"I’m too old to believe in Santa," Nancy said to herself as she put the glass of milk and plate of cookies on the coffee table. "I’m twenty-seven, for crying out loud."

But still she was putting out cookies and milk. Whole milk and extra-rich double chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Santa had been very explicit about his likes last year.

"None of that low-fat crap!" Santa had bellowed. "I need all the fat I can get, flying around in the middle of a December night in an open sleigh!"

But had that really happened? Had Santa Claus really appeared here, in her apartment, last year. Or had it been, as seemed most likely, just a bizarre and slightly perverted dream brought on by too much eggnog with too much rum in it?

And the things that had been done to her! Rude, crude, vulgar, perverted things. Santa was supposed to leave a lump of coal in a bad girl’s stocking, not take a reindeer whip to her rump! And those elves! More like imps than elves, and what kind of Santa Cla...

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