The Twelve Holidates: a Sweet Christmas RomCom Novella

by Emma St Clair

Taylor pauses by the rink exit, using the wall to keep from falling over. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. And maybe get some water. Are you ready for a break?”

  “I’ll snag some for us at the snack bar. Hot cocoa?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m too sweaty. Just water, please.”

  “One water coming right up.”

  But as soon as she’s out of sight, I skip the snack bar and stop by the DJ booth. Correction: I fall into the DJ booth on my way to the snack bar.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to get back up.

  “It’s not the first time, man,” the DJ says, helping me untangle my skates from the cords underneath his chair.

  When I’m free and back upright, I grab the low wall by the sound equipment to avoid any further accidents.

  “I was hoping you can do me a favor. Did you see the girl I was skating with?”

  He smirks. “I saw you with a girl. Not sure ‘skating’ is the right word for what you were doing. Kidding, man.”

  I shake my head, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, we suck. I wondered if you could do a couples skate when we get back out on the floor.”

  He holds up his hand for a high five. “My man! Making a move at the skating rink. Old school. Any particular song?”

  I think back through songs I remember listening to with Taylor in my car or hers, or even at school dances. Nothing comes to mind.

  He pats me on the shoulder. “How about you trust me to give you something romantic?”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, man.”

  A few minutes later, Taylor makes it to the table where I’m seated with two waters and a rainbow snow cone. Her eyes light up.

  “I love snow cones!”

  “I know.”

  I can’t help but watch Taylor’s mouth as she eats. What a lucky, lucky spoon.

  “What color is my tongue?” Taylor asks, sticking her tongue out.

  I grin. “Purple.”

  “Want some?”

  Taylor holds the spoon out for me. Without breaking eye contact, I open my mouth. Somehow, eating a snow cone in the snack bar of a skating rink is not friendly, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

  Taylor watches the spoon disappear between my lips, and I grab her wrist as she starts to pull away. The air between us thickens, just the way it did the day before. Or is it just me? Am I the only one who feels this electricity and the tension between us?

  I don’t think I am.

  Taylor’s eyes take on a glazed look. They move from my eyes back to my mouth. That’s good, right?

  And then a voice over the loudspeakers interrupts that thought.

  “It’s time for the couples’ skate. Couples, make your way to the floor.”

  “Skate with me?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

  Taylor nods. We make our way unsteadily to the floor, where the DJ has chosen “Just the Way You Are” by Bruno Mars. Not really a slow song, but it will do.

  As we reach the edge of the rink, I hold out my hand. Taylor doesn’t hesitate, sliding her palm into mine. As we link fingers and begin to skate, I try to keep my emotions in check. I’m walking a fine line. If I step out too far, the fall might kill me. If I don’t step out enough … I might never get my second chance with Taylor.

  For a few minutes, we skate in silence, hands clasped as Bruno Mars croons about loving his woman, just the way she is. Exactly how I feel about Taylor.

  “How’s this for our song?” I ask her, risking my balance for a glance at her.

  She grins. “I like it. Not sure how much it fits us though.”

  “I think it might.” I squeeze her hand. “Maybe more than you know.”

  Even under the lights, which have dimmed for this song, I can see the blush that deepens her cheeks.

  “You think I’m beautiful?” she asks, looking surprised.

  Her vulnerability kills me. Have her past boyfriends not told her enough? Does she really not know how gorgeous she is?

  I’m about to tell her exactly how beautiful she is and how long I’ve wanted to tell her, when my wheels grind to a screeching halt. My body flies forward. And because I’m holding her hand and don’t have the good sense to let go, I yank Taylor right along with me.

  Her squeal alerts me to the fact that I’m about to knock her face-first into the rink. And like some kind of superhero in slow motion, I manage to twist my body, going down on my back to break her fall.

  Only, a superhero wouldn’t have felt the pain of his head cracking on the wood floor. For a moment, I’m seeing stars.

  Nope, that’s just the lights from the disco balls.

