(Not So) Alone for Christmas: A Sweet Romantic Comedy Holiday Novella

by Jenny Proctor

  He sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. Pride, probably? And a notable discomfort with vulnerability.”

  I shot him a look. “You’re doing pretty good right now.”

  “I am fortified with strong drink,” he said, his lips lifting into a grin. “And a desperate fear of losing the woman I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with.”

  I closed my eyes. This was happening. This was actually happening.

  I felt Bo’s presence as he stepped closer and slid his hands down my arms until they cupped my elbows. “I was so excited to take you out to the farm, Maddy. I wanted you to see that I’d made something of myself. That I wasn’t a screw-up. That I wasn’t the same dumb kid I used to be.”

  “I love your farm,” I said simply.

  “Then when I mentioned you using the kitchen, and you were quiet for so long, I freaked out, worried that I was coming on too strong. But the truth is, I want you in my life. Baking, teaching, I don’t really care. Just as long as we’re together.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. “I was only quiet because I was imagining the same thing. Baking on the farm, living on the farm.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “It’s not Chicago.”

  I leaned into his embrace and his arms moved around me, his hands clasping at the small of my back. “Have I told you how much I hate the cold?” I whispered.

  His lips found mine with an urgency that stole my breath. I leaned in closer, my hands pressing against the smooth planes of his chest before I slid them under his suit coat and wrapped my arms around his waist. It was a kiss full of promise, of apology, and of a yearning that managed, in only a matter of minutes, to dissolve all the lingering hurt and embarrassment I’d clung to for so many years when it came to Bo.

  One thing was certain: I would go through it all over again if it meant guaranteeing that one day, he’d hold me in his arms like this, promising a future I’d never dreamed was possible.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Bo said after breaking the kiss, his voice husky and low.

  “Is it?” I asked, my eyes still closed.

  Bo found my hands and gave them a squeeze. “Come on. Let’s go ring in the new year with your friends.”

  Jenna and Costa were close to the bar where we’d last seen them, surrounded by a group of their closest friends. As soon as Jenna saw us approaching, she opened up the circle to make room for us, hopeful anticipation in her eyes.

  I smiled wide and slipped an arm around Bo’s waist.

  Jenna squealed and gave me a hug, then turned and hugged Bo as well. “I’m so happy!” she whispered loudly into my ear.

  Seconds later, the countdown clock began, and the crowd joined, counting down to welcome the new year.

  Five, four, three, two, one!

  Cheers and laughter erupted as the familiar strains of Auld Lang Syne filled the room.

  I looked up at Bo, loving the warmth and confidence so obvious in his gaze. “Here’s to new beginnings,” Bo said.

  I answered him with a kiss to rival all New Year’s kisses. This was Bo, after all. And the beginning of our very own happily ever after.

  Epilogue

  Early June sun shone down on the ripening strawberry fields, the bright red of the berries a stark contrast to the green leaves and stems. I hefted my overfull basket into the back of the Gator and cranked it up before winding my way from the south field through the you-pick fields that were teeming with visitors.

  A little girl who couldn’t be more than two or three sat in the dirt, her legs straddling either side of a strawberry plant, and plucked the berries off their stems one by one, ceremoniously shoving the whole berry, tops and all, directly into her mouth.

  I giggled at the sight. It had been a generous crop with almost more berries than we could manage to pick, but we probably only had another week or two before the season was over. Then it would be peach season, with the second crop of watermelons and cantaloupe not far behind. The abundance of strawberries had challenged me to come up with new ways to bake with the fruit. I could hardly wait to face the same challenge all over again with peaches.

  I parked the Gator behind the store and hauled my strawberries inside. Technically, I didn’t need to pick the berries myself. Bo had told me I could help myself to whatever was in the warehouse behind the store, but sometimes I liked to drive out and pick my own basket. There was something satisfying about being a part of the process from the harvesting all the way through to the moment a customer picked up a pie or a dozen of my strawberry cream cupcakes.

  Pies were on the schedule for today. I’d only been back in Charleston for a few months—I’d ended up staying in Chicago to finish out the third nine weeks—but it hadn’t taken more than a minute for me to decide Bo’s aunt’s pie recipes needed to be resurrected. She’d been more than happy to teach me how to make them, and they’d started selling the second they hit the store shelves. In preparation for my arrival, Bo had added a pastry display case to the store that I had quickly stocked with fresh cupcakes and cookies and strawberry swirl cheesecake.

  I’d been terrified the first few days—what if no one wanted to buy a cupcake when they came to pick their strawberries?—but business was booming. In my first six weeks, I’d made enough to cover my first month’s rent of the kitchen space, replenish the savings I’d spent buying supplies, and get everything I needed for another month of baking. The second and third months had been just as productive.

  Bo had offered to let me use the kitchen for free, but I’d insisted he not give me any special favors. If my business was going to thrive, it was going to be because I’d earned it fair and square. And I was earning it. If things kept up, I’d have to hire someone to help me.

  I dropped the berries onto the counter beside the sink and retrieved my pie crusts out of the walk-in fridge. They’d need to rest for a few minutes to be soft enough to shape. I set them out on the massive marble island and turned back to the strawberries, slamming into a wall of muscle.

  “Hey,” Bo said, his arms steadying me before they wrapped around my waist.

  “Where did you come from?” I said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You were in the fridge, I think,” Bo said.

  I nestled into his arms. “You smell like sunshine,” I said. “And watermelons.”

  “We’ll have some good ones in a day or two,” he said. He leaned down and kissed me gently. “You have flour on your nose.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Actually, there is something.”

  I perked up. “Yeah?”

  “I just checked in with Grace and there’s nothing scheduled in the pavilion for the weekend of October sixteenth.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Grace was the farm’s education and event coordinator. “Okay. What do you want to have in the pavilion on the sixteenth?”

  He shrugged playfully. “I don’t know. Maybe a wedding?”

  I stilled. Was he asking what I thought he was asking?

  “Um, just . . . any wedding? Or . . .”

  “The farm is really beautiful in October,” he said, his voice soft.

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “And the date will probably get snatched up quick if we don’t do something about it.”

  “Bo, are you asking me to marry you based on the farm’s event schedule?”

  He grinned and dropped to his knee, right there in the middle of the kitchen. He pulled a ring out of his shirt pocket and twirled it between his fingers. “No. I’m asking you to marry me because I love you. Because I can’t imagine living in my house for a single minute without you living there with me.”

  “The house is also supposed to be finished in October, isn’t it?” I teased. “This feels like a very practical choice.” I held my hand out, inviting him to slip the ring onto my finger. He had to know I was going to say yes.

  “Listen. I nearly proposed on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “The fact that I manag
ed to endure two months of a long-distance relationship and give you longer than five minutes to settle after moving home before I asked the question is nothing short of a miracle.”

  The ring gleamed and sparkled, reflecting the summer sunlight that poured in through the kitchen windows.

  “I see you, Maddy,” Bo said, squeezing my hands. “And I need you in my life.”

  I tugged on Bo’s until he was back on his feet and standing in front of me, his usual lazy confidence muted by a hint of nervous apprehension. “I would love to marry you,” I finally said. I leaned up and briefly pressed my lips against his. “An October wedding sounds perfect.”

  I kissed him again, gripping the fabric of his shirt and willing him to know just how much he meant to me. I’d thought I loved Bo back in high school, but I’d had no idea what actual love could feel like. Moisture hit my cheeks and I paused, leaning back long enough to look at Bo. Was he crying?

  He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Don’t say anything,” he said through his smile. “I’m working on the vulnerability thing, but I’m maybe not quite ready to talk about the tears.”

  “I’m here whenever you’re ready,” I said, my tone light.

  “Is this real?” Bo asked, leaning his forehead against mine.

  “It better be. Because I don’t want anything but this.”

