"If I remember correctly, she loved the manicure." For about half a day, tapping her artificial nails on every surface, loving the clicking noise. Until she tried to type with them on and shampoo her hair. Then she was soaking them off with nail polish remover before work the next day.
"Not enough to come back," he insisted, faking a pout.
"Please, you're doing well enough without her."
He was, too. From a start-up using a small inheritance our grandparents had left him to a thriving business that had a three-month wait list. And some of the names on that list were the sort who had millions of followers on social media.
He might not have followed the doctor path after our parents like Noel had, but he was doing well for himself. We were all proud. And I'd heard Dea occasionally name-drop Clarence when someone brought up his spa.
"I know you are waiting for the right moment," Clarence said, finishing his latte. "I just want to remind you that sometimes you have to make the right moment."
"That's the point of these twelve days," I reminded him. Each one of them, once I had thought them out, had a romantic opportunity linked to them. I figured the lingering glance from the night before was a step in the right direction. And if we took enough of those, it was bound to lead where I was hoping.
"Okay okay. I'll stop nagging. Well, no, I won't," he said, getting off the couch. "But I will wait to nag you until after this date. Keep me updated."
"Will do," I agreed as he leaned down to pat Lillybean's head. "Oh, and don't forget her carriage," he said, waving toward the fold-up dog carriage he'd bought for her. "I know Lockjaw can take all the walking, but she's got little legs. Don't want her cramping your style. I mean, how can you kiss the girl if you are holding a dog?"
"Fair point," I agreed, even if it was a blow to my ego anytime I did take that dog carriage out. In general, I was fine with all of Lillybean's many needs. Which included jackets—both a winter and a rain one—and a carry-on bag and even little booties in the snowy weather. It was just the carriage that got to me.
But it was a long walk.
And Lillybean got worn out quickly.
So when it was time, I got changed, loaded Lillybean into her carriage, and headed out, reminding myself that while Clarence was right to a point, I knew what I was doing, I was taking my time but making sure I wasn't missing any opportunities.
"Lock, stop," Dea demanded, trying to pull the beast down when he jumped up on the carriage to greet his girl. "You're going to break it, bub," she added.
"She can walk for a bit," I said, unloading her, letting the two love birds greet each other.
"Smart bringing the carriage. We might want the cupholders. So, hot chocolate?"
"Yep. Follow me, I know a place," I said, leading her down a side street.
"Oh, you know all the best places," she declared a few minutes later, eyes bright as she looked in the window of the cafe.
To be fair, Adie's was a great cafe every month of the year. But it was extra exceptional around the holidays when she would actually close her doors for forty-eight hours, pull in all her workers, and set everyone to work transforming the place into a winter wonderland.
The ceiling completely disappeared behind strings of thick garland covered in white lights, silver and gold bulbs, red ribbon, pinecones, and icicles. Mistletoe was hung in every doorway. And any brave couple who kissed under them got free cookies with their purchases.
"Are they serious?" Dea asked after we put Lock and Lillybean's leashes on a bar out front, heading inside. She was pointing to the sign explaining the mistletoe rules, brow raised, smile unsure.
In response, I nodded toward the set of strangers who moved up to the counter at the same time to place their orders, having their barista point above them where a mistletoe was hung, explaining the situation.
The guy looked game.
Until the woman raised her hand, pointing to her wedding band apologetically.
There was a chorus of disappointment for a second before drinks started to get made.
"Oh, we have another set!" Adie, the owner—a woman happily in middle age with long, mostly-gray braids, a generous figure, and numerous smile lines on her round face—said, wiggling her brows at us as we moved up to the counter. "Come on. I know you two aren't married," she added, knowing me already, and glancing down at Dea's hands on the counter. No ring to be found.
"No," I agreed, giving Adie a smile. "We're not. But, we can just buy the cookies," I said in a lower voice to Dea.
"Everyone is watching us," she said, glancing around.
"So what? We can buy the cookies."
"But, it's like, it's a thing, right? Part of the fun this time of year?" she asked, making my heartbeat trip and falter, realizing what she was suggesting. "And it's just a little kiss," she added, rolling her eyes. "No one said it had to get X-rated," she added, giving me a shrug.
"Sounds like a "Kiss me, idiot" to me," Adie claimed, smiling.
Now, I'd been cheesy enough to imagine a first kiss with Dea—a first many things, if I were being completely honest—but I also understood that this wasn't the time for that. Not the real kiss. The real first kiss.
But still.
It was an opportunity to prove some chemistry.
At the very least.
My hand rose, sliding along her jaw to frame the side of her face, angling it up a bit, watching as her face went from amused and carefree to something else entirely in the span of a blink.
That something else, it looked a hell of a lot like interest to me. And as I lowered down toward her, I was pretty damn certain that interest turned to something warmer still.
My lips pressed to hers, a little harder, a little more demanding than it maybe should have been, feeling the sharp indrawn breath from her at the contact, the way her body stiffened, her lips parted.
But I couldn't let myself revel in that, let it last.
No.
I had to pull away.
I had to leave her wanting more.
That was the point of all of this, after all.
To get her thinking and feeling.
