“Will you try again?” I asked.
“What?”
“Start over. Talk to me,” I said.
He inched a little closer. “Hey, Amalie. I almost wore my yellow sundress today too. I’m glad I didn’t.”
I laughed and hit his chest.
He put his hand over mine, holding me there. “Your turn. You’re supposed to say something back.”
I pushed up onto my toes and kissed him. This time he didn’t pull away quickly. He didn’t pull away at all. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me closer, deepening the kiss. My hands found his shoulders and traveled to the nape of his neck before he smiled against my mouth and I was forced to pull away.
“You need to open the rest of my gifts,” he said.
“I’m kind of enjoying myself right here,” I said, but I went back to the couch anyway. This time he sat next to me, his hand on my lower back.
The next gift I knew because I helped him pick it out—the novelty token.
“Next time I’m in Vegas, I’m going to use this,” I said.
“It only works in Mesquite,” Sawyer said. “At least that’s what I think that guy told me.”
There was one more gift in the box. The one he’d picked out at our stop in Vegas. The one I was jealous that he had taken the effort to get when I didn’t realize it was for me. It was a T-shirt that said, I found my heart in Vegas. On the back it said, It belongs to Elvis.
“You weren’t supposed to look at the back,” he said.
I laughed and kissed him again.
“You must’ve given him a good tip,” Jonathan said, walking into the room.
I turned and stood, pulling Sawyer up with me. “Jonathan, Sawyer, Sawyer, my brother, Jonathan.”
“I know who you are,” Jonathan said to Sawyer. “You’re the school president or something, right?”
“Look at that,” Sawyer said, turning to me with a grin. “Even your brother knows me more than you did at the beginning of the week.”
“Anyway,” Jonathan said. “Amalie, Mom is requesting you sing us a Christmas song.”
I waited for my throat to tighten at that request. But it didn’t. I was home, with family … and with Sawyer. I may not have been able to sing to a crowd today or anytime soon, but I knew I could sing here, in this home.
I nodded. “Okay, tell her I’ll be right there.”
Jonathan left to deliver the message and I turned back to Sawyer.
“So, the last and only time you heard me sing was at a football game three years ago?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Wait … is that when …”
“I became instantly intrigued with you? Yes.”
My cheeks burned. “I now question your ability to discern good music. But come on, it’s time to wipe away the sound of horrible speakers from your ears.”
Sawyer’s face lit up. “I get to hear you sing?”
“Yes. And then tomorrow, I get to hear all your sob stories.”
“Again, not sure that is a fair trade-off, but I’m not arguing.” I started to drag him into the other room, but he pulled me back toward him and into his arms.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Do you know what I’m grateful for today?”
“What?” I asked, pressing my lips to his.
“Snow, and mistletoe.”
“Did you ever notice something?” Maxine Silver said into her phone as she strode down Columbus Avenue, passing shops blasting holiday hits at full volume. Each time a bag-laden customer emerged from a store, a snippet of some Christmas song would float out toward Maxine on the crisp December air:
“Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree for me …”
“Jingle bell time is a swell time …”
“All I want for Christmas is …”
“What?” Maxine’s best friend, Tara Sullivan, asked on the other end, her mouth full of what Maxine guessed were gingerbread cookies.
“There’s a severe shortage of Hanukkah songs,” Maxine replied, using her free hand to tug her burgundy scarf higher up her chin. Her teeth chattered as she darted across West 76th Street, a yellow taxicab honking in her wake. She wished she’d remembered to put a hat on over her shaggy-short dark hair when leaving her apartment. Though who could blame her for rushing to escape the embarrassment of her mom and new stepdad, who’d spent the morning frying latkes and inventing pet names for each other? Maxine had been home on winter break for only three days, but she was pretty much ready to go back to college.
“How about, um, the dreidel one?” Tara offered, her voice as sweet as gingerbread itself.
Maxine grinned, picturing Tara standing in the kitchen of her grandparents’ house, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail and fair skin flushed with concern. Maxine and Tara had been fused at the hip from the first week of ninth grade on, but since starting their respective freshman years in September—Maxine at Wesleyan, Tara at the University of Chicago—the two girls had only seen each other twice, over Thanksgiving weekend. Tara and her family were spending Christmas in Oregon, so Maxine was all but living for New Year’s Eve, when her other half would return to throw her annual gold-and-white-themed party at her apartment.
“You know what I mean,” Tara added, and, to Maxine’s growing amusement, shifted into slightly off-key singing. There was a reason the girl had been the drummer, and not the lead singer, of The Torn Skirts, their short-lived high school band. “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of—”
“My point exactly, Tar,” Maxine said, passing a row of fresh green trees stacked outside a corner grocery. Stray pine needles crunched beneath the soles of her boots. “‘I made it out of clay’? Couldn’t it at least be a more interesting material?” She rolled her big brown eyes.
Tara’s warm laugh bubbled down the line. “Max, I’m sorry. I know you think Hanukkah always gets the shaft.”
Maxine sighed and came to a stop in front of a tiny, trendy boutique. “I’ve gotten used to it after eighteen years. It’s like when I was in grade school—somehow, I believed in Santa Claus, but I figured he didn’t believe in me.”
The two girls broke into laughter again, but then Maxine bit her lip. For all her teasing, she did get a little bummed around Christmastime. How could she not? What with the mammoth tree glimmering in Rockefeller Center, Starbucks hawking their eggnog lattes, and 90 percent of her friends celebrating elsewhere, Maxine couldn’t help feeling left out of the fun. True, she had once loved Hanukkah—the flickering candles in the menorah, the chocolate coins wrapped in bright foil, the plastic top spinning between her fingers—but that was back when her family had still been seminormal.
“New Year’s will lift your spirits,” Tara assured her. “Have you made any headway toward getting The Dress?”
“I’m drooling over it as we speak,” Maxine replied, gazing at the boutique’s window display. Amid boughs of holly and twinkling fairy lights, a mannequin modeled the impossibly perfect dress that Maxine had spied two days ago, and to which she now made regular pilgrimages. Pale gold and floaty, with spaghetti straps and a full, gauzy skirt, The Dress was Maxine’s style exactly.
That first day, she’d bounded inside to try it on, fingers tightly crossed; Maxine was so petite (“pixie-esque,” Tara liked to call it, while Maxine preferred the more economical “shrimpy”) that she often had to buy children’s sizes. But, as she’d observed in the fitting room mirror, this very grown-up dress fit her just right. And its color was ideal for Tara’s party—to which her best friend was inviting their entire high school class.
Including Heath Barton.
Gorgeous, deep-voiced, cooler-than-thou Heath Barton, whom Maxine had spent the better part of high school lusting after. And even though she’d kissed two boys in college, the thought of Heath, whom Maxine had never really talked to, let alone kissed, still sent tingles down her limbs. She hoped that at Tara’s party—emboldened by The Dress—she’d finally have the chance to at least try flirting with h
im.
Then Maxine had glanced at the square tag hanging from the bodice and her stomach had dropped. Were the gods of fashion mocking her? How could a dress so clearly designed for her be so out of her price range?
After a whole crazy, fun, stressful semester of buying art history textbooks and late-night pizzas, Maxine had gained a new understanding of the term flat broke. The fact that it was Hanukkah—that evening would mark the fourth night of the holiday—was no help. Maxine’s family followed the “one big present” rather than the “eight big-ish gifts” philosophy. And since Maxine had already received her gift—a hardcover biography of Johann Sebastian Bach (her mom and stepdad’s idea of a “fun read”)—it was too late to ask for The Dress. Maxine was criminally behind on her own gift-shopping; that afternoon, she was headed to the Columbus Circle holiday market in search of some cheap-but-respectable presents.
“At this point,” Maxine mused aloud to Tara, “the only reasonable thing for me to do would be to get a job.” She turned away from the boutique and continued southward on Columbus. The grand white facade, dancing fountains, and brilliantly lit tree of Lincoln Center came into view. Maxine’s mom and stepdad were both cellists in the New York Philharmonic, and for one insane instant, Maxine wondered if they could snare her a position there as well—not that her talent for playing bass guitar would get her very far. Maxine was passionate about music but, to her mother’s chagrin, her tastes ran toward indie bands and garage rock.