  Taylor giggles, and my full attention snaps to her. She sort of crawls up my body to peer into my face, and suddenly this dirty wood floor is the best spot in the world. I could stay here all day.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Greetings,” she says with a grin. “Are you okay there, champ?”

  “Of course. Are you? Sorry for making you a casualty of war.”

  Taylor giggles again, and my eyes are drawn back to her mouth as she bites her lip before saying, “I’m not.”

  My eyes are drawn to her full pink lips. So very kissable. And so close to mine. Wait--is she getting closer?

  I’m definitely not imagining it. She’s moving closer. I sneak a glance at her eyes, and they’re fixed on my mouth. This is good. This is so good.

  It’s the moment I’ve been hoping for, and a few dates early. I wouldn’t have even tried for a kiss until at least holidate ten or eleven. But I’ll take it!

  I don’t even care that it smells like old socks and that people are still whizzing by us like it’s an everyday occurrence for two people to make out lying on the rink. Maybe it is.

  Taylor’s eyes flutter closed, and I’m just about to lift my head, closing off the final inches between us, when a little boy skates right over my hand.

  And so instead of ending the date with a kiss, we end it in the ER, getting a splint on my two broken fingers.

  Dates 6, 7, & 8

  Taylor

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask after pulling out of the hospital parking lot. “Maybe we should just cut our losses and forget this holidate thing. I think it’s cursed.”

  I glance over at Weston. It’s strange to see him in the passenger seat of his car. But I insisted on driving. Partly because I don’t want him driving one-handed and partly because the pain pills seem to be affecting him a little more than they should.

  He glares at me. “No. Skating was no bueno. But I have hot cocoa at home and movies on the whatever it’s called—”

  “DVR?”

  “The Netflix! Movies on the Netflix!”

  I laugh. High on pain pills Weston is even more adorable than regular Weston.

  “What was the third thing … I had one more thing … Date eight. Hey! That rhymes. Date eight!”

  “Where’s the list? I can look and figure it out.”

  “No!” Weston shouts. When my eyebrows shoot up, he softens his voice to a theatrical whisper. “I mean, no thank you. You can’t see it. It’s my own. My preciousss.”

  I laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

  “I’m your dork,” he says, and I wish that were true, and not just the pills talking.

  Though … that moment in the skating rink. I didn’t imagine that, did I? I swear I almost kissed him, right there on the rink floor. Or maybe he just hit his head hard and I mistook his dazed expression for something else. Hard to say since the moment got cut short by his broken fingers.

  We’re almost at his apartment, and I’m betting he’ll fall asleep five minutes into the first movie, whatever it is. He hasn’t told me, because after the infamous Night of Chad, Weston has kept the list hidden from me. I have to say that watching movies with hot cocoa sounds like a massive improvement after roller skating, which was fun. Until it wasn’t.

  I should at least stay until he sleeps, but that leaves me wondering how I’ll get home. I
could borrow his car, but that will be an issue in the morning with work. Maybe a ride share? I’m not a huge fan of taking those alone at night, but I’m definitely not calling my mom to ask for a ride home from Weston’s. She’ll get the wrong idea and start naming her grandbabies, if she hasn’t already. Our moms have dreamed of us getting married for as long as we’ve known each other. I always rolled my eyes, pretending that deep down, I didn’t wish for the same thing.

  A soft snore comes from the passenger seat. Weston has conked out, his mouth slightly open. How can he be attractive even when he’s drooling? It’s simply unfair how genetically blessed the man is.

  The splint on his hand makes me cringe every time I look at it. The doctor in the ER said the pain would subside soon. Weston should be back to full use of his left hand within two to six weeks. Not a huge deal. Although I doubt filling out spreadsheets one-handed is going to be fun at work.

  The sight of the splint is a visible reminder of how I almost kissed Weston right in the middle of a roller rink.

