IN STOCKINGS

  HANNAH HAZE

  Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Haze

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor Credit: Christie Gressel

  Created with Vellum

  I have my littlest daughter to thank for the unicorn theme in this story. She is currently OBSESSED! Love you, sweetiepie.

  And to the members of my readers’ group, thank you for helping me shape this story. Firemen, single daddies and long-term crushes coming your way …

  FOREWORD

  This story was previously published in the Knotty Or Nice Christmas anthology.

  This is a sweet why choose story with one female omega and three male alphas and includes some group scenes. For trigger warnings, please visit my website at www.hannahhaze.com

  1

  Astrid

  The line for Santa’s grotto trails from the little wooden cabin set up in the foyer of the hospital, through the cafeteria, into the gift store, around the Christmas display of decorations and holiday gifts, and all the way to the hospital entrance, curling around the building itself.

  This means by the time the queue weaves its way to where I’m standing – about a half hour's wait from the main guy – there are a lot of pissed-off parents and whiny kids.

  My job, which Margerie had failed to mention when I volunteered to do overtime as a Christmas Elf, is to keep everyone happy.

  Last year, there was an actual fistfight between two mums in the queue, and one toddler became so distressed he went on a rampage, tearing apart the carefully constructed Christmas tree formed of soft toys. Bears had been torn apart, and children had cried. This year the hospital is taking no chances.

  I’m armed with sweets and a box of different tools to keep these kids amused. I’m rotating through this box of tricks to try and keep things fresh, and at the moment, I’m on bubble-blowing. Things are starting to get angsty, though. Earlier children were eagerly chasing bubbles and clapping every time I blew an especially big one. Now they are hunched on the floor, and one pre-teen heckles me from the sidelines.

  Tucking the almost-empty bottle of bubble mixture back into the box, I tear open a bag of lollipops and start along the queue. The lollipops are meant for the children, but several adults dip their hands inside the bags, scowling at me as if to dare me to challenge them. No chance. I want to make it home from my shift in one piece, where I intend to run a long hot bath and soak until my next shift, ignoring the angry knocks of my roommate.

  Our Santa Claus is the best in the city of Studworth by a clear country mile. No fake beard or pillow stuffed under his coat. He is the real deal, and he’s the reason we draw such mega crowds – that and the fact that we’re raising money for the children’s department of the hospital. Parents want their children to experience authenticity, and this is the closest they will come to it.

  I walk along the line handing out lollipops as I go until I feel a pair of small hands tug on my stripy stockings. I peer down and find a little girl staring up at me with a pair of emerald-green eyes. Her auburn hair has been drawn up into pigtails, and a sprinkling of freckles dust the bow of her cheeks.

  “Please, can I have a lollipop?”

  “Sure you can.” I smile and crouch down, the bells on the end of my ridiculous shoes chiming as I do. “Which flavour would you like?”

  She screws up her mouth as if she’s giving this thought.

  I dip my hand in the bag and pull a few out. “We’ve got strawberry, cola, bubblegum …”

  “Go for strawberry, Lyra,” a deep, growly voice says from above us. “You won’t like the others."

  I look up … and up … and up, and, holy shit, my eyes land on Craig Hart. My heart stops, and I’m sure my jaw must fall open.

  “Daddy says strawberry,” the little girl says, examining the lollipops in my hand as I examine her daddy.

  Craig Hart.

  It really is him. Slightly taller and somehow even broader, the line of his jaw stronger, but those damn eyes – green like early spring – just the same. And his scent, like fresh pine, hasn't altered a bit. Still making every nerve in my body tingle.

  How long has it been?

  Ten years.

  “Which one is strawberry?” Lyra asks me, jolting me out of my staring escapades.

  “This one. Are you going to eat it now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d better check with your daddy and mummy first.” Ok, I’m fishing for information here, but can you blame me? Craig Hart. The boy I crushed on hard at school. The boy everyone crushed on.

  “Oh, I don’t have a mummy.” The little girl steps closer, reaching up to waggle the end of my hat, making the bell tinkle.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I have three daddies instead.”

  Huh?

  Three?

  I open my mouth to speak, and as if on cue, two large men come strolling along the line, nipping into the queue to stand next to Craig. They’re at least half a foot taller than everyone else, so no one says a word.

  They are also Samson Peters and Archie Gibbs. Craig’s best friends from school. The trio practically ruled the school, breaking hearts every time they strolled down the corridors together. Stars of the football team, alphas and better looking than most teen idols, they were gods among mortals.

  “Look, Pops. Look, Dada. I got a lollipop.”

  Samson, smelling of the rich coffee he always did, reaches down and ruffles her hair.

  She screeches. “Watch the bunches.”

  “Whoops, sorry, sunshine,” he says, scooping her up so she can show him her sweet.

  Gingerly, I straighten too, hoping I can step to one side without them noticing me.

  I take a tiny pace towards the family waiting behind them, sighing with relief as I do, but then Archie says, “Wait, don’t we know you from somewhere?”

  My whole body cringes. I spent my entire time at school dreaming about these three alphas. If I’m honest, those little fantasies have continued long after I left school. But never, never, in all those fantasies that played out in my head did I imagine the next time I bumped into these three, it would be dressed as a flipping elf.

  I pinch myself, willing this to be one of those awful anxiety dreams. One I’ll wake up from in my single bed.

  I spin around to face the three men eyeing me with interest.

  “You went to school with us, right?” Archie continues. I nod, my body taut with tension.

  Please let this be over. Please let this be over, because now I have Archie’s scent in my nose too – leather – and the three scents combined have my insides spinning like a washing machine.

  “Astrid, isn’t it? I didn’t recognise you with the …” Samson waves in the general direction of my own pigtails, painted on rosy cheeks and floppy hat. “You used to sit behind me in French.”

  Yes, I used to sit behind him, chin in hand, gazing at the back of his beautiful neck, drowning in his scent.

  I can’t believe he remembers me. I was quiet in school, and back then, my designation hadn’t presented. The likes of Craig, Samson and Archie barely knew I was alive, especially when there was Celia Simms in the school. A girl who presented early as an omega and had every alpha eating out of her hand and worshipping at her feet.

  “She’s not Astrid, silly,” Lyra says, bopping Samson on the nose. “She’s …” She squints towards the badge pinned on my chest, which directs all three pairs of swirling alpha eyes towards my breasts.

  I gulp.

  “She’s … tw … ink … le … t …” She halts, screwing up her nose in confusion.

  “TwinkleToes,” Craig says, the corners of his mouth twitching. He gazes down at my red shoes with their oversized buckles, curved ends and bells.

  “Yep,” I say, deciding I’m going to take this on the chin. “I’m TwinkleToes, Father Christmas’ right-hand elf. If you want, I can put in a good word for you,” I whisper to Lyra.

  “I want a unicorn,” Lyra tells me. Then she sighs, her eyes going all gooey. “I love unicorns.”

  “Me too,” I smile.

  The alphas eye me with interest. Their noses twitch. Oh shit. I back away, my bag of lollipops clutched firmly to my stomach.

  “Well, nice to see you again,” I mutter, “but my elfish duties call, so …”

  Craig steps into my path, interest morphing into what I could easily mistake for excitement on his face.

  “You’re an –”

  “Elf,” I blurt out.

  “Omega,” he says.

  I blush from my hairline all the way down to my toes, turning a tomato colour I’m sure clashes perfectly with the red and green top and skirt combo I’m wearing.

  “Uh-huh,” I manage to squeak.

  “You weren’t an omega at school,” Craig says, tilting his head.

  “What’s an omega?” Lyra asks, brushing her fingers through the dark beard on Samson’s chin in a way I would frankly die to.

  My eyes flick to the three men, wondering how they’re going to explain this to – what – their daughter?

  “An omega is someone who binds a pack together,” Samson says, his

dark eyes locked on me, making me feel all hot and faint.

  “Like me?” Lyra asks.

  “Yes, sweetheart.” Craig kisses the crown of her head.

  “You’re a pack?” I ask, my heart suddenly pounding and the butterflies in my stomach turning somersaults.

  “Yes, we’re a pack,” Archie answers.

  “Pack Hart,” Lyra cheers, punching her little fist into the air. “Best pack ever.”

  “I’m sure,” I laugh.

  Oh, I’m totally sure. A pack with these three? Any omega would kill to have them. If the pack doesn't have an omega already, of course.

  “Hey,” the woman standing behind Samson calls out, “Are you handing out sweets or what? We’ve been waiting a flipping hour and –”

  “Coming!” I chime before the disgruntled woman with three kids hanging off her arms can spout out any more blue language.

  “It was nice to meet you, Lyra.” I wave as I scuttle to the family behind.

  By the time my bag of sweets is empty, it’s time for us elves to rotate. Next stop for me is grotto crowd control. I’m positioned outside the little cabin where Father Christmas is tucked up inside. My job is to usher families in and out, making sure nobody overstays their welcome.

  This is easier said than done, especially when everybody’s been waiting so long. One family dives into a long conversation with Santa and resists all my subtle hints to move along. In the end, I have to resort to commanding them to leave. When they ignore me, I call in the two bigger elves that are roaming the hospital this year to prevent incidents like last time. They frog march the disgruntled parents out of the grotto, and the line starts moving again.

  I’m at the front for ten minutes when Lyra greets me like a long-lost friend.

  “TwinkleToes!” she gushes, bouncing up and down in front of me.

  “Hi, Lyra, you’re nearly there. Are you excited to meet Father Christmas?”

  She squeezes her hands together, and, with her eyes shut, squeals. “Yes!”

  “She has a lot of stamina,” I say to her three dads. “Most kids are wilting by the time they reach the grotto.”

  “This one never wilts,” Craig says with affection. “She’s only excited or exceedingly excited.”

  “Awww,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “That is the best way to be.”

  “Although bloody exhausting for us,” Samson mutters.

  I’m given the secret signal by the other elf working the grotto and lead Lyra inside the cabin. She skips along by my side, her eyes growing even wider with excitement as they land on Father Christmas. He sits on a rocking chair by a fake fire, brightly wrapped presents piled around his feet, and a small Christmas tree tucked into the far corner.

