up and play Santa. She felt as giddy and amazed as the children waiting inside.
Clay started to walk through the front door, but Holly grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Setting her bag on the porch, she reached up, straightened the hat he’d pushed back, and carefully smoothed his dark hair beneath the white trim. Only when his surprised gaze locked with hers did she realized what she’d done. Stepping back, Holly cleared her throat. “Can’t have the kids figuring out you’re not really Santa.”
He reached up to adjust the hat, and she turned away, grateful to escape before doing something even more foolish. She opened the front door, and together they walked back to the parlor.
“Now, children, step back! Give Santa some room to breathe!” Sylvia admonished the kids who danced around him as they tried to peek inside the bags he carried.
Clay purposely lowered the bags to give the children a glimpse of gleaming tow trucks, blocks, and dolls before lifting them out of sight once more. Bobbing up and down on tiptoe, Mary Jane turned to the little girl beside her. “I saw a Barbie doll!”
Clay must have heard the exaggerated whisper. Once he settled into the parlor’s wingback chair, the fireplace and Christmas tree on either side, he motioned the two girls forward and pulled out a Barbie for each of them. Their eyes bright with excitement, they had the boxes open and were exchanging accessories within minutes.
The children’s happiness was contagious, and Eleanor and Sylvia seemed just as excited. Clay’s belly laugh filled the cozy room, and the blue eyes that had given him away in the first place danced.
If Holly had taken the job of matching the toys up with the children, she couldn’t have done better. Some, like Mary Jane, were easy, but for shy toddlers like Lucas, picking the perfect toy was more difficult. And even then, Holly couldn’t fault Clay’s choice.
Prompted by Holly, Lucas ran over just long enough to grab the yellow fire truck Clay held out. Holly tried to show Lucas how the battery-operated vehicle worked, but he wouldn’t let go of the toy to set it motoring across the floor.
As Eleanor walked toward the kitchen for refills of the fragrant, steaming cider, she stopped at Holly’s side. “That man is a wonder,” the older woman whispered. “When he called for directions, he asked about the children’s Christmas lists, but I never expected this.”
So that was how Clay had known what to buy. The knowledge didn’t lessen Holly’s amazement. She was touched he’d thought to research which presents would mean the most to the children. “I never expected it, either.”
“Wherever did he come from?” Eleanor asked.
Still awed that Clay Forrester was playing Santa for their party, Holly shook her head and mumbled, “Fortune 500.”
“Excuse me, dear?”
“I said I was fortunate to find him.”
He picked that moment to glance her way, and the distance separating them did little to dim the effect his appraising gaze had on her. The rest of the room faded away, leaving only the two of them.
Dressed in the Santa Claus suit, he should have looked silly. Sweet, at best. So how was it that she found him every bit as sexy as when she’d seen him in his designer suit?
“I can see how this might turn out very fortunate, indeed,” Eleanor said, with a delighted chuckle.
The older lady’s thoughts weren’t hard to follow, but Holly shook her head. “It’s not what you think.”
“This isn’t about what I think. This is about facts. Like the fact that your Mr. Forrester is the first man you’ve ever invited here.”
“He isn’t the first man I’ve invited,” Holly refuted softly. “He’s just the first to actually show.”
She’d asked Mark to visit the group home with her several times while they were dating, hoping to ease him into the idea of fostering Lucas. But there’d been nothing easy about it.
At first glance, Mark had been everything a woman hoped for: handsome, smart, charming. Only later did Holly realize he’d been playing a part to get what he wanted. Before long, their entire relationship was based on his needs.
And one thing he hadn’t wanted was to even consider the possibility of raising someone else’s kid.
But it didn’t matter whether or not Clay was anything like Mark. Clay Forrester had a pedigreed family history; Holly had never even found out who her parents were.
The differences that started at birth had continued throughout their lives. He was the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company; she struggled to make ends meet working at a flower shop. He was champagne and caviar. She was soda pop and tuna fish. A chauffeur-driven limousine compared to a VW Bug.
And Holly knew better than to fantasize that any of those things mixed, no matter what Eleanor thought.
Clay hadn’t sung Christmas carols in years, but even he knew Mary Jane and her fellow singers were a good octave off. Standing beside the piano, having been given the important job of page turning while Mary Jane played, he couldn’t help smiling. Traditions that had gotten lost in overcommercialization came back to life in the children’s happiness.
If Marie could see me now. He’d meant what he said to Holly. No way would he have put on the costume and made a fool of himself in front of his employees. But the second he’d seen the disappointment in Holly’s eyes, he’d known he was going to make a fool of himself, after all. All for a woman whose mysterious green gaze quickened his heartbeat.
Not that he’d jumped at the chance to play Santa. He’d spent a good ten minutes pacing his office, trying to convince himself he wasn’t at fault. But the excuse rang hollow.
Because even though he hadn’t known Charlie was headed to the foster home, the man had said he was booked for another job, and instead of accepting that, Clay had negotiated a deal where he came out the winner, loser be damned. He hadn’t thought twice about making Charlie a better offer, and if not for Holly, he wouldn’t have thought about it at all.
So he’d donned the Santa outfit to salvage Christmas and his conscience, totally ignoring the mocking voice that laughed over the stupid things a man would do for a beautiful woman.
“Wonderful job, children,” Sylvia complimented, her clapping signaling an end to the sing-along before Mary Jane could launch into yet another round of “Frosty the Snowman.” Holding up a camera, she said, “How about a picture with Santa?”
Seated once more in the parlor chair, Clay posed with each child on his knee while Sylvia coaxed them to say “Cheese.” As he held Lucas on his lap, with the little boy tugging on his beard, Clay noticed Holly watching. For a brief second, he thought he saw tears in her eyes, but then the flash blinded him. She was smiling by the time she bent to lift Lucas from his lap.
She straightened and perched Lucas on one hip, but the little boy swung his booted feet, a silent demand to get down. The minute Holly released him, Lucas dropped to his knees and was off, pushing his fire truck across the braided rug.
Clay caught her wrist, claiming her attention with a slight tug. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand and smiled when her pulse
