by Dylann Crush
“No.” Even if she had, and it turned out Melody knew him, what would she do with the information? Look him up on social media? What was the point? He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in seeing her again. Stalking him wasn’t going to change that.
No, it was better this way. A clean break would keep Gen from making an ass of herself.
“Hey.” Melody threw Gen a concerned look as they waited for the elevator. “You okay? You didn’t catch feelings for this guy, did you?”
Gen forced a smile. “Who, me? Never.”
Feelings were for other people. She was the queen of casual hookups. Gen liked her sex with no strings attached. At any given time, she usually had one to three fuck buddies in reserve so she could match her booty call to her mood.
Except she hadn’t been in the mood for any of them since the ball. Micah, Trent, and Hunter had all messaged her over the weekend, and she hadn’t replied to any of them. Instead, she’d spent all day Sunday moping around her apartment like an adolescent with an unrequited crush. It was pathetic. She’d tried to talk herself into inviting one of them over, hoping a little hair of the dog would cure her of this bang hangover. But the thought of doing the horizontal tango with any of them was actively repellant.
It was like Chris had ruined her for other men. Which was unfucking fair. How dare he make her feel something?
But she couldn’t help it. Her brain kept getting stuck on the things he’d said to her in bed. The way his words had made her feel. The way he’d sounded as if he actually meant them.
Which was ridiculous. Of course he hadn’t meant them. They’d only just met. Insta-love only existed in books and movies. It wasn’t real life.
Damn him for being such a convincing liar. And damn her hormones for falling for his sweet talk.
“You never know,” Melody said as they stepped onto the elevator. “Maybe fate will bring you together again.”
“Like serendipity,” Gen muttered to her coffee cup.
“The John Cusack movie?” Melody asked, and Gen shrugged. “Well, if you do find him again, you can bring him to the wedding.”
“Not likely.” The odds of randomly running into Chris in a metro area of thirteen million people were too infinitesimal to contemplate.
“Are you bringing someone to the wedding?”
Gen picked at the cardboard sleeve on her coffee. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t given it much thought. Ordinarily she’d pick one of the random guys she had on the hook like she’d done for the ball. But the thought of spending an entire evening attempting small talk with any of them made her cringe.
“You’ve got a week to let me know,” Melody said as they stepped off the elevator. “After that, I’ve been informed, the seating chart is set in carbonite and non-negotiable.”
6
Melody didn’t end up bringing anyone to the wedding, which took place the Saturday before Christmas. She went stag, knowing it would put her at the dreaded singles table. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to find a date. In fact, she hadn’t been on a date—or had sex—in almost a month. Not since Chris.
She didn’t know what had come over her, but casual sex didn’t hold the same appeal anymore. Every day she’d open up her dating app, stare at the messages waiting in her inbox, and wind up spending another lonely night at home with her vibrator.
Maybe she’d meet someone here at the wedding and hit it off with them the way she’d hit it off with Chris. It had happened once. It could happen again. Theoretically.
Unfortunately, as she gazed around the church, the majority of the heads visible above the pews were either gray or balding. Other than a smattering of young couples here and there, most of the guests appeared to be fifty and up.
At least the bride looked happy and beautiful. Against her will, Gen teared up a little as she watched Melody walk down the aisle toward her beaming husband-to-be.
Gen wasn’t usually the sentimental type who cried at weddings, but she had to dab at her eyes several times during the service. When the minister finally declared the couple husband and wife, Gen leaped to her feet and whooped loudly.
The reception was at the former Park Plaza Hotel near downtown, and it was swanky as shit. Attendants stood outside the ballroom to check all the guests against a list and direct them to their assigned table. It was a sit-down dinner, and forty large round tables surrounded the dance floor, each topped with its own towering centerpiece of red and white roses in the spirit of the holiday season.
The decor reminded Gen a bit of the Jingle Balls ball, which in turn reminded her of Chris, causing a fresh pang of regret to settle under her diaphragm. On the way to her assigned table, she detoured toward the nearest bar and got in line.
It occurred to her there was a chance Chris might be here. If he’d been at the ball, it stood to reason he might travel in the same social circles as the Sauers and might have made it onto the guest list for the wedding.
Yeah, right. Don’t get your hopes up. Still, she couldn’t resist craning her neck to stare at the faces pouring into the ballroom as the band played Christmas carols from the stage above the dance floor.
The drink line moved up, and the man in front of her stepped to the bar. “Maker’s on the rocks, please.”
Gen’s breath caught at the sound of his voice. She’d been so busy peering around the room, she hadn’t even noticed the man standing right in front of her. Her stomach did a flip as she moved to the bar for a better look at his profile.
His handsome, familiar, glasses-bedecked profile.
“You!” she exclaimed in shock.
Chris turned, and his eyes widened as they landed on her. “You!”
She stared at him. He stared back at her.
Before she could think of anything else to say, he surged toward her, one of his hands grasping her hip as the other cupped her face. Happiness bloomed in her chest as their lips met in a soft, slow kiss. Tender, but not quite chaste, the warm pressure of his mouth followed by a gentle caress of tongues. He tasted exactly as sweet as she remembered, like cool mint and warm comfort.