  THE END

  I hope you enjoyed Maddy and Bo’s story!

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  If you missed it, keep reading for Chapter One of my latest novel, Love Redesigned.

  Going home to her twin brother’s house in Charleston with her tail between her legs is the last thing Dani wants to do. But when she walks out on her fashion house dream job, she doesn’t exactly have a choice. Living in New York City is anything but free.

  But going back to Charleston…Alex is in Charleston. And facing down her ex? Her ex who just happens to be stepson to her former boss? Even her love for Southern humidity and shrimp and grits can’t make that confrontation worth it. There’s just so much that could go wrong.

  Even scarier? Dani still hasn’t forgotten that when they were together, everything felt so right.

  Despite their reservations, Alex and Dani find plenty of ways to spend time together. (A wedding dress heist? Why not?) As they unravel the real reasons why Alex left New York—and Dani—will they be able to rediscover the happily ever after they always hoped for?

  Love Redesigned is a stand-alone, full-length, second-chance romance with a strong supporting cast and a happily ever after you won’t expect. Perfect for readers who love chemistry and a little bit of sizzle, with no explicit content.

  Keep reading for Chapter One of Love Redesigned

  Chapter One

  Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.

  Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.

  I rounded the corner and pushed through the coffee shop door, the numbers on repeat in my brain. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.

  “Hey, Dani,” Chloe, the barista at the counter, said. “What’ll it be today?”

  I smiled. “I’ll take a number four, a seven, an eight, two thirteens, and a fourteen.” There. Done. God bless the owner of Java Jean’s for numbering their coffee shop menu. “Wait. Did I say fourteen? I meant fifteen. Four, seven, eight, thirteen, thirteen, fifteen.”

  Chloe grinned. “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t question me! If I have to repeat them again, I’ll definitely forget.”

  “The fifteen’s for Sasha?” Chloe asked. “The coconut milk macchiato?”

  Of course it was for Sasha. My boss lived on air and coffee and little else. “How’d you guess?”

  “It’s her second one today. She stopped by on her way in this morning.”

  “And it probably won’t be her last.” I leaned against the counter and waited for Chloe to make up the drinks. A basket of peaches sat next to the register and I reached for one, lifting the fruit to my nose. I frowned and put it back in the basket. The fruit smelled less like a fresh peach than the scented lotion my roommate slathered onto her legs every night. But then, my standards for fresh peaches were high. I was spoiled by my childhood in South Carolina, roaming my grandma’s orchards, eating peaches seconds after I’d pulled them from the tree.

  A swell of emotion rose in my chest. It had been years since my grandmother had died, but I couldn’t think of home without remembering her.

  Granny wouldn’t have liked Java Jean’s, with its endless options and ridiculous names. “There’s only one way to drink coffee, sugar,” she’d said to me countless times, the r so soft, it all but completely fell off her words. “With lots of cream.” The same rule also applied to peaches. I didn’t disagree with her on that point. Fresh peaches slathered with cream was a part of my Southern heritage I’d never surrender.

  But I did love Java Jean’s. It made me feel like a New Yorker, like I truly belonged in the city. I mean, I had the entire menu memorized. Surely that balanced out my lingering Southern accent and affinity for pastel floral prints, even in the sea of blacks and grays that filled New York City streets.

  “Seriously,” Chloe said, handing over the first tray of drinks. “You need to feed that woman a cheeseburger. She’d probably be happier.”

  I offered a tight-lipped smile. Sasha maybe had a bit of a reputation. She was a woman who knew how to get what she wanted and didn’t back down no matter the sacrifice. How else could she have climbed to the top of an elite fashion house design team in less than three years? Naysayers claimed she’d slept her way to the top—she was engaged to marry brand originator and CEO Alicio LeFranc, after all—but I’d seen the way Sasha worked. She was a cutthroat, for sure. But she had gumption.

  An administrative position had gotten me through LeFranc’s front door, but it was Sasha’s recommendation that would get me designing. I couldn’t afford to be anything but loyal.

