his window and waved to get her attention, Nina pushed the button to open hers too. She forced a smile as she did, because that was part of her temporary job. Also because it wasn’t some random guy’s fault that her hot-nerd colleague and crush of four months was currently huddled up close to her best friend in the last row of seats behind her as they whispered together about . . . something.
Something they clearly didn’t want her to hear. Something intimate, probably.
As her window descended, more frigid December air immediately poured inside. She shivered and jacked up the heat another notch, determined not to look behind her again. Instead, she focused on SUV Guy, whose red-and-green-striped beanie matched almost exactly the elf outfits she and her coworkers wore on non-travel days.
“What’s up with your hot dog?” When SUV Guy called out the question—which, after almost three weeks of driving the Mincemobile, she’d heard many times before—his breath clouded in the chill. “Because it looks like a—”
“It’s a mincemeat-filled roll of phyllo dough,” she interrupted hastily, because she knew all too well what the tubular fiberglass structure sitting atop her vehicle’s roof resembled. “Drizzled with caramel. One of our most popular products here at Mrs. Claus’s Mincemeat Treats. We sell them in packages of three, as”—this one pained her, every time—“‘Hark, the Phyllo Fingers Rock.’”
SUV Guy looked skeptical. Understandable, since the Mincemobile—twenty-seven feet long, eleven feet tall, and eight feet wide—was clearly a hastily repurposed Weenie on Wheels. And if you slapped a coat of pale-beige acrylic on an enormous freaking hot dog, it looked like a dick. Even if you painted mincemeat peeking out of the ends and golden-brown swirls over the top. Then it simply looked like a dick in urgent need of medical intervention.
Supposedly, decommissioned Weenies on Wheels were never resold. So it was entirely possible she was driving not only a gargantuan penis but a gray-market gargantuan penis.
The traffic light switched to green. Both the Mincemobile and the SUV were so far back, though, that neither actually moved much before it returned to red again.
William unexpectedly appeared at her side, crouching in the center aisle, dark-brown eyes earnest behind his horn-rimmed glasses. One flick of his wrist turned the heat to max, and he held out a branded green fleece. “Everything okay, Nina? I can take over driving, if you’d like.”
At thirty-seven years old, she’d obviously experienced a few hopeless crushes before. He wasn’t the first. Might not even be the last. This sort of intense, involuntary attention to every detail of him—the agile grace in his broad, pale hands, the spread of his surprisingly muscular thighs in those dark, close-fitting jeans of his, the exact shape of his softly curved lips as he regarded her—would eventually pass.
It had to. Otherwise, once all three of them returned to their normal adjunct-instructor work at Dogwood University, she’d have to move to a different spot in the library’s cubicle farm, one positioned much farther away from his. For productivity purposes, if no other reason.
“I’m good.” She accepted the fleece and spread it across her lap, surprised he’d even noticed her open-window conversation. He and Claudia had seemed utterly lost in their own world. “Thanks, though.”
As soon as William nodded, made his way back to his seat, and strapped himself in again, her twentysomething inquisitor in the neighboring SUV pointed to the corporate slogan painted along the side of the phyllo penis: Nutritious, Delicious, and So Very British. “‘Nutritious’? Really?”
She kept her smile steady and sweet. “Santa always tells us elves to eat more produce. Each of Mrs. Claus’s Mincemeat Treats contains an entire serving of fruit, as well as the finest spices, artisanal brandy, and real creamery butter.”
SUV Guy raised an eyebrow. “Santa tell you to drink more brandy too?”
Her four-day Treater Training over Dogwood University’s Thanksgiving break hadn’t covered that particular question, but three weeks in the Mincemobile and a semester of teaching survey-level courses to fidgety college students had prepared her to expect the unexpected.
“I won’t ‘mince’ words,” she told him. “Sometimes days in Santa’s workshop can get a little long. ‘Crust’ me on that.”
He groaned, and her grin turned genuine at the sound of his pain.
Treater Training had covered puns. Also mandated their liberal use.
Wow, the temperature was dropping fast as night fell. She shivered again, then checked the traffic light. Still red. And they might or might not make it through the next green either.
The Newport News roads were packed. Normal Christmas Eve travel to family homes and friends’ parties, but also imminent-snowstorm weirdness. As she’d discovered upon moving to Virginia for college, people in this area of the country treated snowfall with a bizarre mixture of nonchalance and downright terror. If they weren’t panic-purchasing twelve loaves of bread, eight gallons of milk, and every AA battery in existence, they were blithely rolling out for a leisurely drive in their bald-tired, no-wheel-drive compact cars without their headlights on.
