Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  We remain quiet and when I spot my car, I start slowing down, pulling my keyless remote from my purse and hitting the button. My Mercedes beeps, the back lights flashing to indicate the doors unlocked, and I wave my hand at the car. “This is me.”

  “Nice,” he says with a low whistle.

  “Hey, don’t mock me for having an expensive car,” I tell him, pausing after I open the driver’s side door.

  He stops as well, the two of us staring at each other over the roof of my car. “I would never mock you.” His voice is solemn.

  His words are a lie.

  “Please.” I roll my eyes and slide into the car, watching as he does the same, slamming the door behind him. I shut my door too, and I realize in an instant we are all alone, in the close confines of my car, and help me now, but his scent completely fills the air, overwhelming me—in a good way. That woodsy pine smell isn’t manufactured and doesn’t come from a bottle.

  The man is literally hanging in the pines all day long. Of course he smells like them.

  “Your car is nice,” he says as he glances around. I start the engine, but realize we’re not going anywhere for a while. We weren’t the only ones who just left the tree lighting. There are masses of people walking through the parking lot.

  “Thank you.” I keep the car in park and lean against the headrest. “We’re going to have to wait for a few minutes. Lots of people are leaving.”

  He turns and looks out the back window. “It’s like a mass exodus out there. And there’s still a ton of them in line to see Santa.”

  “Christmas is big business.” I say that to him on purpose, figuring he’d appreciate it.

  “It sure as hell is.” He turns, his body leaning toward mine, his hand braced on the center console. He’s so close, I can see every eyelash—they’re thick—and those green, green eyes.

  His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there. I part my lips, ready to say something, anything. But my throat’s dry.

  And my heart is beating erratically.

  My breaths come a little faster.

  Is he thinking about…kissing me?

  I’m thinking about kissing him. What it might feel like, having those full, warm lips pressed against mine. Would he keep it simple or would there be tongues involved?

  I’m hoping for tongues.

  “Candice.” He says my name softly, his gaze still on my lips, and I press them together, anticipation curling within me as I wait for what he’s about to say. “I—”

  My phone rings. And it’s freaking loud because it’s hooked to my car’s Bluetooth. We both startle away from each other, Charlie fully settling into his seat while I reach out and hit the answer button on the screen in the center of my dashboard.

  “Hey you! How’d the tree lighting go?” It’s Sarah.

  “It went well,” I say weakly, sending Charlie a quick look. But he’s not even paying attention to me. He’s pulled his phone out of his pocket, his gaze glued to the screen as his fingers fly. Looks like he’s responding to a text.

  From who? I’ll never know.

  “How’s the Grinch?” Sarah asks with a laugh. “Grumpy as usual? Did he actually show up tonight?”

  Charlie lifts his head. I can feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to look at him.

  He has to know who Sarah is talking about.

  Him.

  “Um, he’s fine. Look, Sarah, I’ll call you back later, okay?”

  “No problem,” she says cheerily, oblivious to the sudden tension that fills the car. “I want deets, though. Did he finally get a haircut?”

  I end the call before she can say anything else.

  “Grinch, huh?”

  Oh. He sounds angry.

  “It was just a joke,” I say lamely, still keeping my gaze averted.

  “Uh huh. Grumpy as usual?”

  Okay. This is silly. He needs to own the fact that he can be a grinch. That he’s grumpy most of the time. And yes, that he needs a haircut—though personally, I do like his hair long. “Charles,” I start as I turn to meet his gaze, only to find him glaring at me. He looks furious.

  And maybe even a little…

  Hurt?

  I soften my voice. “You have to know that you’ve been nothing but a grump toward me since we’ve met.”

  He says nothing.

  “You are a big fan of grinch behavior,” I continue.

  “Right, and we know I definitely need a haircut.” He runs a hand through his hair to prove his point, I suppose, messing it all up. My hand actually shoots out, like I have no control over it, my fingers going for the wayward strands that fall across his forehead, but he dodges away from my touch before I can get there.

