A Holiday Seduction: A Holiday Novella

by Tiffany Patterson

  “I’m working on them right now, Mr. McKenna. Gloria will have them within the hour.”

  Neil nods and then turns his gaze back to me. His smile increases. Without a word, he takes me by the arm. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival.” His voice could melt a frozen stick of butter.

  I let my eyes drop to his lips, and the warmth that fills my belly reminds me of how hot I felt this afternoon sweating it up in my kitchen as I baked all of those cookies.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you. If I remember correctly, Jackie says fall is a busy time of year for you.” Clamping my lips shut, I refuse to allow myself to go into my nervous habit of talking too much.

  Neil nods as he continues to stroll down the long hallway that leads to the elevator, carrying us to his office, which resides on the third floor of this five-story building.

  “It is, but we’re never too busy for a break,” he finally says once the elevator doors close behind him.

  Why did I come here? I ask myself as I stare at the doors ahead of me. To my left, I can feel Neil’s ridiculously penetrative gaze burrowing a hole into my skull. I have to question if I’m imagining the tension flowing through us, or is it just coming from my end?

  Maybe it’s awkwardness on my end because of the way I walked away from him this morning.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out as the elevator door dings, and before I can think better of it.

  Neil looks at me with furrowed eyebrows and steps off the elevator, extending his arm to hold the doors open for me.

  “What are you apologizing for?”

  “For the way I exploded on you this morning and then stormed off. That’s not like me. I behaved like one of my second graders.” Frowning, I lower my gaze, feeling slightly ashamed of what’d felt a little bit like a temper tantrum.

  Before Neil can respond, we’re interrupted.

  “Desiree Jackson, I was wondering if we would see you today,” Gloria, Neil’s administrative assistant, says.

  My smile widens as she moves closer, extending her arms, embracing me in one of her famous bear hugs.

  The floral scent of Gloria’s White Diamonds perfume permeates my nostrils, and my lips spread into a genuine smile. Typically, on this day, a smile doesn’t come easily to me, but between Neil’s presence, baking, and the familiar, friendly embrace of Gloria’s, a smile comes easily.

  “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since we last saw your face.” Gloria pulls back and cups my arms with her hands, assessing me from head to toe. “You look like you’ve lost a little weight. I hope those children or your customers aren’t running you ragged.”

  I let out a small laugh. “I’m pretty certain I’ve gained a little weight this year, but thanks for not pointing it out.”

  She sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes, reminding me of my grandmother when I was a child, and my mother would say something she didn’t like.

  “Girl, please.” Pulling me in close again, she presses her face close to my ear. “You know, Mr. McKenna likes his women a little thick.”

  I gasp and jerk back, staring her in the eye. Why would she tell me, of all people, something like that?

  Grinning, she winks at me. “I’m headed down to the second-floor group therapy room. Got a session there in five minutes,” she informs the both of us as she moves around her desk and heads toward the elevators we just exited.

  Gloria’s official title is the administrative assistant to the CEO and President of McKenna Rehab Clinics. However, unofficially she still leads a couple of group therapy sessions per week, having more than two decades of experience as an addictions specialist and counselor.

  “My office is this way,” Neil says, reminding me that it’s now just he and I.

  Something inside of me braces as I follow behind him toward his office. He pauses, stepping aside to allow me to enter first. As soon as I do, I begin digging around in the large shoulder bag I brought with me for the tin inside.

  A wave of satisfaction moves over me as I wrap my fingers around the silver and gold tin and pull it out of my bag. “These are for you.”

  Neil’s eyebrows dip as he pokes his lips out a little. Moving closer, he takes the tin from my hands, letting the tips of his fingers brush against mine. I shiver but try to tamp it down.

  “More cookies?” he questions after looking inside of the lid.

  I nod. “Those are only for you. Last year, Jackie told me that you didn’t get any because you let your staff dig in first. I wanted to avoid that happening this year. I stuck extra oatmeal raisin and a few gingerbread cookies in there for you.”

  He continues peering down at the cookies for a few heartbeats before closing the lid and turning that soul touching gaze on me. “Thank you, Desiree. That wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it.”

  The sincerity in his voice almost leaves me speechless.

  “It’s the least I could do for the way I behaved this morning,” I confess.

  He shakes his head. “There’s nothing to apologize or make up for.” He holds his hand up when I go to protest. “Your feelings are your own. She was your sister. Naturally, this day is difficult for you.”

  I pause, taken aback by the understanding tone his voice takes on. “Still, it doesn’t give me the right to ream out the man who tried to save her life.”

  Sighing, his eyebrows furrow and lips pull down into a frown. “Is that why you bring cookies up here every year on the anniversary of her death? You think you owe me, owe this clinic, something?”

  Surprised by the hurt in his voice, I rear backward. I form my lips to say no, to deny his question, but something stops me—the truth. The reality is a part of me does feel beholden to Neil and this place.

  “Even when my parents gave up on her, you were still there. Still trying to get her to go to meetings or willing to put a call into the insurance company to arrange for them to pay for yet one more stay here.” Clearing my throat, I lift my eyes to meet his. “I can’t thank you enough for that.”