“Well, you could just look for another dress,” Tara was suggesting. Then she paused at the sound of raised voices in the background. “Oh, crap, Max, I have to go. My grandfather needs help fastening our giant inflatable Santa to the roof.”
“I’ll text you later,” Maxine promised.
As she hurried toward the red-and-white-striped booths of the holiday market, Tara’s parting advice echoed in her head. Maxine knew her friend had a point. But a stubbornness—a determination—had bloomed in Maxine at the sight of that gold dress. And, as she wandered the crowded aisles of the market, past displays of necklaces, gloves, and fat, scented candles, she wondered if a winter-break job might be the only solution. After all, she reasoned, her home life was driving her nuts, and her social life would be laughable until New Year’s. If only she had the slightest idea where to find work. She cast a glance at a nearby stall selling ugly winter hats, as if a HELP WANTED sign might be hanging there.
A sudden, near-arctic wind tore through the market, rattling a display of glass bowls. “Damn, it’s cold!” someone cried—a tourist, Maxine guessed, who’d been under the mistaken impression that New York City would be balmy on December 17. Shivering, and cursing herself again for forgetting her hat at home, Maxine hurried over to the hat stand. She selected a fuzzy leopard-print number with earflaps. I’d rather look like a weirdo than die of hypothermia, she reasoned. She was trying on the hat when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Madeline? Madeline Silverman?”
Oh, God. Can it be—
Turning very slowly, her stomach tightening in disbelief, Maxine found herself staring into the bright hazel eyes of Heath Barton.
Yes, Heath Barton. Here he was, standing smack in the middle of the holiday market. His jet-black hair blew across his dark eyebrows and a smile played on his full lips. Maxine noticed that his leather jacket hung open, revealing a black turtleneck and black jeans ripped at the knees. Dazedly, she wondered why he wasn’t freezing, until she realized that his own out-of-this-world hotness must have been keeping him nice and toasty. Maxine felt her body temperature climbing by the second.
“Madeline,” Heath repeated with utter assurance, his square-jawed face now breaking into a wide grin. “From high school. You remember me, right?”
You could say that.
“Oh … sure,” Maxine said, doing her best imitation of breeziness. She cocked her head to one side, studying him. “Heath … Barton, is it?” As he nodded, eyes glinting, she added, “And it’s not Madeline, by the way. I’m Maxine. Maxine Silver.”
Not that she necessarily expected Heath Barton to remember her name. Back in high school, he’d been the ringleader of the rich-boy slackers and always had some pouty girlfriend—Maxine had nicknamed them “Heathies”—on his arm. Ensconced in her artsy circle of friends, Maxine had outwardly mocked Heath and his ilk but, as Tara well knew, went all jelly-kneed at the sight of him. And there’d been certain moments—right after she’d won first prize in the talent contest for her guitar performance of a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song, for instance—that Maxine had caught Heath shooting her inquisitive glances that had clearly meant Hmm … maybe sometime. Maxine had been counting on New Year’s, but maybe the time was, well, right now.
Or could have been now, had she not been wearing the leopard-print hat with earflaps.
Just as Maxine’s hands were reaching up to remove the unfortunate accessory, Heath stepped forward, eliminating the space between them. “Maxine—that’s right,” he said, laughing softly. “My bad. I was close though, huh?”
He was certainly getting close. Maxine barely had time to notice that Heath smelled like wood smoke and cider and spice—and that he’d somehow become even hotter since high school—before he plucked the ridiculous hat off her head, his fingers brushing her sideswept bangs. As he set the hat down on the counter beside them, Maxine frantically tried to mash her post-hat hair back into some semblance of place.
“Don’t do that.” Heath chuckled. “You’re ruining the cuteness effect.”
Oh no. Maxine wasn’t a big blusher, but now she felt an unavoidable warmth stealing up her neck. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, grinning back at Heath even as her heart drummed like mad. Tara, wait until I text you now!
“So catch me up, Maxine Silver,” Heath drawled, resting one elbow on the counter as his eyes held hers. “College adventures, crimes, scandals, holiday plans?”
Maxine shrugged, not wanting to spoil the enchanted moment with either generic college stories or her litany of winter-break woes. “You know, the usual, I guess,” she replied, hoping the conversation would steer its way back to the subject of her supposed cuteness.
“I’m stoked to be out of New Haven,” Heath confessed with a world-weary sigh, running a hand through his floppy hair. “There’s nothing like winter in the city—chilling with my boys, helping out my dad at his store—” Heath paused meaningfully, and raised an eyebrow at Maxine. “Oh—I’m not sure if you know who my dad—I mean—” He ducked his head.
Maxine nodded. “I know,” she whispered. Everyone knew who Heath’s father was: Cecil Barton III, owner of Barton’s, the sumptuous jewel box of a department store on Fifth Avenue. Maxine remembered the buzz Mr. Barton, in his bow tie and bowler hat, had created at their graduation alongside Heath’s mother, who was an equally famous—and stunning—Japanese former supermodel.
“I’m actually here for my dad today,” Heath was saying. “Doing market research—to check out the competition and all.” With a slight air of distaste, he gestured to the packed stalls around them. “Technically I’m supposed to be on my lunch break but we’re so swamped at the store that I’ve got to mix business with pleasure.” Maxine was forcing herself not to fixate on the word pleasure coming out of Heath’s mouth when he rolled his long-lashed eyes and went on. “It’s madness over there—one of our salespeople quit this morning so the manager wasn’t giving me a moment’s rest. I was all like, ‘Mr. Perry, can I at least grab a latte?’ and he was like—”
“Wait.” The word had escaped Maxine’s lips almost without her realizing it. Swamped at the store. Salesperson quit. She felt inspiration flood through her body, making her skin prickle and her breath catch. She found she couldn’t move. “There’s—there’s an opening at Barton’s?” she asked. Furiously, her mind fought to process this incredible piece of information. An opening, just when she most needed a job? An opening at the very place where Heath Barton himself was working?
It was a f
reaking Hanukkah miracle.
“Uh-huh,” Heath said distractedly, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his phone. Then he lifted his head and met Maxine’s gaze, which she knew must have been wild-eyed and borderline manic. She tried to compose her features into a mask of glamorous sophistication, but then Heath’s own eyes widened, and his lips parted. “Maxine, are you interested?” he murmured. He tilted his head to one side, clearly sizing her up—though for what, Maxine wasn’t sure. Then Heath spoke again, sending all the blood rushing to her face.
“You’d be perfect” was what Heath Barton said. “Perfect for the position.”
The flattery roared in Maxine’s ears, half drowning out the rest of what Heath was saying—something about how she should go see Mr. Perry now if she was seriously interested, because those types of positions were usually snatched up right away.
“I can totally stop by Barton’s now,” Maxine exclaimed. She almost burst into laughter over her unexpectedly sweet fortune. “Want to walk back with me?” she added casually, as if the thought of an afternoon stroll with Heath wasn’t making her belly flip over.
“I’d love to, Maxine,” Heath replied, knitting his brows together, while Maxine decided that she could never tire of hearing her name in his deep voice. “Only I still need to run a couple of errands for my dad. But hey—” He took another step closer, rested a hand on the sleeve of her corduroy jacket, and gave her arm a small squeeze. “Good luck, okay? If you get the position, maybe I’ll see you at the store tomorrow?”
Forget maybe. Maxine Silver was going for the gold.
She could still feel the warmth of Heath’s hand on her arm moments later, as she flew down Central Park South, passing the Essex House and the Plaza, unable to stop grinning. Working at Barton’s! Visions of free makeup, marked-down jeans, and, most tantalizing of all, daily doses of Heath Barton danced in her head. Maybe while she was folding cashmere sweaters, Heath would swing by and suggest they mix business and pleasure together. Maxine giggled out loud at the thought, prompting a curious glance from a family waiting in line for a horse-and-carriage ride. Normally Maxine would have ignored them, but she was so suffused with goodwill that she waved a mittened hand at the pigtailed little girl.
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