Like I had been doing for so long.
So before I could even fully feel her lips under mine, I was pulling back, watching her eyelids flutter open.
I got one full second to analyze the blurriness to her eyes, the way her lips parted, the slight flush that was on her cheeks, before the sounds of whistles and claps met both our ears, making our gazes slide away, a little embarrassed.
"I think that calls for the special chocolate chunk," Adie declared, giving us a knowing look. "What can we get you to drink?"
Five minutes later, we were back on the street with the dogs, eating our cookies, falling into unusually awkward silence.
"These are amazing," Dea declared taking the final bite of hers.
They were, too. Best damn cookie of my life. I wasn't sure if that was because of the recipe or the way I'd gotten it.
"Okay," I said a moment later, tossing my cookie wrapper in the trash, grabbing the dog stroller. "Let's go be enchanted."
"Enchanted," Dea repeated, smiling. "I like that."
"It's a good word."
"It is," she agreed, falling into step beside me, her loyal Lockjaw trotting along at her side.
The Fifth Avenue window displays were an under-appreciated part of the holiday season. The storefronts went all out to transform their buildings into things of wonder.
One year, Saks transformed the front of their store into Disney's Frozen, and Bergdorf gave a nod to the City with windows for each of the biggest tourist attractions—the Met, Museum of Natural History, Botanical Gardens. Each year the stores seemed to try to outdo themselves, create something even more memorable than the year before.
It wasn't as well-known as the tree or the Rockettes, but it was equally worthy of a viewing. Preferably with some rich hot chocolate. And the woman of your dreams at your side.
"Wow," Dea said, sighing, shak
ing her head a little like she was struggling to take it all in.
I was missing the window displays, but I could feel a similar kind of wonder watching her look at them, her eyes reflecting the twinkle lights, her smile bright.
I saw all I needed to see.
"Yeah," I agreed, feeling that familiar tugging sensation in my chest.
"You know what?" Dea asked, glancing over at me.
"What?"
"I'm glad I am doing this with you," she told me, giving me a wobbly smile. "My mom wouldn't appreciate this for what it is. She would be thinking about the items inside that she would want to buy."
"That's probably true," I agreed. "And I'm happy to get to be a part of this."
"And tomorrow, we get to be in awe of the Rockettes. I've lived here for years, and I haven't seen them. I was so excited to snag the tickets. Have you been?"
"Once," I said, shrugging. "When I was a kid. I have vague memories of being mesmerized by how perfectly in sync they all were, but nothing specific."
"Well," she said, bumping her shoulder into me, "we can make some very specific memories together this time."
Oh, yes, we absolutely would.
If I had anything to say about it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dea
Crosby had been right about the Rockettes being mesmerizing. I'd never seen anything like it before in my life. Sure, I'd seen snippets on TV, but that was nothing like seeing it in person.
"I suddenly have an urge to take dance classes," I told Crosby as we walked out of the show, bodies close to try to avoid the crush of the crowd. "And I think we both know how much of a nightmare that would be."
"Hey, you're not that bad," he said, but he was trying to hold in his smile.
I was.
I absolutely was that bad.
We're talking what would happen if a robot and one of those balloon guys they put up at car dealerships got together and had a baby that grew up and tried to dance.
That was what I looked like when I tried.
"Liar," I shot at him, whacking him in the chest, getting an exaggerated oomph out of him.
It felt good for things to be back to normal again.
There seemed to be a couple of, I don't know, moments between us over the last few evenings. That stomach thing and his silky voice after decorating the tree. Then, well, there was the kiss.
It was supposed to be a little nothing, just the two of us playing along with a sweet, silly little tradition at the coffee shop. Just a smooch. The most casual of kisses. You could smooch a relative. It was as non-sexual as it came.
Sure, the kiss had been the length of your typical smooch, but then, well, there was his hand at my jaw, the slight demand of his lips, the strange shiver inside at the contact.
It certainly didn't feel non-sexual.
But then it was over, and I was left feeling a bit off-kilter, for lack of a better term.
Then, the rest of the evening while we were looking at the window displays, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking at me more than the lights themselves.
I tossed and turned later that night, getting grumbles from Lock, trying to calm my racing mind, trying to convince myself that I was just imagining things that weren't there. And it made sense, to an extent. It was Christmas. Things were always a little more stressful at work around holidays. There were bigger crowds everywhere, the pressure to find the perfect gifts for everyone, and, of course, my cancelled plans with my mom. I might have been brushing it off, but I had to admit I was still hurt and angry about it.
It was all just creating a weird cocktail of emotions, and I was overanalyzing things that didn't need to be analyzed at all.
And watching the Rockettes with Crosby just confirmed that.
Everything was normal.
Fun, light, casual.
"You caught me," he admitted, getting a grumble and a shove out of me.
"Hey! You're not supposed to agree with me. Even if it is true. That would be like me agreeing that your guitar playing makes ears bleed."
"No fair. I've only been practicing for six months. You, however, have had your whole life to learn how not to dance like all the various parts of your body aren't attached to one another," he said, linking his arm through mine to steer me through a thick throng of tourists, heads and cameras raised, completely unaware they were blocking foot traffic.
