The Santa Suit Bet: CHAPTER 1 – The Bet I Shouldn’t Have Lost

Eli should’ve kept his mouth shut. One stupid bet and now he’s Santa for the town’s chaotic holiday bar crawl. The suit jingles, the belt doesn’t fit, and his long-time crush just volunteered to be his “elf.” This night is already a problem. 

Chapter One 

Eli 

Winterbrook Holiday Crawl

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

But no. I had to flex like I’m the reigning king of holiday trivia. I had to say, “I’ve got this,” with the confidence of a man who absolutely did not have this.

And now I’m standing in the middle of my friend’s living room, holding the most cursed Santa suit known to mankind.

“You lost fair and square,” Tia trills. She’s perched on the arm of the couch like some festive little gremlin, eyes sparkling with the thrill of my downfall. “Suit up, Claus.”

“This fabric should be illegal,” I mutter, lifting the coat by two fingers. “Why does it feel like someone glued dryer lint to a tarp?”

“It’s vintage,” Andrew says.

“It’s offensive,” I correct.

Someone snorts.

I don’t have to look to know who.

Miles.

Of course it’s Miles.

He’s leaning against the back of the couch, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, wearing that easy half-smile that makes my chest feel weird. He’s relaxed, warm, comfortable in his own skin. I am the opposite of all of those things right now.

“That beard is incredible,” he says. “You look like someone who lost a fight with a yard sale.”

“Glad to be your entertainment,” I say. “Truly.”

Our friends are buzzing with pre–pub crawl energy, already arguing about which bar to start at, who’s DDing, and who’s most likely to get cut off first. The annual Winterbrook Holiday Crawl is their whole personality for the month of December.

And this year, I am the designated Santa idiot.

Tia holds up a battered plastic bowl. “Okay, time for Santa’s helper. Names in the bowl. I’ll draw at random.”

Before she even finishes, Miles says, “I’ll do it.”

The room goes silent for a second.

My brain? Loud. Very loud.

“You don’t have to,” I say, trying to sound casual instead of panicked. “Someone else can—”

“I said I’ll do it.” His smile tilts. “Could be fun.”

Fun.

Sure.

Fun like heart palpitations and humiliation and trying not to stare at him all night.

Tia wiggles her brows at me like she knows I’m one breath away from combusting. Andrew coughs something that sounds suspiciously like ‘finally.’

Miles pushes off the couch and walks toward me.

I look away too fast, like an idiot. Smooth.

He takes the Santa coat from my hands and gives it a once-over. “Alright, turn around.”

“I can put on a coat,” I say.

“Probably,” he says. “But I’ll do it better.”

My pulse jumps but I turn around anyway.

He steps in behind me, lifting the coat and guiding my arms into the sleeves. His hands brush my sides as he settles it over my shoulders and down, slow and careful like he’s tailoring it just for me. The fur trim tickles my jaw.

“Too high,” he says quietly, tugging the lapels down. “There.”

His cologne hits me. The kind of scent you notice without meaning to. The kind of scent you notice without meaning to. The kind you remember without trying.

“Belt,” he says, fingers brushing mine as he hands it over.

I loop it through, but the buckle sits weird. Of course it does. Nothing about this night wants me to survive.

Miles steps in again. “Here. It goes lower.”

He adjusts it himself, knuckles grazing my lower abdomen. My breath does something embarrassing, and I hope to god he doesn’t notice. But with my luck he probably does.

“There we go,” he murmurs.

“There we go,” Tia mimics under her breath from across the room.

I shoot her a look and she grins like the menace she is.

Miles steps back, eyes dragging over me slowly. He’s not subtle about it either. Or maybe he is, and I’m just hyperaware of everything he does.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hottest Santa on the crawl.”

I snort. “That bar is low.”

“Not that low,” he says, still looking at me way too directly.

I need fresh air. Like now.

Before I can escape, he picks up the beard from the couch. A sad, scraggly cotton thing that should be studied by scientists as a biohazard.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Yes,” he counters, lifting it to my face.

“This is itchy. And embarrassing. And still itchy.”

“You said itchy twice.”

“Because it’s very itchy.”

Miles leans in anyway, hooking the elastic over my ears. His fingers graze my hairline, trace the hinge of my jaw, linger longer than necessary. Heat crawls up my neck and settles beneath the stupid beard.

He steps back and surveys his work.

“Perfect.”

“It’s not perfect,” I say. “It’s a cry for help.”

He shrugs. “Still works.”

Voices rise around us as everyone gears up to head out. Scarves, gloves, jangling hats, warm drinks being poured into to-go cups. Someone turns on holiday music and the whole room shifts into the chaotic pre–crawl buzz.

Miles walks to the closet and pulls out a green beanie with an elf patch sewn crookedly across the front. He tugs it on, adjusting it until the patch sits right over his eyebrow.

Unfair.

Deeply unfair how good he looks even in that.

He crosses the room and stops in front of me, eyes softening for a moment.

“Ready, Santa?”

I try to swallow, but my throat feels tight beneath this stupid beard. “I don’t think I’m built for this.”

Miles steps a little closer, close enough that the warmth from him cuts through the cold slipping in from the open door. His eyes flick down my chest, taking in the coat, the belt he adjusted, the whole tragic outfit. When he looks back up, something softer settles there.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, voice low enough it steadies something in me I didn’t realize was shaking.

Then he leans in, just a little, like he’s letting the room fall away.

“Stay close tonight.”

The words hit deeper than they should. My stomach pulls tight. Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it. I try to play it off, but the look in his eyes makes it impossible to pretend I didn’t feel that everywhere.

The front door opens and a rush of cold air sweeps in. Snow flurries drift across the porch. Lights twinkle down Main Street. The distant roar of the Winterbrook crowd hits my ears.

Everyone starts piling out into the night.

Miles glances over his shoulder at me. “Come on.”

I follow him out the door, bells jingling with every step like a personal announcement of my suffering.

And I can already tell the suit isn’t the only thing that’s going to destroy me tonight.

Come back tomorrow for Chapter Two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix