by J. M. Paul
“What it’s about, what it means to you.” Uptown Uri lifts a Styrofoam cup to her mouth.
“Well”—I clear my throat—“it’s about dealing with loss, despair, and the holiday blues during what’s supposed to be the merriest season of all.”
“Sounds depressing,” Motown Mark states.
Uptown Uri scowls at him, and he innocently lifts his hands.
They are supposed to make me comfortable, but my skin feels itchy, and the stuffy air makes it difficult to breathe. It’s overwhelming, knowing thousands of people could be listening to me right now.
“It’s … it’s about learning how to persevere through all of that.” My voice shakes.
“Sounds helpful and encouraging.” Uptown Uri side-eyes Motown Mark. “And how’d you become an expert in this subject?”
I clear my throat again and swallow a few times. This is the part of the interview that I’ve been dreading.
“Well”—I wring my hands together—“two years ago, I lost both of my parents in a tragic car accident during the holidays.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Uptown Uri reaches between her two computer monitors and pats my hand.
“Yeah.” I exhale, and my shoulders slump. “It was the worst experience of my life.”
“Understandably.” Motown Mark seems to sympathize.
“I’ve dreaded the holidays since their passing, and this year, I recently decided …” I sit up straighter, gaining confidence. “I decided that I would try to find the magic of Christmas again because it was my parents’ favorite season.”
“It says in the article that your parents were organ donors, which is very honorable. Have you ever thought about finding the people your parents were able to help?” That’s from Motown Mark.
“My parents were strong advocates of organ donation, as am I. It was their greatest wish to help people in need.” I shove my hair over my shoulder. “I’ve never had the urge to locate my parents’ recipients … until recently.”
“Why’s that?” Uptown Uri encourages me to go on.
“I met what I call an organ warrior a short time ago. He’s a remarkable man with an incredible story.” I smile at the thought of Connor’s dad, David, and how I felt so at ease and instantly connected to him and his experience. His son definitely has his charisma.
“After speaking with him and learning about his struggle, the idea of finding the people who received donations from my parents has started to grow.” I scratch my chin. “But, even though I know it’d be a powerful experience to meet them, I’m not sure it’s something I’m ready to handle.”
“That’s understandable.” Motown Mark nods his head.
“But I’m definitely open to the possibility,” I manage to get in before they change the subject again.
“So, Noel,” Uptown Uri says, “with all of the attention you’ve garnered from ‘Overcoming Loneliness in a Season of Togetherness,’ what’s next for you and your writing career?”
“Um …” I blink, unprepared for that question. “Well, I plan to keep writing articles.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “You don’t intend to broaden your spectrum?”
“I … I haven’t put much thought into it yet, but—”
“Did you know People magazine posted your article this morning?” Motown Mark interrupts, turning his laptop around so that I can see my headline underneath the distinct logo.
“What?” Surprise is evident in my voice. “Wow. No, I had no clue.”
“That’s a pretty big deal.” Uptown Uri’s eyes widen.
“That’s a huge deal.” My face hurts from my enormous smile. “Wow.”
“Well, I think you’ll figure out what to do with the attention at some point.” Motown Mark winks.
“I’m in the process of trying to plot a possible novel, and I’ve thought about starting a blog of some sort,” I say unsurely.
“I’d get on that, girl, because I have a feeling several listeners and your new readers would eat it up like Christmas cookies.” Uptown Uri laughs.
“Well, Noel, thank you so much for joining us today,” Motown Mark says.
“Thank you both for having me. It’s been a pleasure.” I grin at them.
“The pleasure was all ours, sweetheart.” Uptown Uri pats me on the hand again.
“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Motown Mark questions.
“Uh … I’d have to say it’s”—I rack my brain for a second because it seems like ages since I’ve thought about this—“‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ by Andy Williams. It brings back wonderful memories of past Christmases with my parents.”
Those memories with my mom and dad still sting, but I notice they aren’t as hurtful as they once were.
Connor is more than likely the reason for that.
“What a perfect way to send you off then.” Motown Mark fiddles with a few buttons on the soundboard. “We wish you luck with your writing, Noel. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” The words sound foreign, but to my surprise, they cause unfamiliar warmth to spread throughout my chest.
With that, Motown Mark starts the song as I take off my headphones. I shake hands with each of them, and then I’m ushered out of the studio.
When I’m back in the comfort of my Jeep, I check my phone to see I have a couple of missed text messages.
Cami: You’re on the freaking radio! What the what? So proud of you! :)
And the other …
Connor: You sound hot. Can’t wait to kiss that beautiful mouth. x
While I’m holding my phone, it buzzes with another incoming text.
Connor: Great interview! Stop by Harry’s tonight, so we can celebrate. Proud of you! xo
Connor’s right; the interview wasn’t so bad after all, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m looking forward to what the future has in store.
“There she is, Harry’s very own celebrity.” Trey walks up behind the bar, wearing a broad smile. “How’s it feel to be famous?”
I roll my eyes. “It was one short radio interview that no one probably even heard because it was at an ungodly hour when sane people were still sleeping.”
“I listened to it.” Trey does a chin nod to someone walking behind me.