  “You can. You have. But if you want to repay me, there is something more you can do.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  The air seeps out of my lungs.

  “Okay,” I blurt before I can think better of it and before Neil gets the chance to rethink his offer.

  After five years of knowing Desiree, I finally ended up parking my Jeep in front of her apartment building and exiting to knock on her door, picking her up for our first date.

  It’s taken this long for the timing to be right. For years, I told myself that it’d be inappropriate for me to act on these deeply held feelings for her, but as she stood in my office, claiming to owe me something, I pounced. Seizing the moment, I went for what I waited for for so long.

  Buttoning the dark grey blazer I’m wearing, I head up the stairwell to the third floor where Desiree lives and pass one of her neighbors, nodding in his direction. He tosses me a nod, and I continue down the corridor, reading the numbers on each door until I finally come to apartment number 311.

  “Coming,” I hear her deeply feminine voice push through the door in response to my knock. Seconds later, the deadbolt on the other side turns a heartbeat and she stands before me.

  For a split second, my body denies its need for oxygen, only surviving off of the thrill of seeing her in an off-the-shoulder white peplum top with skinny black pants that lead to black and white zebra print heels. Again, the curves that refuse to remain hidden in any outfit are on full display. The cinnamon shoulders of hers shimmer with some sort of glimmery lotion or whatever it is women use.

  She doesn’t need it, but I won’t lie and say it isn’t doing the damn job. My mouth waters, and my tongue aches to lick every inch of skin she exposes and then some. I have to inhale because I know this feeling all too well. Briefly closing my eyes, I recall this same feeling invading every pore of my body when it came to those moments right before taking my first drink of
the day.

  The need for it combining with the assurance that the drink was within my grasp, was almost enough to satisfy the urge. A calmness that overcame me before even taking that first sip. There aren’t many feelings like it. Not for me, and damn sure not in the solemn final days of my drinking.

  But this.

  Desiree is more than even that. She’s real.

  “Hi,” she says, huskily, pulling me out of my stupor but also proving that she’s not a figment of my imagination.

  “Good evening. You're stunning.”

  Her eyelids flutter. The usual innocence that’s always on display on her face is enhanced by the wrinkling of her cute, button nose. The smile in her dark brown eyes matches the one playing at her lips.

  “Thank you. Are those for me?” she asks, peering down at the bouquet of orange and yellow flowers in my hand.

  “They are.” I hand the flowers to her, wishing it were the world on a silver platter. She deserves nothing less.

  “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Come in while I put these in water.”

  I step through the doorway, shutting it behind me as I watch her turn and head to the tiny kitchen. I allow my gaze to travel down the length of her backside. Desiree stands about five feet, nine inches tall, but in those heels, the top of her head easily reaches the tops of my shoulder. At six-foot-three, I’m used to towering over the women I date. That’s not so much the case with Desiree, a fact I’m very okay with.

  When she disappears behind the kitchen’s entrance, I glance around the small apartment. Desiree’s apartment has a colorful bohemian style to it. The multicolored area rug leads to a soft pink couch opposite the flatscreen that sits on a black console. To the far right, against the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, is a dark green, velvet chair. The colors all seem to fall into place, however. Though the apartment is very different from my own sleek and mostly black, grey, and white color scheme, it holds a certain appeal, much like the owner of said space.

  “I’ve set them on the windowsill so they can catch the morning sun rays,” she chimes as she reenters the room, smiling.

  “I’ll bet they’ll soak it all in. Ready to go?” I hold out my arm.

  She nods, taking my arm as we fall into step next to one another as if meant to be.

  “I still smell the remnants of your baking in there.” I nod toward the door that she’s now locking.

  Desiree lets out a laugh. “My place always smells like cookies. I have four orders that need to go out by the end of the week.”

  Grinning, I shake my head, taking my free hand and laying it over hers.

  “I don’t know how you spend all day on your feet teaching and then spend hours in the evening baking cookies from scratch and sending them out.”

  She shrugs and looks up at me. “We all make time for what we love, I guess.”

  I pause to push open the door that leads to the street for her to walk through.

  “I guess we do.” I open my car door for her, watching every move she makes as she climbs into the passenger seat of my Jeep.

  “This is not at all the type of car I thought you’d drive,” she admits once I get behind the wheel.

  “No?” I glance over as I start the ignition. “What’d you think I’d drive?”

  She shrugs as we pull off. “I don’t know. Like a Mercedes or something fancy like that.”

  I chuckle. “Is that the impression I give you?”

  She looks at me out of the side of her eye before shaking her head. “To be honest, no. But there’s still something about you having your name on buildings all across the country that makes me think you should be a little showier than you are.”

  I frown, not at her, but because many people think that way about me. “I didn’t put my names on those buildings. Hell, if I had it my way, I would’ve changed the names of the clinics as soon as I became the CEO. The board stopped me.” My frown deepens, remembering that debate from five years ago when I took on the role.

  “You inherited the job from your father. Why would you want to change the name?” She sounds genuinely intrigued and concerned.