Nina, Claudia, and William—the three “Treaters” aboard the vehicle, traveling around the mid-Atlantic seaboard to launch Mrs. Claus’s Mincemeat Treats into the seasonal-foods market with a splash—had called their supervisor the day before yesterday and asked permission to hunker down in Claudia’s parents’ home during the worst of the weather. Ruth had denied the request.
“At least two Treaters on duty each day,” she’d told Nina yesterday, disapproval heavy in her frosty tone. “That’s the rule. And the Mincemobile is still scheduled for the DC parade Christmas morning, so as soon as Mrs. Clauds has been dropped off at her family’s house, you and Will-YUM will need to hop back on the interstate and get north as quickly as possible.”
After they’d hung up, William had raked a hand through his wavy brown hair and sighed. “More like Ruthless.”
“That woman is entirely without ruth,” Nina had agreed. And when he’d smiled, her blood had promptly effervesced in her veins, fizzing with excitement and the sort of lust she hadn’t experienced since the early days of her ill-fated former marriage. “Even the Baby variety. Oh, the irony.”
It was also a tiny bit galling to report to a woman almost ten years Nina’s junior. But since Ruth had hired their trio for the entire month and was paying each of them the same amount they earned for teaching a semester-long course, as well as reimbursing hotel costs and providing a decent weekly food stipend . . .
Well, Nina could shrug off the indignity of it all. Even when she had to wear her slightly-too-tight-across-the-boobs elf costume and pointy-toed booties. Even when Ruth insisted on still calling her “Nutmeg Nina,” her company-approved Treater name, with no members of the public in earshot. Even when company rules forced her to engage—for “experiential marketing” purposes—with random guys through open windows and freeze her substantial ass off.
Even when she had to watch William and Claudia get cozy in the back.
The light turned green again, and the first cars in line started to move. She gave SUV Guy another cheerful wave, more than ready to roll up her window and defrost. But just as the brake lights on the pickup truck ahead of her went dark—
“Hey!” SUV Guy jabbed his forefinger in the direction of her vehicle’s fiberglass-phyllo dick. “Mine’s bigger!”
The sound of laughter drifted from inside the SUV as it peeled away and turned left at the light.
Behind her, William muttered an unintelligible remark, his tone uncharacteristically grumpy for such an even-tempered man. In response, Claudia said something that sounded like, “Then just do it already,” and Nina had no clue what that meant.
Was he working up the nerve to ask whether he could stay with Claudia overnight, despite Ruth’s warnings? Because Nina would say yes. She’d deal single-handedly with the parade, and damn the possible professional consequences. Her best friend since the first semester of grad school worked unbelievable hours, was brilliant and kind and funny, and deserved some happiness. Nina wouldn’t stand in her way.
Yeah, sure, she’d told Claudia about her crush on their new university colleague one night over half-
She didn’t remember Nina’s confession from two months ago. Not her fault.
Nina didn’t feel betrayed. Just . . . sad. A little lonely, too, but that was probably the season more than anything else. Claudia had her close-knit family within driving distance. William might not be tight with his, but he had Claudia now. And Nina . . .
Well, her own family was back in Michigan. And maybe she’d try a dating app soon.
Closing her window, she continued straight through the traffic signal and shook her head. “I’m not certain all the guys who say ‘Mine’s bigger’ fully understand the size and maximum capacity of a human vagina.”
William choked on his reusable bottle of water and started coughing. Claudia reached across the center aisle to thump his back.
“Not to mention the laws of physics,” Nina’s best friend agreed. “If your dick’s the size of that giant phyllo phallus we’re hauling around the greater DMV area? Good luck getting a ride in anything smaller than a tractor trailer, my dude.”
She and Nina had each heard the Mine is bigger! thing a couple dozen times now. In the week or so they had left, they might hear it a dozen more. At least this guy hadn’t flashed his penis or mooned them, because they’d seen enough unexpected dicks and butts for a lifetime by this point.
William, in contrast—with that neat, dark beard accenting his sharp jaw; the warmth crinkling the corners of his intelligent eyes when he smiled; and the startlingly strong frame under the thin knit of his favorite sweaters—had personally been shown more bare breasts than a float at Mardi Gras. Not that he ever reacted in any appreciable way, other than looking elsewhere and denying his flashers the attention they wanted. Exactly as Treater Training had instructed.
Sometimes, Nina wondered how he’d react if she flashed her boobs too. Not that she would ever behave so unprofessionally toward a colleague, especially not if he and Claudia were hooking up, but . . . until the last couple of days, she could have sworn he might’ve let his stare linger on her instead of turning aside.
She could have sworn he was interested. In her. Not Claudia.
All Treaters dealt with the public. From the beginning of this assignment, though, they’d split their other tasks. Claudia handled social media posts and online communication, while William managed their schedule and served as their contact person for the local media—print, television, and radio—in each town they visited. Smart assignments for both, since Claudia’s absentmindedness meant giving her control of their penis-topped behemoth would be a terrible idea, and William vastly preferred walking or taking public transportation to getting behind a wheel himself.