A lot of native New Yorkers resented the crowds around Christmas. But I could still very clearly remember my first Christmas in the city, the wonder I felt at seeing all the lights, the tree, experiencing things firsthand that I'd seen on TV or in movies since I was little. So I gave the tourists a little grace. I maybe even envied their first experiences, wishing I could have mine all over again.
"So, what are we doing tomorrow night?" Crosby asked, not unlinking our arms, even though we were past the crowds. I never would have given it a second thought before, but I was thinking twice now. I was noticing things I shouldn't have been. Like how warm it felt being close to him, how strong his body felt, how warm he was, how his profile belonged in art galleries.
I had no idea what was going on with me, but it needed to stop.
"Tomorrow, we are going to be hipsters."
"Yeah?" he asked, brows furrowing. "What are we going to be doing in Brooklyn?"
"Um, the Dyker Heights Christmas lights, of course! Oh, my God. Did I actually find something that has to do with Christmas that you didn't know about first?"
"I think you did. I'm impressed, Dea," he said, giving me a cocky little smile. "So, what are the Dyker Heights Christmas lights?"
"Oh, it is gaudy and over the top and amazing. They hand out candy canes and play Christmas music. And we try not to go blind by the brightness."
"Your mom was going to go walk around and look at Christmas lights?" he asked, brows furrowing, trying to imagine my six-inch-heel-wearing Mom in her designer everything walking around tacky Christmas lights.
"I wasn't exactly planning on telling her," I admitted guiltily. "And I was going to get her a little bombed first," I added. "Then stick those funny glasses on her."
"The funny glasses," he repeated.
"You know, the ones that are like the 3D glasses the movie theater gives you, but instead of making things 3D, they make each individual light you look at resemble something else. A gingerbread man, a candy cane, and Santa Claus. I thought it would be fun and really trippy to get drunk, and walk around looking at lights through some of those."
"Well, I'm game. Where are we drinking? Is there anywhere Christmas-themed in that neck of the woods?"
"I mean, nothing like your little coffee shop," I told him, and I could feel a foreign heat creeping up my neck, blooming across my cheeks, making me realize I had been replaying the kiss scene in my mind for a couple of seconds. "But I found a place that has a couple of theme trees. The themes are top-secret, so we have to see them when we get there. And they do, wait for it, Christmas karaoke."
"Oh, Dea, this is sounding too good to be true," he said, eyes lighting up. "We have to do Baby, It's Cold Outside, right?"
"If five-hundred other people don't do it first. There are a couple good duets. Christmas Without You, The Greatest Gift of All. Or we can have fun and do something like Santa on the Rooftop or, if they have it, There's Something Stuck Up in the Chimney."
"The Chimney Song," Crosby corrected. "And let's not forget that Baby Jesus is Born is a bop, and not a lot of people know it."
"And you know I have to do it," I told him, stopping to give him a firm nod.
"No, you really don't," he said, shaking his head.
"Listen, your distaste for her in general is clouding your judgment. Christmas Tree Farm is an amazing new Christmas song, and you need to accept that."
"I guess I can give it another try. You were right about that new album."
"Of course I was. Okay. So, if we are going to be drinking, I propose we need to eat beforehand, right?" I asked as we took a tu
rn to walk in the direction of my apartment. We always had a spot where we parted ways on the nights that Crosby didn't outright insist on walking me all the way home before catching an Uber back to his place.
"That would be wise. We don't want a repeat of our Anti-Valentines-Day pub crawl."
"Oh, God. Please," I begged, feeling my stomach roll at the memory. "Don't remind me." Those shots, yeah, they snuck up on me and ruined my life. "But one caveat," I said.
"I'm listening."
"The meal can't be Christmas themed. No cookie binges or anything like that. We need to lay down a good, solid layer of grease and fat and carbs if we are going to be drinking and strapping the trippy glasses on our faces."
"Agreed. I will handle the food, since you figured the rest out."
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, finally untangling my arm from his as the front of my apartment building came into view. "What time for shenanigans?"
"Six? We have a big night," he reminded me. "Maybe you can bring Lock to my place to hang out with Jellybean and Clarence. That way, you don't have to worry about getting back to him."
Clarence had doggy-sat Lock on more than a few occasions. And aside from him once painting his nails and coat—in pet-safe color, of course—he'd always just kind of hung out with them, took them for walks, snuck them treats. It was worth a trek up to Crosby's apartment to have that peace of mind. Especially when it was going to be a longer night out than usual.
"That's a good idea. Okay I will be there at six."
"It's a date," he agreed.
It was a casual, flip comment. We'd said it to each other dozens of times before. It meant nothing.
Why, then, did my belly do a little flip-flop?
I didn't know, but I was going to blame the gyro I snagged off a food cart on my way out of work earlier.
That was a much easier explanation, but it was also much harder to convince myself of as I walked Lock, got ready for bed, tossed and turned.
But soon, work was over, I was packing up some of Lock's things, tucking him into a ridiculous carry-on to skate past the "no dogs unless they are in bags" rule, then headed up toward Crosby's place.
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