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Santa's Destiny

Tami Lund

Somebody doesn’t want Christmas to happen this year, and it’s up to Destiny to ensure Santa delivers joy to all the good boys and girls. The problem? Santa wants more than Destiny’s protection—he wants her to ride in his sleigh tonight.

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Read an excerpt from Santa's Destiny

“I did a thorough investigation before taking the job. Trust me, I would have been happy to turn this gig down, despite the promised paycheck.”

“Why? Because it involves me?”

“Glad to see we are finally on the same page.”

“We are definitely not on the same page, Destiny.”

There was nothing to say to that. Santos, aka Santa Claus, was right. We’d known each other since we were infants, and I couldn’t think of a single situation during which he and I hadn’t ultimately ended up arguing or wrestling or some other end result that was definitely not jolly or even friendly.

After a too-long pause, he shook his head. “No one wants to cancel Christmas, Des.”

“Someone does.”


I frowned. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t pinpoint a location or even the type of magic, but I found several memos and a map of your route with notes indicating points at which you could be misdirected, thus ensuring not all kids get their gifts on Christmas.”

Santos’s brows lifted above his sunglasses, but then he shook his head again. “Won’t happen. Everyone loves Christmas. And me.”

“Contrary to what you believe, not everyone enjoys a never-ending cheerful mood.”

“You are the only person on that list.”

“Okay, I admit, I’m grumpier than normal right now, but that’s because I’ve been traveling all night and I’m hungry and we might as well be hanging out on the sun for how freaking hot it is here.” I flipped my cape over my shoulder, partially revealing a skin-tight leather outfit with cutouts running all the way down the arm. Hey, I may not be into getting banged by Father Christmas, but I still liked to feel sexy. And this outfit was sexy—for an ambient temperature about fifty degrees cooler than here.

“You are definitely hot,” Santos said. Despite the sunglasses hiding his eyes, I could tell he was admiring me from my exposed shoulder to my leather boots.

“Don’t start—”

“Come on, let’s get you into a lot less clothing.” Santos wrapped his hand around my forearm and tugged me toward a cluster of shops with bright, tropical-themed paint and décor.

I resisted, only because I hated the feel of his magic when he touched me. It was all warm and fuzzy and cheerful and made me tingly. And although I didn’t mind the tingles, I did mind that Santos was the cause.

“If you think I’m going to bed with you, Santos, you have—”

“While I like where your mind is, I’m actually trying to help you get more comfortable.” He stopped walking and waved at a shop that advertised beachwear and all the accessories to make one’s visit to Key Largo complete.

I huffed. To be honest, I was dying to get out of these clothes. “Fine,” I allowed, giving him a solid glare. “I’ll change. But I’ll do it on my own terms. I’ll pick out the outfit, and I’ll pay for it. In fact, you stay here. Don’t even come into the store.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, and I lifted my palm in front of his face. “Five minutes. Do not come in. Do not try to sneak into the dressing room so you can see me naked. Do not—”

“I got it, Des.” He sounded disgruntled. Or as disgruntled as Santa ever could. Which wasn’t surprising. When we were dorky teenagers, Santos had been forever trying to sneak a peek at my blossoming boobs. Just like he had every girl within a ten-mile radius of the tiny village we lived in. I was the only one who hadn’t let him actually get to the prize.

“Five minutes,” I said, wiggling my finger in warning, but I knew damn well he’d eventually walk into the shop anyway.

“Christmas promise,” he said, which wasn’t even a thing, but whatever.

I scurried through the open doorway, too desperate to get out of these sticky leather pants to care.