  I drop my hand into my lap. “Why are you so angry when you’re agreeing with me?”

  “Because you’re talking about me with your friends.” His voice is tight. “Like I’m some sort of joke.”

  “No, I’m not,” I start, but then I clamp my lips shut.

  I’m lying to him. He’s right. We do talk about him. A lot. I tell them my Charlie tales, and they laugh and agree with me when I complain.

  Like he’s some sort of joke.

  “I don’t need a ride any longer.” He reaches for the handle and opens the car door. “The walk should do me good.”

  He slams the door with enough force to rock the vehicle, leaving me alone.

  Leaving me miserable.

  Eleven

  “I think I blew it.”

  I’m sitting in Sweet Dreams, Stella on her lunch break sitting across from me, Christmas music playing in the background. It’s Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, and the café for once is pretty quiet. I ordered a sandwich for lunch, but I’m not really eating it. More like I’m picking at the bread, shredding it into pieces, little crumbs getting stuck beneath the vivid red painted nails that I just got done not even an hour ago.

  “Blew what?” Stella asks before taking a sip of her drink.

  Sighing, I grab my gingerbread latte, which of course makes me think of Charlie, and that makes me depressed, so I set it back on the table. “Charlie Sullivan hates my guts.”

  Stella pauses mid-chew, studying me. “I thought we already established that he hates you,” she says once she’s swallowed.

  “But you see, he really didn’t. I was more of an annoyance, and I think he was getting used to me. He’d actually agreed to attend an event and showed up at the mall Christmas tree lighting last night.” This time I give in and grab my cup, taking a sip of the latte, but it’s bittersweet on my tongue when I think yet again about what he said to me last night. How he looked at me. Angry yet hurt. Even a little sad.

  I’d tried calling him as I drove home, but it went straight to voicemail. And once I arrived home, I sent him a text, but he never responded. I know he’s busy, but he usually responds with short answers. Sometimes I get a go away, but most of them are a flat-out no.

  Not even getting a no from him is telling me he’s really mad.

  “So what happened?” Stella asks when I still haven’t explained myself.

  I let her know how last night unfolded. How when he was late, I worried he wouldn’t show up at all, but then he did, and I was so happy. We actually had a conversation like two normal adults. How I felt a little sorry for him, when he told me he never experienced Christmas as it should be when you’re a child. The night was ending on a good note, I swear he was going to kiss me in my car—I even mention that part to Stella, though it’s pure speculation—and then I tell her how Sarah called right before our lips locked and proceeded to make vaguely insulting comments about Charlie. While he was listening.

  How mad he got and stormed out of my car.

  “He wasn’t wrong, you know,” I tell her once I’m finished with my story, pushing the sandwich away from me. I’m not going to eat it. I feel nauseous. “When we talk about him like we do, we are kind of making fun of him.”

  “But not in a mean way,” Stella starts to say, but I level he
r with a look, and she presses her lips together, going quiet.

  “We’re totally mean. It’s almost like we make fun of him. Despite the fact that he does act like a jerk, I shouldn’t have discussed him with all of you like that. And now I feel like a jerk for making him run out on me.” I jab my thumb into my chest. “Me. Little Miss Sunshine who smiles at everyone, who loves everyone I meet, actually hurt someone’s feelings. Not just someone, but the grumpiest someone I’ve ever met. I’m not quite sure how I managed to do that.”

  Stella’s quiet for a moment, and I can only assume she’s thinking over everything I just told her. Maybe she has some insightful perspective, maybe not, but it feels good to finally let it all out.

  Funny, how Stella was the one of Sarah’s friends who intimidated me the most, yet we’ve gradually gotten closer over the last few weeks. Mostly thanks to me coming into the café all the time to order her awesome gingerbread lattes. I guess I could say that’s what brought us together.