With an affectionate nuzzle, he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes shining like melted toffee. “You’re here.”
“I am,” Gen breathed out, still a little stunned—both from finding him and from the greeting he’d given her, which had surpassed her wildest hopes.
The bartender set Chris’s whiskey on the bar. “Here you go, sir.”
“Can I also get a glass of champagne for the lady?” Chris requested, never taking his eyes off Gen.
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
His brow furrowed as he pulled back a little. “Does that mean you hoped you’d never see me again? I’m going to feel really bad about that kiss if this reunion was an unwelcome surprise.”
“No.” She moved closer and pressed her fingers to his mouth. “It was welcome. It was very welcome.”
Smile lines sprouted around his eyes. “Good.”
“Champagne,” the bartender announced.
Chris stuffed a few bills into the tip jar and retrieved their drinks, handing Gen the champagne glass as he guided them to an out of the way corner of the ballroom.
She was grinning as wide as a clown out of some child’s nightmare, but she couldn’t help herself. Chris was here, and he was happy to see her. Not just happy, but ecstatic, judging from that kiss.
He gazed down at her, blinking his thick lashes in slo-mo. “I’ve been seriously kicking myself for not getting your number.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” His face broke open, his smile hopeful and earnest and so, so sexy.
She nodded as that float-off-the-floor feeling came over her again. “Really.”
“In that case, I propose we do this right this time.” He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Chris Scarborough. I work for Scarborough Capital Ventures and my dad is friends with the groom’s family.”
Gen took his hand, her stomach fizzing like it was full of Pop Rocks as his fingers closed around hers. “Genevieve Mathis. I work with the bride at Sauer Hewson.”
He kept hold of her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. “Can I take you out sometime, Genevieve? I’d like to see you again. As much as possible.”
“I’d love that.”
“Excellent.” He brought her hand to his lips before finally releasing it. “What table are you seated at? Maybe we can convince someone to switch so we can sit together.”
“Twenty-four,” she said, and Chris let out a burst of laughter. “What?”
He wrapped his free hand around her waist, smiling as he pulled her close. “I’m also at table twenty-four,” he murmured as he bent his head to hers.
“Serendipity,” she whispered, just before she kissed his gorgeous face off.
Also by Susannah Nix
Chemistry Lessons
Remedial Rocket Science
Intermediate Thermodynamics
Advanced Physical Chemistry
Applied Electromagnetism
Experimental Marine Biology
Starstruck
Fallen Star
Rising Star
Beaufort Island
Maybe This Christmas
For the most up-to-date book list, CLICK HERE.
About Susannah Nix
SUSANNAH NIX is a RITA® Award-winning author who lives in Texas with her husband, two ornery cats, and a flatulent pit bull. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, knitting, watching stupid amounts of television, and getting distracted by Tumblr. She is also a powerlifter who can deadlift as much as Captain America weighs.
You can read Melody and Jeremy’s story in Remedial Rocket Science, the first book in the Chemistry Lessons series. Sign up for Susannah’s newsletter to get new release alerts and exclusive reader extras like deleted scenes and bonus epilogues.
Part XIV
Lick My Snowballs
Tracey Pedersen
About… Lick My Snowballs
Mistletoe, chocolate and unrequited love.
Will this year’s Jingle Ball be a recipe for disaster, or will Peggy grab her chance with a certain blue-eyed caterer all the way from Australia? Take one peek under the giant Christmas tree, mix it with a few chocolatey kisses and watch this Christmas angel receive all the festive treats!
1
Peggy
“Psst! Lick my balls!”
What the actual fuck am I hearing?
I blink and glance over my shoulder. I’m the only person standing in this tucked away vestibule that hides the dessert section. The sweetest part of the whole night, and my absolute favourite, if I’m honest. Which is why I’m checking out the cakes while everyone else concentrates on their entrees.
The whisper-yell comes again. “No biting my snowballs! Only licking.”
I stare straight ahead, wondering how anyone has room to lick anything wedged behind the Christmas tree to my right. I want to whip around and scan the crowd to see if I can work out which saucy couple is missing from the event.
Tonight, I’m attending Miss Maisie Gartner’s Seventeenth Annual Festive Gala, to raise money for testicular cancer awareness, and I’m dressed as the most perfect sparkly angel. My hair is styled in waves, and thin silver ribbons flow around each soft curl. My angel wings—well, what can I say? I never want to take them off, that’s how perfect they are. They’re enormous and glittery and, when I move, I leave a trail of delicate silver sparkles in the air.
Too bad I only thought about adding tiny bells to my costume a few minutes after I arrived at the gala. A delicate tinkling sound following me everywhere would have been even more perfect.