  “Just add those to the company tab,” I told Chloe.

  She nodded. “Sure thing. That’s a great dress, by the way. I love the color.”

  “Yeah?” I looked down at my dress. The pale blue Oscar de la Renta Guipure lace had been a splurge at Mood, my favorite fabric store, but the tiny geometric pattern had been perfect for the A-line I’d been sketching. I’d dropped a third of my weekly paycheck without even flinching. I spent the first two hours of sewing cursing my decision—there’s definitely a learning curve working with guipure—but in the end, I’d been totally stoked with the results. The lace kept it feminine, but it wasn’t too frilly. Cinched at the waist, with a tiny black belt and a boat neck, I loved it.

  Still, that was different than someone else loving it. “I just finished it,” I said to Chloe. “You really like it?”

  “Wait, are you serious? You made it yourself? I’ve never wished so much that I could afford to wear LeFranc.”

  My cheeks warmed with her praise. I’d been designing clothes a long time, but it still surprised me when people liked my stuff. “Oh, I didn’t design this for LeFranc. Designing is . . .” I hesitated. Designing was my life, my passion, my everything. But that felt a little heavy for small talk with the barista. “It’s still just a hobby for me,” I said. “But who knows? Maybe someday.”

  “I take it back then. The fact that they have you making coffee runs instead of designing clothes makes me hate LeFranc,” Chloe said as she slid a lid onto Sasha’s macchiato. “I’ll never wear it in protest.”

  “Give me a few more months,” I said with a wry grin. “Every day I’m a day closer.”

  “I like your attitude.” Chloe turned back to the cappuccino machine behind her. “Just a few more to go.”

  I nodded and pulled out my phone, scrolling through the to-do list Sasha had texted over that morning. I’d already made it thr
ough the first half—not bad for a morning’s work.

  A minute later, a text came in from my brother, asking if we were still on for dinner that night. I inwardly groaned. I’d almost forgotten about dinner.

  I should have been excited to see my twin. He still lived in Charleston, so we didn’t see each other very often. But Isaac and I—we couldn’t be more different. I was Gucci and New York Fashion Week. He was cargo shorts and . . . the couch in his basement. We’d done okay as teenagers. We’d tolerated each other, at least. But then he’d opted out of college to stay home and focus on the YouTube channel he’d developed while we were still in high school. I’d been furious at the time. Colleges had offered him money to come use his brain and Isaac had picked . . . YouTube?

  Still, family was family. I keyed out a quick response, confirming the restaurant and time.

  When the bell above Java Jean’s front door jingled, I didn’t even look up. But then I heard a voice that made the blood in my veins run New-York-winter cold.

  “I completely understand. I’ll take care of it right away. Right. Sounds good,” the voice said.

  I gripped the edge of the counter, grateful it was there to hold me up. Because hearing Alex Randall’s voice? That was enough to put me flat on the floor.

  Chloe leaned toward me. “Dani? You okay?”

  I forced a breath in through my nose, and out through my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was some other Southern guy that just sounded like him. Some other guy who didn’t have wavy chestnut hair or perfect brown eyes or an incredible dusting of freckles across perfectly chiseled cheekbones. I closed my eyes, a sudden swell of anger surging to the surface, making my skin feel hot, prickly. I could envision those eyes like it was yesterday. Like it hadn’t been twelve agonizing months since he’d left New York. Since he’d left me.

  I snuck a brief glance over my shoulder, my heart tripling its speed as soon as I determined that yes, the one and only Alex Randall was standing less than ten feet away from me. At once I felt both elated to see him again—I’d loved the man, after all—and furious that he felt like he had any right to place himself within a one-hundred-mile radius of where he knew me to be. Java Jean’s was my territory. Maybe he’d introduced me to the place, but he’d ceded it when he’d left. He was the guilty one. The heartbreaking, dream-crushing, soul-stabbing, vanishing act that had nearly been my undoing.