  The aroma of gingerbread pumps through the cabin. Still, it’s not half as appetising as the scents of the three alphas that follow me inside the cabin. All three have to duck their heads, and the cabin feels positively titchy with these hulking great alphas inside.

  “Santa, this is Lyra,” I tell him, giving Lyra a little nudge forward. She clings to my hand and refuses to budge.

  “Hello, Lyra. Would you like to come a bit closer? I’m sure your …” Santa’s gaze trails over the three men, and he looks utterly lost.

  “Dads,” I prompt.

  He throws me a grateful look. “Dads would like a photo.”

  Lyra shakes her head, tightening her grip on my hand.

  “Don’t you want to tell me what you want for Christmas?”

  The little girl’s feet creep forward. She’s clearly torn, wanting Santa to know her wish list but suddenly starstruck. It happens to a surprising amount of kids. I understand; I feel a similar way coming face-to-face with her dads again after all this time.

  “Lyra,” Craig says with a hint of frustration in his tone, “we’ve waited a long time. Go tell Santa what you want.”

  “Only if TwinkleToes comes with me.”

  “I’d love to come,” I say, stepping forward and taking Lyra with me.

  We halt in front of the man himself, and he pats his knee. “Want to come sit on my lap?”

  Lyra peaks up at me and then nods.

  We all wait, but she makes no move to climb up.

  “Don’t you want –”

  “Twinkle Toes, too,” she insists.

  “TwinkleToes, what?” I ask with trepidation, not liking where I think this is headed.

  “TwinkleToes has to sit on Santa’s lap too.”

  “Lyra!” Samson mutters.

  But she peers up at me with those big, pleading eyes – eyes similar to the pair I was in love with throughout school – and I can’t say no.

  I glance at Santa, who shrugs. Some of the kids are twice my size.

  With mortification, I help Lyra climb onto one of Santa’s knees, and then I balance daintily on the other.

  This is possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life. If this is an anxiety dream, it’s turning into a nightmare.

  Why couldn’t I have bumped into the Hart Pack at a nightclub or a bar? Even doing my regular job as a nurse in the children’s ward.

  The three men smirk at me, clearly repressing the need to laugh. Samson’s shoulders shake, and Craig coughs violently into his hand.

  “Smile!” Archie tells us both, lifting his phone to take a picture.

  “Cheeesssse!” Lyra shouts, revealing two missing front teeth. She’s obviously gotten over her shyness.

  “So,” Santa says, “tell me, what would you like for Christmas?”

  “A unicorn,” she snaps without drawing breath.

  “A unicorn, eh? What colour?”

  “White with a pink mane, a purple tail and rainbow wings.”

  “Wings as well? Do we have one of those in the workshop, TwinkleToes?”

  “We certainly do, Santa.”

  “You’re sure?” Samson asks.

  I nod.

  “And have you been a good girl?” Santa asks.

  Lyra peeks towards her dads.

  “She’s been a very good girl, Santa,” Archie says.

  “How about you, TwinkleToes?” Samson asks. “What do you want for Christmas?”

  What do I want?

  Several things come shooting into my mind. None of them I can express out loud.

  My cheeks heat. I pray they can’t tell in the cabin’s dim light. I pray they can’t read my dirty mind.

  “Some new socks,” I finally blurt out after an awkward pause. “Mine have holes in them,” I explain to Lyra.

  “Oh,” Lyra peers at my feet with an empathetic look in her eyes. “My daddies will buy you some new socks, won’t you?”

  “Depends,” Samson’s eyes seem to darken, “has she been a good girl?”

  I leap off Santa’s lap like I’ve been stung on the bottom.

  “Santa …” I prompt at the man now examining me and the three alphas.

  He coughs. “Now, remember to leave me out a snack. And one for the reindeer. It’s hard work on Christmas Eve, and we get very hungry.”

  “I’ll leave you one of Pop’s chocolate cookies and some carrots for Rudolph.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Santa lifts her from his lap and onto the floor. Immediately she grabs my hand again.

  “We’re going for pizza next,” she tells me.

  “After we’ve done a bit of shopping first. We’ve got to buy gifts for your grandmas, remember?”

  “Wanna come?” Lyra asks me.

  “Shopping?” I ask.

  “No, silly. For pizza.”

  “Oh,” I keep my eyes fixed on the little girl and not her three dads hovering around us. “I’ve got to help Santa and the other elves pack up, and then we’ll be flying home to the North Pole.”

  “We’re not flying home for another three days, Twinkle,” Santa says.

  “Of course,” I knock the heel of my palm against my forehead while throwing Santa a dirty look. “I forgot, but you’ll need my help –”

  “I’d say you’ve worked very hard today, Twinkle,” Santa says, ignoring the message I’m telegraphing with my eyes, “You deserve the evening off. Merriweather and Grumps will cover for you.”

  I glare at Santa, and he grins back.

  “Pleeeeaaaaase!” Lyra begs, tugging on my arm.

  “It depends what your daddies say.”

 

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