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Bleak midwinters. Shane Houston supposed they didn't get a whole lot bleaker than working Christmas Eve late shift in Cinemagic Video, frosty winds or otherwise. He glanced up from his paperback at the garishly-lit dreariness to check for customers. The drab horror of the place was only emphasised by the few decorations Arlo had cared to string casually about the shelf-tops. God, you'd think the guy might put in a little effort if he wanted to keep his business solvent. Shane had been short on festive joy when he'd begun work that afternoon; the inate despair of his surroundings was sapping what was left.

Distraction strolled into view from one of the aisles - a Santa-suited piece of eye-candy which stirred him from his funk in a way that his crime novel had thus far failed to do. Strawberry-blonde hair spilled from under her jauntily-balanced, fur-trimmed hat and her similarly fringed scarlet costume was fitted to draw double-takes from good and bad boys alike. Shane's brain made a tracking-shot of her progress along the New Releases section; she walked so daintily in those little black ankle-boots and how her stocking seams traced the supple curves of her legs all the way up to that brief shock of suspender-crossed thigh - oh Baby Jesus... Then her eyes flicked suddenly his direction and he assumed nonchalance just a little too late.

‘Mind on the job, stud. Quit checkin' out Santa's Little Helper.' Arlo's sledgehammer quips were always overtly loud when there was a chance of applying a little humiliation. The Santa-girl glanced over again as ...

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