Undercover Santa: A second chance holiday romance (Small Town Secrets Book 5) Read online

  UNDERCOVER SANTA

  CAT JOHNSON

  New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

  It's Christmastime in Mudville and Morgan's Farm Market is all decked out for the holidays, but the man in the Santa suit isn't who he says he is...

  ELIZABETH

  I recognized him right away. The boy I'd met and fell in love with one summer twenty-three years ago, before he'd disappeared completely from my life. Now he's back . . . and dressed as Santa. And lying about who he is. The question is why? The bigger question is, will he stick around this time?

  CHRISTOPHER

  The last thing I expected was to inherit my uncle's farm in Mudville. No, actually, the last I'd ever expected was to be dressed as Santa Claus and see Lizzy Murphy again after all these years. She's all grown up and goes by Elizabeth now. And she's making me want to stick around, just when I'd been all set to go.

  ONE

  CHRISTOPHER

  I punched the button to silence the radio in the rental vehicle.

  There was nothing but Christmas music playing on the one station that came in clearly and with the holiday still three weeks away, I was not in the mood to hear it yet, if ever. But more importantly, I needed to straighten out this mess I was in.

  With hopes this call would do just that, I pressed the cell phone to my ear . . . and heard the voicemail pick up.

  Dammit. The one time that I really, really needed to speak to a human, no one was answering.

  At the unwelcome sound of the tone prompting me to leave a message, I said, “Hello. This is Christopher Nunes. I have an appointment to meet you today at my Uncle William’s farm in Mudville, but my GPS says I’ve arrived and I can assure you, I have not.”

  I stared at the parking lot and the out-of-business grocery store in front of me. I’d only visited my great uncle once, years ago, but I was fairly certain this was not the farm I’d just inherited. I wasn’t even in the right town. This was not Mudville according to the sign I’d just passed that read Bainbridge.

  “I really need you to call me back and confirm the address. Thank you.” Sighing, I disconnected the call to the lawyer and glanced around me.

  There wasn’t much on State Highway 7. A couple of houses. A farm here or there. The abandoned grocery store, next to an equally empty and boarded up Chinese food restaurant. The sight had my very low hopes for this property falling even lower.

  I hadn’t wanted to drive to upstate New York in December in the first place. But I really didn’t want to be lost there.

  Short of knocking on someone’s door, which I wasn’t keen on doing, I figured the best course of action would be for me to continue on.

  Maybe the GPS wasn’t that far off. I could be close. Who knew what kind of property lines the farm had originally? Maybe sometime in the past William had sold off some land and it had become commercial retail property.

  All I knew was this did not look like where I’d spent the summer twenty-three years ago when I was seventeen.

  I flipped the heater another notch higher as just the sight of the snow on either side of the road made me feel colder, before I steered the four-wheel drive vehicle out of the lot and back toward the highway. I felt the wheels slip on the icy surface of the shoulder.

  Hopefully the lawyer would call me back with the proper address before I ended up sliding off the road and into a ditch.

  All I needed to do was see the damn property, as the will stipulated, sign some papers and then I could get back to Manhattan and my life.

  Driving six hours roundtrip in one day was not my idea of fun, but it was definitely preferable to spending the night in Mudville.

  Hell, was there even a decent hotel nearby if I had wanted to stay? Judging by what I’d seen so far, I’d say that was doubtful.

  The first sign of activity and life after what had looked like a ghost town had me slowing and flipping on the blinker to turn into a drive marked with a sign for a farm stand, and a second sign that read Christmas Trees for Sale.

  Christmas trees. That reminded me that I hadn’t had one of those since moving into my own place after graduating college decades ago and I didn’t feel all that bad about that. I made do with a fresh balsam wreath on the door. That was festive enough for me. Quick, cheap and easy, but still messy once the needles started to fall.

  Mom would have a tree when I visited her Christmas Day. And Dad and his new family would definitely have a tree when I stopped by Christmas Eve. Twenty-three years later and I was still a two-holiday child of divorce.

  I pushed that thought out of my mind, along with the dread of those double holiday celebrations, and parked the car.

  Wrapping the scarf around my neck and pulling the sides of my open overcoat closer together, I stepped out of the warmth of the car and into the biting December cold.

  It must have snowed here fairly recently. The driveway and parking area were clear, but a dusting of white coated the grass and the evergreen trees. It was just enough to be pretty but not be a nuisance.

  That didn’t mean I was enjoying my excursion upstate. I most definitely was not. And the fact that Uncle William’s will had required I make the trip to claim the inheritance was annoying, to say the least.

  At that thought, I felt the guilt of how ungrateful I was being. I hadn’t asked for or expected to inherit the farm when he died. I would have thought my mother’s maternal uncle would have left it to her or someone else he’d been closer to. But he’d left it to me.

  Odd, to say the least.

  I hadn’t seen the man in more than a dozen years, since the last time he’d visited my mother downstate—that’s how he referred to what I, and the rest of the people I knew, just called the suburbs.

  It was sad that the man had no one else closer to him to leave the property to. Someone more suitable, who might want to keep it. Farm it.

  That person was definitely not me.

  Yes, I’d enjoyed my visit here that summer, but there had been extenuating circumstances back then. It was the summer that, unbeknownst to me, my parents were about to get divorced, and being home with them fighting all the time had been unbearable.

  Then there was the girl next door to my uncle’s place . . . Lizzy Murphy.

  Long blonde hair. Long lean legs. Eyes as blue as the summer sky . . . She was my first kiss and I’d bet money I was hers. A year younger than me, she’d been a tomboy in a woman’s body. I still remembered her soft curvy body and all its tempting attributes as her shorts and T-shirt got soaked while she taught me to fish in the Muddy River.

  I had good memories from my time there. But that was then. This was now. Hopefully, someone at the tree lot would be able to give me better directions.

  There was a lot of action happening around me. Not a surprise, I guess, given there were only a few weeks until Christmas and all the festive people would want to get a tree.

  I tried to wave down a teenaged girl as she sped past, to no avail. Resigned, I trudged on toward a small wooden building. I was in the wrong shoes for hiking in snow, even this little bit, and I could feel my feet getting colder and wetter with every step.

  Yeah, I couldn’t get rid of this property fast enough, because there was no doubt in my mind that I’d never want to come here again.

  I opened the door and smelled the acrid scent of smoke inside, just before I felt the welcome heat of the woodburning stove tucked into the corner of the room.

  Grateful for the warmth, I pulled the door shut behind me, which sent the little bells attached to it tinkling.
The sound didn’t interrupt the three men I saw talking by the counter, even though judging by the matching logos on their sweatshirts, they worked here.

  “I’m telling you, we should buy the old train depot before someone else grabs it,” one said.

  The other one shook his head. “Boone, I’m not paying double what the guy paid when he bought it just two years ago.”

  “Stone’s right. The asking price is too high. We’d have to low-ball him on the offer,” the third man said. “But it’s a great location. We could expand the farm market. Now that Brandon has the diner and the old hotel open for business, the village is getting a lot more traffic. Red says her sales are up twenty-percent at the consignment shop.”

  The one he’d referred to as Stone shook his head. “Well, Cashel, then Red should buy the depot. We don’t need another location.”

  Cashel scowled. “You’re being shortsighted. And cheap.”

  The younger one—Boone—snorted at that. But Stone ignored him and continued addressing the other man. “No, Cash, I’m being logical. We already get the highway traffic because we’re between town and the exit. A sign on Main Street for the farm market will do just fine to direct all of the traffic from the other end of town to here and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than buying, renovating and staffing the old train depot.”

  It was a fascinating and enlightening conversation. I couldn’t even be annoyed they’d ignored my presence since my pseudo eavesdropping had gleaned a wealth of information about the real estate market in Mudville and the economy in town.

  But it looked like my being a fly on the wall was over. Boone backhanded Stone in the side and tipped his chin in my direction.

  All three turned to stare, but it was Stone who asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yeah. My GPS doesn’t seem to be working great. I’m—”

  Boone’s eyes widened. “You must be the Santa that Elizabeth Murphy is waiting for.”

  Elizabeth Murphy? Could that be Lizzy?

  I didn’t have time to ask as Stone hissed out, “Shit, that’s right. I promised her I’d get in touch with Harper or Agnes to get the volunteer’s number to make sure he was coming since he was supposed to be here at ten.” Stone looked back to me. “Sorry you got lost. GPS doesn’t like a lot of addresses around here. Anyway, you’re here now and you are in the right place. The Santa Station is all set up for you. I think it opens for photos at eleven? Is that right, Cash?”

  Cash nodded. “Yup. Red’s photographer friend is already here and set up.” He glanced down at his cell phone and hissed in air between his teeth. “Crap. It’s already five minutes of eleven.”

  “That’s okay. The Santa suit is hanging right in the back. And there’s a bathroom back there where you can change.” Boone hooked a thumb toward the door behind him. “We’ll just put the Feeding the Reindeer sign up by the sleigh until you get out there.”

  I’d remained quiet until then. Mostly because the three hadn’t given me a second to get a word in to correct their wrong assumption that I was their volunteer Santa for the day.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, the best way to learn about this town, and the potential to sell the farm I was suddenly the owner of, might be to actually take this job. And then there was the possibility that Lizzy Murphy might actually be here.

  It seemed like a crazy coincidence, but this was a small town so it was possible.

  I turned over the details of the situation in my mind. If the real Santa—make that the guy who’d really been hired to play Santa—was supposed to be here an hour ago, there was a good chance he’d be a no-show. And if he did show up later, I could just say I’d decided to help out and step in until he arrived. It wasn’t like I could be arrested for impersonating Santa.

  Decision made, I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll go get into that suit and get right out there.”

  Luckily, they left me alone to change. I took the opportunity to leave a second message for the lawyer saying that I’d have to reschedule our meeting for late this afternoon or possibly tomorrow morning.

  It looked like I’d be spending more time here in Mudville.

