The Cuffing Season
Tawdra Kandle
Tawdra Kandle Romance
Contents
The Cuffing Season
A Note from the Author
Welcome to The Cuffing Season
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Cuffing Season Play List
About the Author
Also by Tawdra Kandle
The Cuffing Season
The Cuffing Season (noun) “During the fall and winter months, people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous find themselves along with the rest of the world desiring to be "Cuffed" or tied down by a serious relationship.”
Harry Davis needs help. He’s in a dead-end retail job, when all he wants to do is write the next great American novel. Meanwhile, his best friend Preston is obsessed with finding true love before the holiday season begins, and he’s dragging Harry along for the ride, whether he likes it or not.
When Harry’s mentor suggests that the guys use their adventures to write a series of articles on seeking love from a man’s point of view, Harry isn’t sure about the idea. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and this could be the break he’s been seeking.
If the new column goes viral, it could change everything, opening doors Harry’s only dreamed of finding. But will he realize that the real prize is much closer—and more unexpected—than he imagined?
This book could only be dedicated to David,
who with his friends provided endless inspiration.
With love from your mama.
A Note from the Author
Dear reader,
Two years ago, I wrote a book that was inspired by and based on the dating experiences of my three daughters, who are now 30, 28 and 24. Fifty Frogs is a fun romp through navigating relationships in the early twenty-first century—from a woman’s point of view.
Flash forward to last Christmas. My son, the youngest of my four kids, has a wonderful group of friends, and I’m privileged to be able to listen in on them frequently as they interact and talk about life and dating and the quest to find True Love. One particular conversation inspired the book you’re about to read.
To answer questions you might have . . . yes, my son and his friends (all around nineteen years old) really do talk this way. While the cuffing season is a real idea (see Urban Dictionary), to the best of my knowledge, yees, what the bunny and throwing a digit are purely their invention. And yes, just about everything in this book happened to one or more of them. Some characters have been melded for the sake of the plot line, but everything in here has occurred in real life.
Are they cuffed? Not yet, but the longer they all work on the mission, the more stories Mama gets.
Happy holidays to all . . . and may you be cuffed to a love that lasts beyond the season.
<3
Tawdra
And PS: Thank you to the awesome Meg Murrey for a cover that tickles me red and green!
Welcome to The Cuffing Season
By Vivan Rexland Mitford
If you’re here looking for your regularly scheduled Fifty Frogs column, I’ve got a treat for you. You probably know that I had a baby a couple of months ago. Gus is perfect and adorable and gifted and a blessing . . . and he’s keeping me pretty busy, as infants do. I’ve been trying to keep up with my writing commitments, and frankly, it’s overwhelming.
If you’ve ever had a baby, you’ll understand.
And then something happened. I got a call from Harry Davis, a kid who I mentored a few years back when I was still with the Central Florida Sunbeam. He just graduated from college a few months ago, and he was looking for ideas to help him launch his writing career.
One thing led to another . . . and now, yadda, yadda, yadda, I’ve got a few months without deadlines while Harry takes over this space.
The Frogs will be back after Christmas, dear readers. But for now, welcome to The Cuffing Season.
1
“She’s beautiful. She’s, like, the perfect female.”
I glanced up from my laptop, frowning at Preston. “Who?”
“The girl ordering right now. She’s so cute, she’s throwing me a digit, man!” Preston leaned forward, his eyes never wavering from where he was looking.
I began to twist around so I could take in this paragon of perfection, but my friend grabbed at my arm. “No, don’t look. Wait until she comes around over here. She’s gonna wait for her coffee and then she’ll sit down, and I’ll talk to her, and—hey, would you be my best man? Because I’m totally marrying her in two point five years.”
“Sure, happy to help.” I slumped down in my chair and tried to pull my focus back to the screen. “And just think, it’ll be the ultimate meet-cute, because you were here, in the coffee shop where we always hang out, and maybe she comes here a lot, too, yet you never saw her until this moment.”
“Yes!” Preston’s eyes lit up. “Exactly, my boy. That’s it. That’s why you have to stand up for me at the wedding, because no one else could tell that story like you.”
“Cool. I’m totally using it for the opening of my next novel. How My Best Friend Found Love. The subtitle will be: While He Was Supposed to be Providing Me Moral Support in My Job Search.” I shot him a reproachful look.
“You have a job.” Preston shrugged. “You’re the best sales manager Allister’s has ever had.”
“Yeah, well, news flash, buddy. Folding jeans and selling shirts isn’t what I plan to do for the rest of my life.”
“Huh.” Preston nodded, his brow drawing together. “But that’s why we’re here today, right? So you can meet up with this mentor, or your used-to-be mentor, and get the ball rolling on your literary career.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” I replied archly. “Remind me why you tagged along?”
“To search for yees.” He shook his head at me, as though I’d missed some obvious answer. “It’s October, man. The hunt is on.”