This is Miss Maisie’s domain; her annual night of nights, if you will. Each of us lucky enough to receive a coveted invitation, and the accompanying fundraising request, would die before we’d let her know that, colloquially, her annual Christmas celebrations are known as the Jingle Balls. She’d hate that name—despise it, even. This is my third Jingle Ball, and every year I pinch myself that my fabulous employer agrees to send me. Over the years, I’ve seen enough to know that Miss Maisie is singularly focused on how much money she can raise, and how she can better her efforts next year. Her reputation is everything.
That’s why I’m certain she can’t find out that someone on her carefully curated invite list is having sexy times behind her perfectly decorated red, green and gold Christmas tree. I can’t even imagine how she’d react. Certainly not like I have, with one ear turned fully in the direction of the tree, hoping I can catch just a little more of the action taking place behind its laden branches.
I should move away.
I should mind my own business—take a dinner plate, fill it with tasty bites from the sumptuous buffet, and glide back to my assigned place, pretending my body doesn’t yearn for the warmth of another’s skin. But my five-foot-high sparkly angel wings make sitting at my table a real problem.
That’s something else I didn’t consider when I was being sewn into my silver finery five hours ago. The wings are on a clear elastic that wraps around my shoulders and under my arms. My gown is zipped over the top. To get the wings off, I have to remove my dress. Let me just say, wings that aren’t meant to bend don’t fare well when their wearer needs to sit. I was reduced to travelling here on the subway when I couldn’t fit my wings into the taxi. And let’s not even discuss the trouble I had in the bathroom.
Note to self: Plan for folding wings next time.
“Pick one up and lick it. Don’t you dare bite them!”
Gosh. They’re really getting into it, and they sound Australian. Of course, the people doing the dirty behind the tree are Aussies! If they’re not careful, those loud stage whispers will draw a crowd. I glance over my shoulder again, relieved to see I’m still alone.
Alone—there’s a word I despise.
My three months in New York City away from my family and friends in Australia are almost at an end. I’ve enjoyed the annual trip, making connections and placing orders for the coming year with all the best fashion houses, but soon I’ll be back in the fold. Back at the family home, surrounded by my crazy, diamond-painting mother and my almost-famous newspaper columnist sister. Back in the same orbit as the man I’m secretly in love with.
If I cared to wind back the story of me being at this party, I could lay the credit at Adam’s feet. Three years ago, I quit my retail management role and began a new adventure as an international fashion buyer. Now I spend most of my year overseas, culminating every October in my three-month sojourn to New York. I jumped at the chance to get away from Adam when he showed up at my mother’s house with a new girlfriend one year. Now I get to attend glamorous parties that almost make up for being permanently single. Almost.
No more whispers come from the direction of the tree, and I imagine all kinds of reasons why. Are the lovers kissing? Did they slip out the other side to find somewhere more private? Are they standing still as statues, waiting for me to get lost?
I snort to myself. They’re out of luck, if that’s what they want. I haven’t had this much action in weeks, and if I have to go home alone later, I might as well have some inspiration to take with me. A tiny fantasy tucked into my sparkly bodice won’t hurt anyone.
I don’t want to draw attention to myself standing here like a weirdo, and I definitely don’t want anyone to join me. I’ve already fended off several advances tonight from the two single men Miss Maisie strategically seated at my table. I’m sure they’re perfectly lovely, but my heart belongs to one out-of-reach gentleman I haven’t laid eyes on in more than nine months.
I reach out and pick up one of the desserts from the small bowls in front of me. They look just like one of my favourite chocolates from a well-known brand, but I’m certain Miss Maisie would never allow a generic sweet on her perfect buffet, so they must be something else. Every dessert, except for this one, has a tiny red label announcing wha
t it is. By choosing the item without a label, I have no idea if I’m going to get a mouthful of liqueur, a gooey caramel centre, or a hard, sugary inside. The sweet sphere is lightly covered in coconut, and I raise it to my lips to try it.
I’ve never met a chocolate I didn’t adore.
“Okay, good. Now lick it,” comes the whisper. “Do not bite that goodness.”
I frown, the chocolate ball still centimetres from my lips. A new theory about that voice niggles at my imagination and, on impulse, I open my mouth, bare my teeth, and prepare to take a bite.
“No. I said lick it!” The hiss from the tree is unmistakably a man’s voice.
To complete my test, I slide my lips over my teeth and stick out the tip of my tongue. He sighs. The satisfied sound does naughty things to my tummy, but I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
Could he be talking to me?
2
Adam
Hiding behind an enormous Christmas tree with itchy branches digging into my neck is not where I expected to end my night as the caterer for Miss Too-Cheap-for-Words Maisie Gartner’s Annual Festive Gala. I shouldn’t complain about her trying to knock down my price at every opportunity. I’ve heard that fundraising is her calling and every cent she swindles out of us contractors she donates to the cause.
My evening was supposed to start for real as soon as I took a last peek into the ballroom. I planned to watch for a few moments and revel in the guests enjoying my food. I’d marvel at their costumes, do a final check of the sparkling-clean kitchen area, and be on my way. A midnight walk through Times Square was on my immediate agenda, hopefully including a sprinkling of real snow, and then I’d welcome whatever adventure fell into my lap after that.