“I said, sane people.” I flash him a saucy grin.
The edge of his mouth quirks. “I listened to it much later online.”
“Look at you with your smarty pants on. I never would’ve guessed they came in your size.” I smirk.
“Gotta keep the ladies guessing, Lunar.” He winks before he heads over to a table that flagged him.
I start brainstorming on ideas for a blog, and if inspiration hits, I’ll continue to plot out my novel. If the article, radio interview, and acknowledgment I’ve received helps to propel my career, I want to provide plenty of material to keep potential readers engaged.
Strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist, and I squeal as I’m lifted off the barstool and spun around and around. When my feet finally touch the floor again, Connor’s jubilant face is beaming down at me.
“Congratulations, Journal Girl.” His hands cup my cheeks, and he kisses me long and slow, as if we weren’t in a roomful of people.
It sets my insides on fire, and just when it starts to get borderline inappropriate, he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine.
“How was it?” Connor asks.
“I’ve had better. I think we should try harder,” I joke and attempt to kiss him again.
Connor chuckles low, his eyes searching mine. “I meant, the interview.”
My cheeks puff as I blow out a breath.
He kisses my nose and then bends to whisper, “I want more, too, but not here. Not where I can’t touch and taste you in all the ways I’ve imagined.”
His words set my skin ablaze, and I seriously think about dragging him into the restroom or closet and having my dirty little way with him. As much fun as taking advantage of Connor wo
uld be, we’re not yet at that point in our relationship.
What a shame.
When he meets my gaze again, his eyes are intense, and I know it’s taking a great amount of effort for him to control himself as well. I love that his libido is so easily heightened, just like mine when we’re together.
My shoulders slump, and I slink back onto the stool, putting some much-needed distance between us.
“The interview went well. It was nerve-racking and awkward and intimidating, but I’m happy I did it.”
“I’m happy for you.” The sparkle in his eyes tells me he’s speaking the truth. His voice goes low and gravelly when he says, “You sounded like a little sex kitten.”
His hand lands on my leg and slowly inches up. “With the vision of you in that elf costume still ingrained on my brain and the sound of your husky voice, all confident and successful”—it comes out on a growl—“it fucking turned me on.”
“If you don’t stop winding me up”—my attention dances around the crowded room and then lands back on him—“I’ll bare my claws and show you just how kitten-like I can be.”
Closing his eyes, he moans, and the grip on my leg tightens. When his eyes open suddenly, they are burning balls of jade fire.
“Let’s get out of here—”
“Hey, Connor!” a waiter I’ve seen several times interrupts. “We need your computer card. There’s a problem with table twenty-four’s bill.”
Connor’s ears turn red, and I can tell he’s fighting with his impatience. He’s technically on the clock, and he has a duty to his employees, but his need for me is clouding his judgment.
Just as it should. Insert evil queen laugh.
“Go. I’ll be here when you get back.” I squeeze the hand that’s still gripping my thigh.
“You’d better be,” he rumbles and gives me a chaste kiss on the mouth before he stomps off.
I dive back into my work when someone sits next to me.
“Hey.” It’s a deep, gruff voice.
My heart stutters for a second when I glance at him. There’s something eerily familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Hey.” I go back to pulling up documents on my iPad when it hits me.
Covertly, I glance over at the newcomer again. He reminds me of the old Nicholas—dark hair, vibrant brown eyes, and similar build. Tall, thin but enough muscles to make him manly.
“Do you come here often?” He adjusts himself on the stool.
I shrug. “Depends on what you mean by often.”
“Do you know what’s good here, or are you the specialty?”
He bends closer, and I battle with the urge to cringe away or to punch him.
My fists ball, but a menu slapping on the bar between us makes me jump slightly and for the Newcomer to retreat back into his corner.
“Everything’s great here.” Connor glares at Newcomer but softens it with a fake smile. “What’ll you have?”
Newcomer looks between Connor and me.
“Whatever the lady’s having.” Newcomer tips his head in my direction.
“I haven’t been helped yet.” My brow arches in Connor’s direction.
He gives me a look and says to Newcomer, “She doesn’t drink.”
“I think it’s time to change that.” I sit back in my chair.
The corner of Connor’s mouth twitches, and he crosses his arms over his wide chest. “What would you like?”
“Why don’t you surprise me?” I purr and wink dramatically. Hopefully, it clues Newcomer into the fact that I’m not interested in him, and I’m already taken by someone much better.
A Grinch-like smile slowly pushes up Connor’s cheeks to expose his dimples. “This should be fun.”
“Oh, I bet it will be.” I chuckle darkly.
“What’ll it be, man?” Connor asks Newcomer, who’s closely watching the exchange between Connor and me.
“Your most popular draft beer.” Newcomer’s tone has gone sour.
Poor baby.
Newcomer keeps to himself while I work, but I can feel his gaze on me every so often.
Connor drops Newcomer’s beer in front of him and then pushes my drink toward me.
“What the hell is this?” I pull a face.
“You like?” Connor smirks.
