by Poppy Parkes
“Only seventy eight? I think you’re significantly underestimating your mother’s guest list.”
Ginger groans, and I can’t help but laugh again. “Fantastic,” she says, voice comically flat. “I’m so excited. Can you tell how excited I am?”
“There’s never been someone more excited than you are in this moment,” I reply solemnly. “You know, I’m going too.”
I can’t help but grin when I see how Ginger perks up at this news. “Really?” she all but squeals. “You’re not messing with me?”
Oh, I’d love to mess with you, beautiful, my teenager brain offers, but I tell it to pipe the fuck back down. “Not even a little. And I’m bringing spiced bean and squash empanadas in honor of —”
“Winter solstice,” she finishes. “I know my mom — she assigns every guest a winter holiday so they can bring themed food.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure mine is a traditional solstice dish. But empanadas are crescent moon shaped, so I figure it’ll pass.”
“They sound delicious to me.”
“You bet your ass they are,” I say. “Although I’m not sure that everyone will think so. Usually folks around here are more interested in more conventional holiday fare.
Ginger sits up straight. “Oh my god. I just realized what we have to do.”
Let me make sweet love to you and show you how many reasons there are to celebrate the season together? my brain says. I shake my head, practically biting my tongue to keep my stupid head — or is it a lower body part that’s hijacking my good sense? — from making me say I’ll regret.
She’s turned toward me. I cam tell her face is intense even through the darkness. “We have to go to the party together. It’ll shield me from all the questions, and I’ll talk up your empanadas to all the non-believers.”
My heart begins to thud in my chest. A chance to spend more time with Ginger Cole — and I didn’t even have to be the one ask? I try to temper the exuberant Hell yes I want to crow in response with something less maniacal. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Yes. Now what do you say?”
I can’t stop myself. “Hell yes,” I respond, hoping I don’t sound like the serial killer she asked if I was. “I’d love nothing more.”
Ginger
This night should’ve been the very worst night. After a literally turbulent plane ride across the country, the last leg of my journey home for an event that I don’t want to attend ended in a car accident. A fucking car accident. I’m lucky I wasn’t injured. I’m not sure I can say the same for my rental car.
My mother predictably freaks out when I tell her. Not that I blame her. Ordinarily I’d be freaking out right along with her.
But somehow I feel calm, grounded — hell, even kind of cozy.
Because every time I think about how tonight went down, I find myself lingering on the memory of a kind man with strong hands and the sweetest smile that I’ve ever seen coming to my rescue.
Nat. Baker extraordinaire and my knight in shining armor — or at least a shining pickup truck.
There’s something about him. From the moment he appeared at my car door and I stared daggers at the poor guy, I couldn’t help but like him — and feel safe with him. I’d put those eye daggers away so quickly that it made my own head spin. He set me so at ease in an objectively shitty situation that I flirted with him the entire ride to my mother’s house.
I never flirt. All attempts at flirting making me feel like a metaphorically beached whale, floundering in the sand for purchase on something, anything, witty or interesting to say, and failing.
But with Nat, I was sassy and silly, and enjoyed every second of it despite the fact that I now have the weight of possibly extensive rental car repairs hanging over my head.
I can’t explain it.
But I like it.
I’m sitting at my mother’s kitchen table while she prepares two cups of tea. I take in the fragrant garland’s of evergreens twined with glowing white lights that seem to frame every window in the house. As much as I might not love the holiday season, my mother always makes her home so cozy and lovely that I almost forget how grumpy Christmas cheer makes me.
“I can’t believe you got in an accident,” she frets for what feels like the hundredth time in the few minutes since I walked through her front door. “Thank goodness Nat was driving by.”
“Yeah,” I say, a smile that I can’t control wreathing my face, breathing in the aroma of the garlands. “Thank goodness.”
She comes to the table, balancing two steaming mugs on saucers, setting one before me and settling before the other. My mother squints at my face, the green eyes I inherited from her suspicious.
“You seem decidedly calm for having lived through such a calamity.”
I snort. “It was hardly a calamity, Mom.”
“Well, it could’ve been. And here you are, starry eyed and dreamy. Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter.”
I take a sip of tea, relishing the acrid heat. “I don’t know. It just all feels like it’s going to be okay, you know? Nat says I can call a tow truck in the morning to help me figure things out with the car and —“
“Nat says,” my mother repeats slowly. She stares me down for another long moment, then settles back, cheeks suddenly rosy. “Well, he is a very nice young man.”
I see immediately what’s happening — my mother’s going into matchmaker mode, imagining the generation of grandchildren that will soon be pouring forth from my loins thanks to the one and only Nat.
Normally I’d roll my eyes and protest, telling my mom that she’s crazy. But this time, I found that I’m not willing to say that such a future could never exist with Nat.
“Yes,” I reply, grinning into me tea, “he certainly is.”
Nat
Walking up to the steps to Maggie Cole’s house the next evening, knowing that Ginger awaits, my chest feels like it’s full of fluttering snowflakes. I make sure my grip on the tray of empanadas is secure and the wrapped present I’ve brought tucked securely under my arm before I lift the door knocker with a hand trembling with nerves and rap it against the wood.
Maggie opens the door. “Oh, Nat, lovely. Come on in out of the cold.” She ushers me inside, the tray disappearing from my hand as if by magic.
The house is aglow with warm lights shining from what seems like every angle. I’m not the first guest to arrive — I move from the foyer into the living room, nodding to the many friends and neighbors I recognize.
But I’m looking for one face in particular. Passing the towering Christmas tree hung with ribbons and lights, I circle into the dining room. The table is heavy with plates and platters of food, and even more guests have settled here, enjoying the many dishes.
But still, no Ginger. Maggie tries to catch my eye, but I pretend not to see, looking instead for the woman I’d promised to meet here.
“San Francisco has so much amazing food. But these,” Ginger says from where she’s materialized my elbow, mouth full of empanada, “these give city food a run for it’s money. I’m impressed.”
I turn to face her, and suck in a breath as I get my first real look at Ginger Cole. Her thick, smooth hair cascades past her shoulders in delicious curls, and the crisp, sleeveless emerald dress she’s wearing over black tights and heels complements her green eyes perfectly.
“For someone who hates the holidays, you’re flawlessly dressed for it,” I say, wanting to run my hands over the curves that the dress has revealed.
Her lips, covered in crimson lipstick, curl upward at the corners. “It’s all for Mom. I couldn’t show up here in anything but holiday colors if I want her to still claim me as kin.” Her eyes sparkle up at me like gems, glinting with humor.
“Well, you look fantastic.”
I feel her run her eyes over me, taking in the black suit I’ve donned for the occasion, and I try to suppress a shiver. When she meets my gaze again, I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or if ther
e’s a heat kindling in them that I didn’t see before. “You look pretty fab yourself.”
“Like you said, it’s all for your mother.” I grin.
Ginger laughs quietly, and the ringing bell sound of it makes me want to discover all the ways I can make her happy. “The woman knows what she wants.”
“All the best women do,” I murmur, aching to run my fingers through her hair. I wonder what kind of a Christmas miracle it will take for Ginger to want me.
Ginger
“All the best women do,” Nat says, and I swear I might actually swoon. His words make me feel heady, like I’ve been drinking. And while I’d normally be developing a close and personal relationship with the bar at events like these, tonight I’ve had no desire for even a sip.
Instead, I find myself craving this man in front of me.
Which is ridiculous.
Insane.
Wishful thinking.
But when he utters those words, I suddenly think I’m not the only one wishing for something more than a friendly date at a boring holiday event.
My cheeks grow hot at the ways that I’m imagining, um, celebrating the holidays this year. I turn away from him on the pretense of grabbing another empanada to stuff in my face. They really are amazing with their maple cinnamon and nutmeg flavors melding with a hint of cumin in just the right way.
“I got my car to the shop,” I blurt out, desperate to distract myself from how good it feels to stand next to this man. “Called a tow truck, just like you suggested, and they got right to it.”
He smiles, and I swear that it feels like almost literal sunshine washing over my face.
I’ve got it bad.
“I’m so glad. Do they know anything yet?”
I shake my head, swallowing my mouthful before my nerves make me accidentally spatter Nat with masticated empanada. “Not officially. But the front of the car was barely scratched at all, with no dents, and the mechanic thinks it might just be an issue with the starter.”
“That’s great to hear. And if it is the starter, that’ll be a pretty easy fix.”
“And the mechanic says that the rental company will probably cover it, since it wasn’t caused by the accident.”
That beautiful smile grows. “Great news all around then.”
I nod. I want to hug him in gratitude — or, more accurately, straight up wrap my body around his and start grinding.
Which probably would not be the best decision.
With a virtual stranger.
At my mother’s Christmas party.
I clear my throat, feeling my face grow pink again, and opt for verbal gratitude instead. “Thank you for helping me yesterday. That whole thing could’ve gone so badly if it wasn’t for you.”
“Of course.” He shrugs. “It was the least I could do.”
“No, you could’ve kept driving. But you didn’t. And that means a lot to me. So . . .” Now it’s my turn to shrug, but it feels so awkward compared to the smooth rise and fall of Nat’s muscular shoulders. “Thank you.” The words feel lame, and utterly insufficient.
He takes a step closer. I inhale his scent of pie crust and cologne. God, he’s heavenly.
“Ginger,” he says, and when my name leaves his lips, it’s practically a command. I look up into his eyes, and now I know that I’m not imagining the steely, hard expression I see there. “It was my pleasure. Trust me.”
“I do.” The whispered words are out of my mouth before my brain has even processed them. “I do trust you. More than I ever would’ve thought I could trust someone I’ve just met.”
He takes another step closer, and I’m practically in his arms now. I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. It’s getting harder to stand here all wobbly-kneed and pretend that neither of us feel whatever strange but powerful connection is pulling us toward one another.