“Uh-huh. Listen, Preston, when Vivian gets here—”
“Who’s Vivian, again?”
“My former mentor.” I took a deep breath. I’d explained this before, but apparently, Preston hadn’t been listening. “We met when I was in college, and she was a reporter at The Central Florida Sunbeam. I was an intern there for a year, and Vivian was really great about giving me ideas and tips . . . then she went away on assignment or something—I think it had to do with trains—and while she was gone, I finished the internship. I lost touch with her. I’d hoped to get a job at that same newspaper, but they got sold, and I guess my application was lost in all the mess of the sale.”
“Ah, okay. Bummer.” Preston nodded. “But that was like two years ago, right? Why didn’t you reach out to her before now?”
“Because I want to write a book, not get a job in journalism.” I shut my computer with a little more force than I’d planned, and I winced, hoping I hadn’t damaged anything. “But that isn’t happening, and working at Allister’s is slowly killing my soul. So I figured I’d try to get some kind of job in the writing world, even it’s not producing the Great American Novel.”
The bell over the door of the shop jingled, and both Preston and I turned automatically to see who was coming in. At first, we didn’t see a person, just the front of a large and cumbersome baby carriage, one of those huge deals that look like a bed on wheels. It was so wide that the driver was having a hard time maneuvering through the doorway.
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br /> I jumped to my feet to help. The woman on the other end of the carriage was shorter than me, and her light brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She was maybe a little rounder than I remembered her being, but that probably had something to do with the bundle of joy currently slumbering in the stroller contraption.
Finally, we managed to get the carriage into the shop and over to the table that Preston and I were sharing. Vivian dropped a large backpack that looked like it was stuffed within an inch of its life onto an empty chair.
“Good God. Why was I ever late to anything before I had a kid? I had no excuse. Now I see that.” She swiped a strand of hair out of her face and turned to beam at me. “But enough of that. Harry! Look at you! You’re all grown up!”
She wrapped me in a hug that was tight and welcoming, and I remembered again how much I’d liked this woman. Vivian had always treated me with kindness and the sort of affection reserved for younger brothers. She’d given me more opportunities than I’d probably deserved, and she’d never flipped out when I—occasionally—screwed up.
“Hey, look at you.” I ventured to peek into the carriage. “Wow. You’ve got a kid.”
“I do!” Vivian glowed with pride and leaned over to straighten his blanket. “This is Gus. He’s twelve weeks old . . . and if you wake him up, I’ll have to strangle you.”
I took an involuntary step backward. “No worries. I’m not going to even touch the coach thingy.” I pointed to the other empty chair. “Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee or tea or anything?”
“Ahhh . . . something non-caffeinated, with no dairy, either. Maybe an unsweetened guava ice tea.” She fell into the chair. “Thanks. I’m just going to grab a nap while you’re in line.”
“Uh, Vivian, there isn’t a line. Besides the woman over there—” I jerked my head toward Preston’s so-called perfect girl. “—we’re the only people here.”
Vivian waved her hand. “Listen, kiddo, I have a twelve-week old child, and he only sleeps in ninety-minute snatches. I take my power naps when I get them.” She side-eyed Preston. “I don’t want to be rude, but is he with you? Or is he just randomly parked at the same table while he drools over Blondie?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I nudged Preston’s outstretched leg with my foot, getting his attention so he’d sit up and take notice. “Vivian Rexland—”
“Mitford,” she corrected me. “That’s my married name.”
“Oh, okay. Vivian Mitford, this is my friend, Preston Englewood. Preston, this is Vivian. Don’t wake up her baby, or she’ll kill you. And let her sleep while I’m getting drinks.”
Apparently, I sounded strict enough, because when I returned with cold-brew coffees for Preston and myself and an iced guava tea for Vivian, he was sitting perfectly still, and she was snoring gently, her head lying against her arm on the table.
“Do we wake her up?” Preston whispered, his eyes darting down to her.
“I don’t know.” Carefully, I set down the drinks. I didn’t think I’d made a sound, but I’d no sooner placed Vivian’s plastic cup on the table than she jumped upright.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, though to be honest, I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing.
“No, no, no.” She reached into one of the backpack’s pockets, producing a soft white cloth, and dabbed it over her chin. “Sorry. Was I drooling? Charlie says since I’ve had the baby, I fall asleep in nanoseconds and go deep so fast, I always snore and drool.”
“Nope, you’re fine.” Hey, I wasn’t going to tell the sleep-deprived new mama that she’d been snoring. “Here’s your tea. Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good, thanks.” Vivian yawned widely and sipped her drink. “Mmmmm. Perfect. Thank you, Harry. You’re a peach.”
“You’re welcome. I’m just grateful you agreed to meet me here. You know, I would’ve been happy to come to you. I didn’t realize that coming out with a baby was so much hassle.”
“Ha! This isn’t hassle, hon. And trust me, I’m thrilled for the excuse to get out and chat about something other than cracked nipples and diaper rash.”
