Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire Read Free Page A

How is that fair?”
    “Is it fair that when I was a kid Santa brought one toy and my neighbors all got five? Santa’s an unfair bastard.”
    “What?” Mommy Masochist asks, eavesdropping. “Please keep your voice down!” she snaps at Greg. “I can’t have Tycho tormented by nightmares about hearing Santa talk about… Santa, and calling him a bastard!” She throws her hands up and then reaches into her purse for her phone, muttering something about getting a refund and how nothing works properly these days because employees don’t know how to do their jobs. 
    I look at the enormous sea of wiggly children, tired parents, and crabby mall workers.
    “What now, Santa?” I ask.
    “Off we go,” Greg says, walking past Mommy Masochist and letting out a loud “ho ho ho,” to the children’s delight. The throne has a place for Santa to sit, and I’m there to hand out candy canes, keep people in orderly lines, and encourage the kids to look at the photographer, who charges $39 for a blurry photo of your kid sitting on the lap of a man who hasn’t gone through a CORI background check.
    (Actually, Greg has, but not the average mall Santa).
    Tycho is first in line. He looks at my chest and points, shouting, “I want nanas!”
    Doormat Daddy gives my breasts a nervous grin and says, “Tycho, we’re all done with nanas. Remember? We had your weaning party—”
    Greg turns the color of his beard and I turn the color of my elf suit as we both realize what “nanas” are.
    “Want nanas! Want nanas!” Tycho screams. Visions of a three-year-old vampire-diving into my overflowing nanas and drinking direct from the tap—a decidedly dry tap—make me cross my arms and push back my breeding date by, well, never . How does never sound? Sorry, Mom. No billionaire grandkids. I’m too traumatized by being turned into an unsuspecting wet nurse while wearing a naughty elf costume. 
    “Crease! You’re creasing!” Masochist Mommy cries out.
    And that’s kid number one in a sea of them.
    Merry Christmas.

Chapter Three
    One hour later I am ready to give myself a tubal ligation with a mascara wand.  
    Sex ed classes shouldn’t teach abstinence, or the mechanics of sex, or even birth control. They should march those teens to the mall two days before Christmas and make them play Santa’s Helper for a few hours. That would drop the teen pregnancy rate by a good fifty percent, tout suite . 
    I love kids. I do. The world revolves around Jeffrey and Tyler when I’m with them, and in my thirties, after I make director or vice president, I plan to have a couple. Whether Declan wants them or not is still a mystery, because we don’t talk about it. Ever. There’s this shadow between us that seems to have formed not by intention but more by omission.
    The longer we don’t bring it up, the bigger it becomes.
    The photographer, a lovely older woman named Marsha, who dresses in a Mrs. Claus outfit that makes her look like Betty White, approaches me and Greg.
    “My shift’s over,” she says, a bit nervous. “The new photographer is talking to the parents.”
    We look at a man in black jeans, a grey leather jacket, and a collared business shirt talking to parents in line. Twenties are changing hands.
    Greg stands and we put up the “Santa is Feeding the Reindeer—Back in Five Minutes!” sign. Parents groan, but the new photographer seems to be keeping them occupied.
    “You know him?” Greg asks Marsha, who shakes her head.
    “Never seen him before, but he says he’s a sub the owner sent. I texted the owner and he hasn’t replied, so…” She reaches for a clipboard on the small counter behind Santa’s throne and starts writing numbers on a spreadsheet.
    Greg and I exchange a skeptical look. “We need to document this,” he whispers to me. “They either pay through the app or at checkout. Cash isn’t supposed to change hands.” One of the many sour aspects of being a mystery shopper and customer service evaluator is