The spiked punch helped.

Or that’s what Katie figured when she saw Mrs. Giddeon, their usually prim receptionist, with an empty glass in one hand and Mr. Riggs in the other, a decisively naughty gleam in her eye as she dragged him toward the mistletoe hanging from the nose of a jet parked in the far corner.

Then there were Dale, Jake and Evan, the linemen, and usually the most polite of young men, cheering and egging on Julie, Cassandra and Eloise, three of the women in her office, who were at the moment exhibiting go-go dancing skills to the tune of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

Katie shook her head in amazement. She hadn’t imagined this when she’d volunteered to decorate. She’d known everyone had been working hard, trying to keep up with the expansion plans that had them putting in long hours and stressful times with new clients. But to totally let loose? Was she the only grown-up here?

It felt like it.

And yet, from deep inside her came a yearning to join them, to brush off years of restraint, down a glass of spiked punch and toss caution to the wind.

Which brought her back to jumping Santa’s bones.

Katie glanced across the huge hangar, wildly decorated with gold and silver streamers, red and green ornaments, and of course the pathetic four-foot Christmas tree. Pathetic because, this being Southern California, and a drought year at that, the poor tree looked as though it were on its last legs.

Next to the straining tree stood Santa. Tall, smiling and charismatic. Because she knew who was under the suit, Matt Osborne, a.k.a. Mr. Perfect, her heart sighed.

Go for it, a little voice whispered in her head. Do it. Kiss him.

As a rule, Katie didn’t feel the holiday spirit.