  TWO

  ELIZABETH

  Mudville, New York, population one thousand one hundred and twenty-eight, wasn’t exactly a hot market for me to showcase my design skills. But in upstate New York, you learned to take what you could get.

  For me, what I could get was the position—make that the volunteer unpaid position—of Winter Wonderland designer, which was less exciting than the official title sounded.

  I’d been here at Morgan Farm Market for the past week staging the display, but today was it. Opening day. And I was ready—except for the big guy in red who was, unbelievably, late.

  I folded the fur throw and draped it on the seat of the sleigh I’d borrowed from Red at the local consignment shop.

  That was it, the final touch . . . except for my missing Santa.

  Not letting that worry override my accomplishment, I took out my cell and lined up a photo of the sleigh for Instagram. Then I moved to the train-shaped wooden sign and took another shot.

  The sign read Santa Station—the clever name we’d decided on at the Rotary meeting during the planning stages. I’d figured since there was no ignoring the train that ran through the middle of our little village, we might as well capitalize on it for our marketing. Not that most of the members of the Rotary knew or cared much about marketing.

  I sighed at one of the many daily reminders of why I’d wanted to move out of this town and to a real city since I graduated high school.

  Yet here I was, still in Mudville at thirty-nine years old. And, apparently, still waiting for Santa.

  This whole thing had turned out to be a lot more work—and stress—than I’d bargained for. But the Winter Wonderland was for a good cause. No doubt. The Santa photos sold here this month would benefit the local school’s grossly underfunded arts programs.

  I couldn’t not have Santa in our Santa Station—the money-maker of this event. Everything needed to go as we’d planned. Not only did the school really need the money, I didn’t want the Morgan family to regret letting us set up the fundraiser at their farm market.

  The idea was that families coming to buy a Christmas tree would stop for a photo. Conversely, those bringing their kids for a picture with Santa would probably make a day of it and pick their tree while they were here. Win-win for all of us. Or at least that was my hope. But not if the damn Santa didn’t get here.

  I whipped out my cell phone. I’d already texted Stone and asked him to get me the volunteer’s phone number from Agnes.

  My bad that I didn’t have Agnes’s or the volunteer’s number myself, but since Stone was dating Agnes’s niece Harper, I figured he could get the information for me.

  Almost an hour later, I still had no Santa and no word from Stone.

  I glanced toward the parking lot and blew out a breath. If the volunteer didn’t arrive in the next five minutes, we were screwed. I was going to have to send out an SOS to the Rotary members and beg for someone to get me another volunteer because without Santa, the Santa Station was going to flop.

  Just when I was starting to really panic, a flash of red and white caught my eye.

  He was here. Dressed and ready. Thank God.

  I stepped forward, more than anxious to show him to his sleigh and get this fundraising event started.

  I extended my hand with a smile and said, “Hi. You must be our Santa volunteer for today. Thank you for helping out. I’m Elizabeth Murphy.”

  He paused, a frown forming between the eyebrows he’d sprayed white. I saw his mouth open and then close again behind the fake beard and mustache.

  Finally, he drew in a breath and said, “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. Um . . . does anyone ever call you Lizzy?”

  I laughed. “Not since I was a teenager. Why do you ask?” It seemed like an odd question.

  “Uh, no reason.” He shook his head.

>   “I’m sorry. What’s your name?” I asked, embarrassed I didn’t already know it.

  His name was probably something I should have asked for weeks ago, in addition to getting his number. Then, all of my stress over his being late could have been avoided. Lesson learned.

  “Uh, it’s, ah, Chris.”

  It had taken him longer than it should to answer that simple question. Maybe he was nervous about this Santa gig. Stage fright or something. I decided to lighten the mood and hopefully put him more at ease.

  “Chris, as in Cringle?” I smiled at my little joke.

  “Yes, coincidentally.” He smiled too and somehow it felt familiar. Like I knew this guy.

  Heck, maybe I did know him. This was a small town, surrounded by small towns. Although, I couldn’t remember any man I knew specifically named Chris.

  Well, except for Christopher Nunes. My first kiss. My first crush. My first heart break.

  Christopher had only been here for one summer, staying with his uncle at the Hatchett place next door to my house, but three months was all it took. He’d walked away with my heart when he left that September.

  I’d heard Mr. Hatchett died last month. The farmhouse had been empty since he went into the nursing home last year. He’d rented the fields out to a local farmer years ago when he’d gotten too old to work them himself. Poor guy didn’t have any kids of his own to take over—

  It hit me. Slowly at first and then all at once. Like puzzle pieces coming together until suddenly the complete picture was there. And once I saw it, it seemed so obvious, so clear, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it immediately.

  His dark eyes. The dark hair peeking out beneath the wig. His hesitation when I’d asked his name.

  Chris was Christopher.

  The sixteen-year old girl’s crush still alive inside me had my heart speeding. The memory of that first kiss hit me so strongly it was like it had been yesterday.

  I remembered it well. It had been the day before he was due to leave. I was already completely in love with him. Already mourning Christopher’s departure. Missing him before he’d even left.