A smile plays over his lips. “I’m glad. Because I like you. Quite a lot, actually. More than I’ve ever like anyone I’ve known for just than twenty-four hours.”
“Tell me,” I breathe, caring less and less with every passing moment that we’re standing in my mother’s dining room, surrounded by the locals of Snowdon. “Tell me how much you like me.”
Conflict plays over his face. My stomach twists as I watch Nat struggle and pray to the deity behind every winter holiday that he’s not about to turn away and leave me standing here, feeling foolish and very, very alone.
To my relief — and to the further dampening of my crotch — Nat closes the space between us, brushing one hand through my hair. I lean into his touch, aching to know what his fingers would feel like on every part of me. “I like how you make me laugh. I like how bold you are. I like how you came back to see your mother, even though you hate this time of year, because you know how important the holidays are to her. I like how I feel when you’re near, and how I want to find out everything about you. And,” his eyes travel the length of me, making my lips part with hunger, “I like how goddamn beautiful you are, and how I want to rip that dress off you and make love to every inch of your sexy body.”
I’m drooling. I’ve got to be actually drooling. With physical, dangling drool.
Because how could I be standing here, in the last place I wanted to be, and have the sexiest man of all time tell me he literally wants to tear my clothes off, and not be drooling?
“Oh.” I find myself incapable of forming a more coherent response. Good job, brain.
Nat’s cheeks turn red, and while I’m fairly certain that it’s due to discomfort from my lackluster response and I feel terrible about that . . . it’s also freaking adorable. “Oh?” he says, chuckling nervously.
“Oh,” I repeat, the master orator of the evening. “I mean that what you said — it, um — I mean, I like all of that.”
His eyes are alight with desire. “All of it?” he growls.
“Especially the part about my clothes, and the body inches.” Body inches? Good god. I’m struggling in the wooing department big time.
But I’m in luck, because Nat seems one hundred percent okay with it.
“Good,” he says, voice husky. “Then I just might, when you’re ready for it.”
My synapses seem to suddenly snap into gear. “How do you know I’m not ready for it now?”
His grin is wolfish, and I wouldn’t mind if Nat devoured me whole, right here in front of everybody.
But thankfully he’s smarter than I am, because he clasps one of my hands in his and tugs me after him, the expression in his eyes so naughty and nice that I want nothing more than to follow him wherever he might lead.
Nat
I didn’t come to this party intending to get into Ginger’s dress — er, stockings — right here and now.
But when she’s challenging me with her eyes and words, I can’t help but rise to it, in more ways than one.
She’s right. This doesn’t make sense, but there’s a connection between us that we both want to explore.
I’m sure as hell not walking away from that.
So when she purrs, “How do you know I’m not ready for it now?” and my blood runs too hot through my veins, I grab her by the hand and make for the kitchen and the door there that I know leads out to the back of the house, like every colonial style home in New England.
I’ve never done anything like this. But I want this woman and she wants me. I can’t let her leave Snowdon without giving myself to her, and tasting every sweet part of her that’s she willing to offer me.
And if I’m hearing right, it sounds like she’s offering me the world.
It really is a fucking Christmas miracle.
And, judging by the sparks smoldering in Ginger’s eyes when I glance back at her, it’s a miracle that will be heavy on the actual, real-life fucking.
Which is great. But something tells me that whatever’s about to happen between Ginger and I goes beyond mere physical attraction. Because it’s not just her body that I want — although I certainly do want that.
But I want all of her. I want to know all of her, as much as possible.
I love my life here in Snowdon. It’s been full of dear friends, opportunity pursued and fulfilled, and I count my blessing everyday. I’m damned lucky.
It’s always been just me, though. On my own. There’s never been the right woman to come alongside me, someone I can encourage in her goals as she encourages me in mine. I’ve dated, I’ve had sex, I’ve even had some longer term relationships. But there’s never been the one that makes me feel like my life will be starkly more empty without her.
Until now. Until Ginger.
I’ve only just met her, but I can tell — my life would be better with her in it than without.
I want her in it anyway she’ll consent to.
We hurry through the back door, and I lead her around the corner of the house and into the forest that borders on Maggie Cole’s yard, our breath forming clouds in the night air. We’re close enough that the lights from Maggie’s house pierce the darkness and give us sight, but not so near that we’ll be seen. No one’s back here, and no one will be.
I pull Ginger around, pressing her between my body and the wide trunk of a tree. I know it’s cold out, but all I can feel is the warmth of her body and the fire of desire coursing through mine.
She stares up at me, a smile playing over those crimson lips. God, I want her so badly. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and not only because she’s literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re gorgeous.” It’s so trite, but I can’t help it — the truth of the reality compels me to put it into words.
Her hands reach under my suit jacket, running up and down my pectorals, traveling to my back, flitting beneath the tightness of my belt in teasing little pokes that make me gasp.