  Maybe I need a visual reminder, a sort of caution flag to steer me away, because more and more lately, I find myself drawn to Weston. I’ve tamped down my feelings for years. I dated other guys, guys that I even liked, though if I’m honest with myself, not one of them ever compared to Weston.

  If I’m REALLY honest with myself, I know that I’m in love with my best friend.

  And I could have kept it hidden if not for these holidates. Now I feel like he’s going to see it in every look, hear it in every word. It was so sweet of him to want to get me through my breakup with Chad. Honestly, it worked. I haven’t thought about Chad in days, other than to use his name as a new curse word, which is surprisingly satisfying.

  I can’t believe I gave the guy so much of my time. I planned my life around him, thinking we’d get married. And now? Nothing. Because the reality is that the only guy I’ve ever really wanted is the one snoring and drooling into his beard.

  “We’re here, big guy,” I say once I’ve parked.

  He snorts, blinking and looking around wildly for a moment before he smiles.

  “I live here,” he says.

  “Yes. You do. Now let’s see if we can get you up the stairs without breaking any more bones, okay?”

  Weston holds his hand out in front of him, examining the splint. “Cool. I’ve never broken a bone.”

  “Well, now you’ve doubled up. Congrats, overachiever.”

  When we reach the top of the stairs, Weston pats his pockets, and I jangle the keys in front of him. “I’ve got it.”

  He hugs me from the side, his hot breath on my neck making my whole body shudder. “You’re the best.”

  “I know. You are too. Let’s get you inside.”

  He keeps hanging on me, making our entry into the apartment a little awkward. Honestly, I relish in the feel of his weight on my body, the scent of him, and the easy affection.

  If only it were this easy ALL the time.

  As soon as we’re through the door, he lets me go, snatching a paper off the kitchen counter. It’s the list! I’m dying to see it now that he’s being so secretive, but even in his current state, he holds it so I can’t read it.

  “I’ve got it! Date eight!”

  His eyes light up, and he folds the paper before clamping it between his teeth. And then he starts shedding his clothes.

  “Uh, West,” I say with a nervous laugh as he drops his long sleeve shirt on top of his jacket. Next up is the T-shirt he wore underneath, and when he peels that off, all forms of speech elude me.

  Because sometime in the last few years, Weston has become a MAN. Not that I hadn’t noticed the way he filled out during our college years, his broad shoulders balancing out his tall frame in a way they hadn’t before. But I haven’t seen him shirtless since we were in high school.

  My, what a difference a few years and clearly a lot of hours in the gym make.

  Weston is ripped. Like, give the man a puppy and he could be the model for one of those yearly calendars. There are more than enough muscles for each of the twelve months. We’re talking weekly or daily calendar level.

  I didn’t even think of myself as the kind of girl who cared about a hot bod. Maybe on someone other than Weston, I wouldn’t. But it is Weston, and my poor little heart doesn’t stand a chance around all those pectorals and abdominals and other -als whose names I don’t know. He’s even got those deep lines leading down to his hip bones.

  Which I’m noticing now because he’s taking off his pants.

  I slap a hand over my eyes, mostly not peeking through my fingers. “West! What are you doing?!”

  “Date number eight, baby!”

  At least, I think that’s what he says, since he’s talking around the paper still clenched between his teeth.

  I hear the sound of his belt hitting the floor and I spin with a squeal, giving him my back. Because I don’t know how far he’s taking this, or what exactly this date eight entails, but I’m definitely not ready for this.

  “Date number eight involves nudity?!”

  “No, silly. Be right back!”

  I hear the sound of him jogging away. Hopefully, he won’t hurt himself.

  I turn back around, biting my lip at the sight of his discarded clothes on the floor. I walk them to the stacked washer and dryer in the kitchen pantry, noticing that West has set out everything we need for hot cocoa. He’s even bought different flavors: dark chocolate, mint, and raspberry. I start simmering the milk on the stove, swallowing around the lump in my throat. In all the years we dated Chad never did anything this thoughtful for me. No grand gestures; no small ones either. Meanwhile, Weston has gone out of his way to plan all of these special things.