By mutual agreement, then, Nina had assumed the lion’s share of the driving from day one. And from day one until approximately forty-eight hours ago, William had ridden shotgun beside her whenever possible.
Over endless miles, they’d groaned together about the university’s system of compensation and how they’d all needed to fill the lengthy gap in pay between the last fall-semester paycheck and the first spring-semester paycheck. Which was why, late last October, when Mrs. Claus’s Mincemeat Treats had contacted their history department colleague for an interview about the mincemeat pie tradition in the UK, then mentioned needing seasonal help for their newly acquired Mincemobile, kindly Professor Jain had steered the company toward hiring adjunct-instructor colleagues instead of grad students.
Nina and William had also laughed a lot. Over their initial awkwardness in setting up their tables and handing out coupons and branded magnets during their first few grocery store visits. Over the corporate directive to call public events “mincemeat and greets” and coax selfie smiles from Mincemobile visitors with a hearty “Say ‘Suet!’”—even though the only version of the pies to still contain actual ground sirloin and beef suet was the traditional “Roast Beast” variety.
The two of them had shared teaching tips and favorite student stories. They’d even had a few lengthy conversations about how their academic interests intersected with their current job. As someone whose graduate research focused on post-Reconstruction US economic history, she’d shared what she knew about the promotion of Christmas as a commercial, sales-focused holiday in Gilded Age department stores. In return, he’d shared his own knowledge of Christmastide traditions in colonial America.
And over time, he’d touched her increasingly often as they spoke. Laid a hand on her arm to catch her attention. Nudged her knee with his whenever something amused him. Steered her toward the driver’s seat after a rest break with a warm, gentle hand on her lower back.
She’d thought . . .
It didn’t matter what she’d thought. William was with her best friend now. Claudia had even left the women’s shared hotel room to visit his for an hour or so last night. To “chat.”
At least there hadn’t been any PDA. Not even any hand-holding. Watching actual physical intimacy between them would have hurt too much for Nina to easily disguise her reaction. And she might be sad for herself, but she was glad for them. Truly.
Besides, this weekslong road trip would end soon enough. The final Mincemobile event was on New Year’s Day. After that, she might spot him at the library cubicle farm or see him on her best friend’s arm, but at least she wouldn’t be stuck inside the same vehicle as the happy couple for hours at a time.
Eight more days and counting.
“Five-minute warning!” she called out, since traffic was finally clearing. They’d be arriving at Claudia’s parents’ home shortly.
“Thanks, Nina.” Claudia sounded tired. “I’ll get my shit together.”
William didn’t respond, so Nina glanced over her shoulder at the next red light to check whether he’d fallen asleep.
He was awake—and staring directly at her, brown eyes intent behind his glasses.
She had no idea how to read his expression.
And once he turned his attention back to Claudia for more hushed conversation, Nina vowed to stop trying.
When Nina put her coat back on, William helped her into it, which was very gentlemanly of him. After grabbing her purse, she zipped up her boots and hefted one of two overloaded paper bags, while he took the other.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Ko,” she said sincerely. “This is amazing.”
The Ko family might not celebrate Christmas as Nina’s own parents did—with a big tree and lots of reindeer figurines everywhere—but, as Claudia had informed Nina, her parents expected all their kids with time off for the holidays to come home. Accordingly, Mr. and Mrs. Ko had cooked a feast, and their dining room table should’ve been groaning under the weight of all those dishes.
Claudia had told her mom that Nina and William couldn’t stay for dinner, and Mrs. Ko’s scowl had nearly bludgeoned them with disapproval. But considering the imminent snowstorm, even she couldn’t argue the wisdom of getting back on the road as soon as possible, so Nina and William would hopefully reach their hotel just outside DC before conditions deteriorated too much.
Still, while they’d taken turns visiting the powder room, she’d packed them an absurdly large pile of resealable containers full of home-cooked food: scallion pork belly, stir-fried eggs and tomatoes, green beans and garlic, soup, and dumplings. Also mac and cheese—“Because our daughter still eats like an eight-year-old,” Mr. Ko had told them.
“When Claudia said you didn’t have any food on board that . . . monstrosity, I couldn’t believe it.” Mrs. Ko shook her head. “No kitchen. No bathroom. No beds. Sending you off with a few leftovers is the least I can do. Are you sure you can’t stay here overnight? It’s beginning to snow already.”
It was. The first flakes were drifting down from the dark sky.
But they couldn’t stay—Ruth’s ruthless order—so they said their goodbyes and got back on the road. After stopping by the nearest gas station to top off their tank and buy drinks, they took the exit for I-64 West and headed toward Richmond, where they’d catch I-95 North.