  “It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you over dinner. I hope you’re in the mood for the best pizza this side of the Atlantic.”

  She turns to me with a lifted eyebrow. “That good, huh?”

  I nod. “I can personally vouch for the owner of this place.” Desiree informed me that Italian was her favorite, and I knew the place to take her.

  Ten minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Russo’s.

  “Of course you know the owner of one of the most exclusive restaurants on this side of the city.”

  Smirking, I toss her a wink.

  After parking, I get out and stroll around the front of the Jeep to open the door for her. Her hand in mine feels natural, as if it’s supposed to be there. Desiree visibly shivers, signaling that this feeling isn’t one-sided.

  As soon as we step inside, a warm smile from the male host greets us.

  “Neil,” he exclaims.

  “Hey, Max,” I say to the twenty-something-year-old, still grinning from ear-to-ear. “Good to see you.”

  He holds out his hand for me to shake.

  Reluctantly, I remove my hand from behind Desiree’s back and shake Max’s.

  “Max, this is Desiree. Desiree, this is Max, host here at Russo’s.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Max.” She smiles in that friendly way that makes any and everyone want to be near her.

  I replace my hand at the small of her back and move in between Max and Desiree. His blue eyes sparkle a bit too much for my liking as he grins at her.

  “Your table’s ready,” Max says when he abruptly looks up at me.

  “He seems nice,” Desiree remarks after taking the seat I held out for her.

  “He is.”

  “He looked at you like you were an older brother, almost.”

  I nod and shrug. “Max is young and impressionable.”

  “Or looking at you as his hero. I know the look well.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not a hero.”

  “But you did help him, didn’t you?”

  Our eyes lock across the circular table. For a moment, the Italian music playing in the background ceases, the murmurs of the other diners halt, and nothing exists between Desiree and me except for the space created by the table.

  Before I can let that look force me to pull her over the table, I shake my head. “I can’t disclose that.”

  Her words might hold a lot of truth, but it’s not my place to confirm her suspicions. She’s asking if Max was a patient at my rehab. The truth is, he wasn’t. I met him at my regular meeting across town, miles away from McKenna Rehab, but still in a room full of drunks. Max stumbled in one night, still reeking of alcohol but with that withered, desperate look in his eyes that many of us know so well. And yes, I took him on as a sponsee for a brief stint before passing him off to another sponsor, but again, that’s not my story to tell.

  “I understand.”

  Our waitress for the evening comes over and introduces herself, lowering the bread basket along with olive oil and vinegar to the table. She hands us our menus before leaving to give us time to look them over.

  I lower the menu to the table, not needing to look at it.

  “You know what you're getting?”

  I nod. “Same thing I always get. The bruschetta pizza.” I show her the item on the menu.

  “Looks good. I’ll get it, too. Although, I probably should be suspicious of your taste buds since oatmeal raisin cookies are your favorite.”

  I tilt my head back and let out a laugh. “Aw, man, not you, too.”

  She giggles. “I’m just saying. There’re so many other cookie options out there, and your taste buds settle on oatmeal raisin?” She shakes her head.

  “Not just any oatmeal raisin, your oatmeal raisin cookies, Desiree.”

  The air between us stills, electrifying itself with t
he intensity of my words and the meaning behind my statement. Another truth. I was a fan of oatmeal cookies, sure, but it wasn’t until I ate Desiree’s that they moved to the top of my list.

  “Then I’m glad I gave you your own tin to enjoy them.”

  “Thanks again for that, by the way. I can’t imagine how busy you’re about to get with the holiday season coming up.”

  Her face brightens with another smile. “Are you kidding? Despite the sorrow of today’s date, I truly wait for this time of year, every year. My favorite place to be is in the kitchen. I’ve added two new holiday cookies to my menu, and I can’t wait to see how well they sell.”

  “What are they?”

  “The Bailey’s Irish Cream cookies and …” She trails off, looking at me with a panic in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

  Frowning, I wonder what caused her to turn on a dime like that. The realization hits me right between the eyes when I recall the new recipe she just mentioned.

  “You think the mere mention of alcohol will cause me to drink?”

  She wags her head apologetically. “No, I didn’t mean to blurt it out so callously.”

  I chuckle and shake my head, not feeling the slightest bit offended. “Look around, Desiree.” I pause as she does so. “We’re in a restaurant filled with people drinking a range of alcoholic drinks. We’re seated fifteen feet from a well-stocked bar. I promise you, you telling me about your new cookie recipe won’t be the impetus for me to pick up a drink.”

  My alcoholism is widely known, given who my father is and the many years I spent making him look like a total hypocrite because he was supposed to be a world-renowned expert on addiction, and yet, he couldn’t prevent his son from spiraling down into the depths of the disease.

  When I took over as CEO of McKenna Rehab Clinics after my father stepped down, more articles than I care to mention recounted my stints in and out of rehab and that tumultuous time in my life as they’d put it.

  “Are you sure?” she almost whispered. “With Deirdre, I did my best not to bring alcohol into my apartment when she was staying with me. I cut out the wine advertisements in magazines I knew she liked to read and would change the channel if a beer commercial came on while we were watching.”