“It looks like Christmas threw up in a glass.” I inspect the beverage, taking in the oversize candy cane protruding from the top, the candy-cane-rimmed glass, whipped cream with candy-cane chunks, and what looks to be nutmeg or cinnamon on top.
Connor gleams.
“What the hell is this supposed to be?” I push the concoction away from me.
“It’s a peppermint White Russian. Just drink it; you’ll like it.” Connor shoves it back and leans down close. “Isn’t peppermint your new favorite flavor?” He winks.
“Get lost.” I shove him away, and we both laugh.
I scoop the whipped cream onto a napkin—because ew—and take a drink. Connor’s right; it taste like magic.
After a few more sips, when my stomach is nice and warm, I get back to writing.
Newcomer tries to make conversation with me several times, but I ignore him. He’s three beers deep now, and I can tell he’s getting tipsy.
“Are you going to ignore me all night, sugar?” Newcomer asks. “Because I can do this for hours … just like something else.” He probably thinks his voice goes sultry and inviting, but all it does is make my skin crawl.
I squeeze my eyes closed and breathe through my nose, trying to find my patience, but as usual, there isn’t any to be found when I’m dealing with an idiot.
When I turn in Newcomer’s direction to study him, I realize I was hugely mistaken earlier; he’s nothing like Nicholas.
My brows lift, and I obnoxiously blink at Newcomer. “Sorry, no hablo fucktardo.”
From the other side of the bar, I hear Connor bust out laughing, signifying I must have said that louder than I thought. Newcomer’s face goes red, and if I were a nice girl, I would feel bad for him, but he deserves what he’s served.
“What the—” Newcomer starts to say, but I raise my hand, cutting him off.
“Just stop while you’re not so much ahead, dude. I’m not interested, I will never be interested, and you need to find better dice for your mediocre game.” I’m pretty sure that’s the peppermint vodka talking.
“Screw you,” Newcomer grunts.
Revulsion has me eyeing him up and down. “Screw yourself. I don’t do charity work.”
“Listen, bi—”
Connor slaps Newcomer’s bill down in front of him. “I wouldn’t finish that statement unless you’d like a personal escort out of this building.”
Trey flanks Connor, and they each cross their thick arms over their broad chest and glower at the guy.
Newcomer growls, throws cash down, shoves back from the bar, and stomps off.
I study the bill still sitting on the bar top. “Did you charge him double?”
“Douche-bag surcharge,” Connor says.
I laugh.
Connor winks, disappears with Trey, and then he reappears to set down another peppermint White Russian in front of me.
“I’m driving.” I push it back toward him.
“I’ll drive you home.” Connor winks again. “You’re celebrating.”
He’s right, so I take a nice, healthy slurp from the glass.
Several hours later, after I have written and submitted an article, drafted a rough idea for a blog, and scribbled notes for my novel, Connor leans on the counter in front of me.
“How’s it going?” He nudges his chin toward my work.
“Really well. I think today might have been my day.” I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time.
Surprising us both, I lift from the stool and crash my lips against his. The kiss is deep and intense, and despite the few people still lingering in Harry’s, it involves some tongue.
When I start to pull away, Connor nips my bottom
lip between his teeth. “I wasn’t done tasting you.”
“Too bad.” I grin against his mouth.
He growls and kisses me again. When he’s gotten his fill—for now—his dark eyes search mine.
“I started the process of hopefully getting your Christmas present today.” His breath puffs along the skin of my face.
His comment takes me by surprise. We haven’t discussed exchanging gifts.
“Oh, yeah?” I act intrigued, but really, I’m freaking out.
What the hell am I going to get him?
“If it works out, it’s going to be epic.” His tone is wrapped in excitement.
“Not as awesome as what I’m getting you.” Liar, liar, pants on fire!
“Oh, yeah?” he repeats my earlier comment with a salacious smile.
“Mmhmm.”
“And what does this naughty gift entail?” His voice has gone gravelly.
“I never said it was naughty, perv. But wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease.
“That’s why I asked.” His dimples flash.
I playfully shove him away from me. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I thought I was doing it.” Gleaming jade eyes smile down at me.
“Go away.” I shoo him with my hand.
Connor kisses the tip of my nose before he starts the nightly cleanup. I try to get back to work, but all I can think about is what I can get Connor that will top his supposedly epic present.
I suck at shopping, but I know just the person to recruit.
Fire and Ice
The last few days have been a whirlwind. Apparently, my radio interview was a hit, which drew the attention of local news stations that interviewed me, and those drew the attention of a popular morning show that broadcasts to the entire country.
The. Entire. Freaking. Country.
I almost peed my pants during that online interview yesterday.
Everything’s been exploding from there. I’ve had magazines, newspapers, and publishers blowing up my phone, wanting more interviews or to offer me jobs or writing contracts.
Who knew a measly Christmas article about depression and hope could garner so much attention?
Trey swings the door open to Connor’s parents’ house when I knock. “And there’s our rising star.”
“Hey, Trey.” I step around him and into the foyer of the Vanstones’ house. It’s warm and cozy, and it smells exactly how Christmas should smell—pine, cinnamon, and sweet treats. There’s talking and laughter coming from further inside.