  “First of all, if your life has really turned into a Hallmark Christmas movie, it’s way too early for the kiss,” she says, sounding perfectly logical. But her words make no sense.

  “I don’t remember telling you that my life was turning into a Hallmark Christmas movie,” I say.

  “Sarah mentioned it to me. Or maybe it was Eleanor? I don’t remember.” Stella waves a hand, dismissing her words. “All I know is, I’ve watched enough Hallmark movies during the holidays, and the couple never, ever kisses until the very end.”

  “That’s not even the problem.” Though it might be a problem. Crap. I don’t know. “What I want to know is, how can I earn his forgiveness?”

  She tilts her head to the side. “You want him to forgive you?”

  “I feel terrible for what happened.”

  “So you need to go to him and tell him you’re sorry.” She winces. “Though clearly he’s avoiding you.”

  “He’s always avoiding me. That’s nothing new. It’s his favorite thing to do.” I roll my eyes.

  “Maybe you should go to the Christmas tree farm and bring him a peace offering.” Stella’s face brightens. “Hey, I know. Does he like sweets? We have some delicious mint chocolate brownies that our customers love. We sell out almost every single day, I swear. We have some right now, though, and I can box up a few so you can take them to him.”

  I have no idea if he has a sweet tooth. We’ve barely gotten to know each other. It’s really only been what? A week? Almost two since I met him? Only a short amount of time, yet all of a sudden, I’m dying for him to kiss me.

  He hates me and I want to know what he tastes like. Maybe I have a fetish. Maybe I like it when guys are mean and ignore me. If that’s the case, then I need serious mental help.

  “I’m not sure if he has a sweet tooth. And what if he hates mint?” I tap a finger against my lips, thinking, when it’s like a lightbulb turns on above my head. “He loves your gingerbread lattes.”

  Stella’s brows shoot up. “Really?”

  I nod. “A couple of days ago, we were talking and he stole my drink and finished it before I could stop him. Said it was delicious.”

  “Perfect. I’ll make him a latte and you can take it to him this afternoon.” Stella leans back in her chair, her expression full of satisfaction.

  Me? I’m filled with sudden, immobilizing fear. “I can’t take it to him today.”

  “Why not?”

  Um…

  I don’t know is what I want to say.

  But that’s not a good enough answer. Stella’s an interrogator. She’ll drill and drill until she gets me to tell the truth.

  That I’m nervous. Afraid he’ll reject me. Afraid he’ll say awful things. Afraid that he might already feel awful things. Like maybe he hates me.

  “You’ve got nothing to lose,” Stella says. “I don’t even know why you care so much about helping this guy. He’s been nothing but rude to you the entire time. It’s not like you owe him anything.”

  A promise is a promise, that’s what I always believe. My mother believed that too. And I promised Isabel I would help out. Plus, I’m a stubborn person. When I start a project, I want to finish it. Currently, I’m deep into my Help Charles Sullivan Become a Better Human Project, and I’m going to complete it. Whether he likes it or not.

  Everything I do is to honor my mother’s memory. The holidays used to be a difficult time for me. I’d miss my mother like crazy. Now I can get through it with a fair amount of ease. Devoting my time and energy to charities is what makes it easier. Adding the Charles Sullivan Project has also helped tremendously.

  I realize Stella is waiting for my answer, and I can’t come completely clean. I sound like a total weirdo, calling Charlie a project. And no one really understands why I continue to honor my mom like I do. Well, Sarah would understand, since she lost both of her parents in a horrific car accident, but we don’t talk about that stuff too much.

  “I like his mom,” I finally say, lost in thought. I do. I like Isabel. And again, I promised her that I would help.

  “Does she have something on you that’s making you do this?” Stella asks.

  I blink, waiting for her to say she’s kidding or for her to laugh. But she doesn’t. She just watches me, waiting for my answer.

  “You’re not joking.”

  “No.” Stella shakes her head. “I’m not.”