  And he isn’t even my boyfriend. For a moment I’m overcome with a hot flare of jealousy thinking about how he must have treated his girlfriends if this is how he treats me, his friend.

  Weston emerges from his bedroom with a huge smile on his face and …

  “Christmas pajamas?”

  I’m relieved and disappointed by the fact that his chest is no longer on display. I don’t know if I could make it through a movie with him shirtless, though I certainly would have loved to try. But he looks adorable in a red and green flannel pajama set.

  He counts on his good fingers. “Date numbers six, seven, and eight: watch Christmas movies while drinking hot cocoa in matching Christmas pajamas. Here.”

  Weston holds out a set of folded pajamas balanced on his palm. They’re exactly the same as his, only in my size. When I just stare, he shakes them at me.

  “Come on. Date number eight. Go put them on. I’ll set up the movies but you should probably handle the cocoa.”

  “I already started it,” I say, my voice sounding shaky and unsure. I’m thankful that Weston is under the influence of pain pills because if he were aware, he would definitely notice the tears I’m trying to hold back. This is all just too much. Weston is too much. I want for this so badly to be more than just a week of our lives, a handful of dates to help me get over Chad. I want this to be real.

  Locking myself in West’s bathroom, I clutch the pajamas to my chest and try to shove down the swell of emotion.

  I love Weston.

  And these dates are killing me. Because I know that at the end, we’ll just go back to being friends who hang out every so often, when we’re not too busy or not dating other people.

  I groan, again hating the thought of him dating other people.

  I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just be his friend. But I’ve already put myself out there and he rejected me.

  He was just a dumb kid. Things have changed. Don’t be such a scaredy cat! Just tell him how you feel. Or better yet, show him.

  I stare at myself in his mirror, trying to work up the courage. Making a confession isn’t the best idea when he’s basically high. Or maybe it’s the best idea, because he won’t have his guard up. He’ll be more honest.

  And maybe he won’t remember. So
if I tell him how I feel, or try to ask him how he feels, tomorrow he may not even know. It won’t mess things up.

  Resolved, I slip into the pajamas, which, of course, fit perfectly. Because Weston seems to have planned this down to the tiniest detail. That’s how he is, how he’s always been. Just one of the many things I love about him.

  Is it possible that he could love me too? That he could be hiding the same secret I am? He has been different this week. More attentive. More flirtatious. More physical.

  But I shake off the thought. Too many years have passed. Surely, he would have told me at some point.

  When I get back to the kitchen, I’ve scalded the milk, and it takes a few minutes to wash the pan and start again. Weston is spread out on the couch when I get there, and he pats the spot right next to him. I set the cocoa on the table and settle in, warmed by the way he throws his arm around me and tucks me into his side.

  “Ready?”

  No. But I nod, because he’s talking about the movie, not my decision to try and suss out his feelings for me.

  Weston presses play, squeezing his arm around me tighter when I groan. “Die Hard? Really? We’ve been over this. Not a Christmas movie.”

  “Shh. Don’t ruin it for me. Every time I watch it, I pretend like it’s the first time. You can always focus on Bruce Willis in his prime, when he still had hair.”

  “I do like hairy Bruce Willis.”

  Weston chuckles and I sigh, allowing myself to relax, pressing my cheek into the soft flannel of his shirt, all too aware now of the hard muscles underneath.

  Moments later, I drift to sleep.

  I’m aware of movement, the sensation of being lifted and carried. Groaning, I start to stir.

  “Shh,” Weston’s familiar voice says, close to my ear. “I’ve got you.”

  His voice, his scent, his strong arms are so comforting that I allow myself to sink into him. I don’t want to open my eyes, to let myself fully wake up. I don’t want this moment, dream or reality, to end.

  Weston settles me into his bed, tucking the covers up around me, before starting to turn away. I hate the loss of his touch. Fumbling to free my hand from the sheets, I grab his sleeve, opening my eyes just enough to see his handsome face in the dimly lit room.