Preston made a sound in his throat, but I chose to ignore it, just as I was pretending I hadn’t heard what Vivian had just said.
“So, with the baby and everything, have you had much time for writing?” I tested my cold-brew.
“Not much, but I wrote a bunch of columns ahead of time, while I was pregnant, and we’ve been using those for the time being. One I get little man on a more regular schedule, I’ll be able to get some newer stuff out. I hope.”
“That’s good.” I turned my glass in a circle on the table. “Um, Vivian, I was hoping maybe you’d have some ideas for how I can crack the publishing world. I thought there might be a contact from the Sunbeam still around? Or, uh, if you’d have something I could do for you—research or promotion . . . heck, I’d fetch coffee for you, if it might lead to something more.”
Vivian tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t want to get mixed up with the Sunbeam. None of the old guard from the paper is around anymore, and the likelihood that you’d get any decent writing opportunity is slim to none. But—”
“Dude, she’s leaving. Do I say something? Do I stand up, and you know, declare myself?” Preston gripped my forearm. “What if she goes, and I never see her again? What if she’s meant to be my wife, and I miss this chance, and that’s it for me? Like, monastery time?”
The blonde beauty was indeed standing up, her napkin balled in one hand and her empty drink cup in the other. She was rummaging in her pocketbook for something—her keys or sunglasses were my bet.
I turned back to Preston. “It’s now or never, my boy.”
He bolted to his feet and closed the distance between the woman and him in three long strides. I couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying to her, but I could read the myriad of expressions crossing her face: surprise, guarded interest, concern, amusement and then finally, regret.
A few moments after Preston had left us, he returned, his shoulders sagging. “She’s already hooked up with someone. Like, about to get engaged and all that.”
I reached over to brace one hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Sorry, Preston. But hey, you know there’s plenty of fish in the sea. She wasn’t for you. Someone else will be.”
“Exactly.” He sighed. “Just another low point in the roller coaster ride that is cuffing season.”
Vivian had been listening to us with interest, her eyes pinging back and forth as though she was watching a tennis match. Now she rested her elbows on the edge of the table and leaned forward.
“What’s cuffing season?” She looked intrigued, if a little bit concerned.
Preston’s eyes lit up. Vivian had accidentally hit on one of his favorite topics. “Well…” he drawled, and I knew that he was stretching it out on purpose. “You know how no one wants to be alone for the holidays? You know how sad it is when there’s nobody with you during that time of year? No one to stuff your turkey, no one to fill your stockings?”
Vivian’s eyebrows rose. “Um, actually . . .”
I touched her arm and gently shook my head. “He’s not using a double entendre,” I assured her. “He’s talking about all of this literally.”
And it was the truth. For all of his use of lingo and preoccupation with certain topics, Preston was the least profane and most courteous guy I knew. He almost never swore with what the world considered to be real cursing words. The most shocking thing he ever used was the B-word—and by B word, I mean bunny, as in What the bunny?
Vivian nodded. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “So, you don’t want to be alone for the holidays. I get that.”
“Right.” Preston grinned. “That means that you gotta find someone to share those special times with. And you have to do it before Thanksgiving. Matter fact, you gotta do it well before Thanksgiving, so the chick is going to be really into you by the time of the holidays. You need to find yourself a yee.”
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��Wait, wait, wait,” Vivian interrupted. “A yee? Tell me now, what does that mean?”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
Preston, however, was undeterred. “A yee is a woman,” he said. “A woman who is everything. She’s the perfect package. You know, looks, brains, personality . . . she’s got it all. That’s a yee.”
“Ah.”
To my relief, when I glanced up through my fingers I saw that Vivian’s eyes were twinkling, and there was humor in her face.
“All right. I get that. I guess it’s not quite as completely sexist and derogatory as I was afraid it might be.”
“It’s totally respectful, I promise you.” Preston was earnest, leaning forward to assure Vivian of his sincerity. “I am a hundred percent on the feminist track here, my friend.” He squinted at her and cocked his head. “And you are totally . . . I can see that you used to be a yee. I mean, you know, before you hooked up and had the kiddo here. I bet you were a total yee.” He glanced at me. “She was, wasn’t she? She was a yee of yore.”
Now I could see that Vivian was trying not to laugh. “A yee of yore?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “That’s means that you’re still attractive, you’re still a catch, but somebody’s already caught you.”
“All right, then.” Vivian sat up a little straighter. “Got it. It’s important to understand the vernacular before anything else, I guess.”
“Yes, exactly.” Preston lifted his coffee, saluting her. “Cuffing season is what we call the months leading into the holidays. It’s when you want to find that special someone, and, you know . . . cuff yourself to her. Or him. We’re not exclusionary at all. And it’s not, like, literal handcuffs, though again, if you’re into that sort of thing, you do you, man. Follow your arrow.”
The Cuffing Season (The Anti-Cinderella Chronicles) Page 1