  “We’ve grown close,” I finally say, which is sort of a lie, but what else can I tell her? I need the distraction to get through the holidays so I don’t cry? I’m a grown woman. I should be over the death of my mother by now. “I have to do it.”

  “Whatever. It’s your funeral.”

  Her cryptic words make me flinch, though I know she didn’t mean anything behind them.

  But they linger with me long after I left Sweet Dreams. I didn’t take a gingerbread latte to go either.

  I don’t have the courage to face him.

  Not yet.

  Twelve

  Charlie

  It’s early Friday morning. Crack of dawn, no one else is awake early, yet here I am, functioning on a couple of cups of crappy coffee I slopped together myself, after sleeping on that lumpy couch bed in the office that’s in the back of the store.

  Yes, I spent Thanksgiving night here because I’m that dedicated. I knew I had a lot of work to do, and didn’t want to waste a single minute with driving.

  Though it was more than that. I made my escape from the Thanksgiving festivities by six o’clock. Mom wanted me to stay longer. They were gearing up to play a round of Trivial Pursuit, which is the game of my nightmares. Who actually remembers all that pointless shit? Not me.

  She tried to work her mom guilt magic, but this time I refused to fall under her spell. I fell under someone else’s spell recently, and look what it got me. A bunch of insults from women I don’t even know, that’s what.

  Shoving all thoughts of the gorgeous, infuriating Candice Gaines from my mind, I cut through the quiet store to the other side of the building, where my office is. Staff won’t show up until six a.m., so I still have some time to play catchup on emails.

  I’m settled in my desk chair, cruising through my inbox on my laptop when one email in particular stands out. It’s from the person organizing the downtown Monterey lighting celebration that’s happening…

  Tonight.

  * * *

  Charles,

  Just confirming your appearance at our lighting ceremony this Friday night. We are so excited (as usual!) to have one of your farm’s lovely trees. Wait until you see it fully lit—it will be the shining beacon in our community for the entire holiday season.

  If you could let me know if you’ll be there Friday night, I would greatly appreciate it. The tree will be lit at approximately five-thirty.

  Thank you,

  Marie Gonzalez

  * * *

  I check the date the email was sent. Monday evening. Damn it. She probably thinks I’m a flake.

  Another emai
l catches my eye and I grimace as I read the subject line.

  Cannery Row Lighting This Friday Night!

  Shit. There are two lighting ceremonies tonight?

  I open the email.

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Sullivan,

  I do hope you received the invitation in the mail from us. We haven’t received confirmation as of yet, but your attendance at our annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Cannery Row this Friday night will be most appreciated.

  The ceremony starts at approximately 5:45 p.m. The Sullivan Farms tree will be lit promptly at six thirty.

  Please confirm by replying to this email if you will be in attendance, and whether you will bring a guest or not. We would be especially pleased if you chose to speak during the ceremony. Everyone is always interested in the history behind our beloved tree.

  Best,

  Charlene Curtis

  Cannery Row Christmas Event Chair

  * * *

  I’m in serious trouble. Two lighting ceremonies on the same night, which just so happens to be the busiest day of my work life? I don’t know if I’ll be able to figure this out.

  Running a hand through my hair, I growl over how long it is. I keep meaning to get it cut—I know I’m going to get a lecture from that stylist who cuts my hair, but I’m getting to the point where I don’t give a shit.

  But when am I going to have time for that? I barely have time to sleep. A trim is going to the bottom of my to do list.

  Annoyed with myself, I drain the last dregs of my cold coffee and continue perusing my emails, seeing multiple ones that require a reply, yet I haven’t done it yet. No wonder I piss people off on a daily basis.

  It’s five forty-five by the time I make my way out of the office and actually go outside. I head for the shed, undo the padlock with my key, and start dragging out all the signs we’ll set up when my employees get here. I used to leave them out twenty-four-seven, but people started stealing them, and those thieves did nothing but piss me off—most of the time they were just kids—so now I keep them under lock and key.