Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “She sure is,” he said. “Gorgeous. Funny. And sweet.”

  “Right,” said Macy, sounding slightly unsettled. Even disappointed.

  His heart swelled with happiness. She liked him. Maybe she was a little jealous. Three cheers for Barney! “Too bad I have no interest in her at all,” he added.

  Macy stopped walking. “Really?”

  He stopped too. “Really. She’s nice. Accomplished. Perfect for someone else. Hope she’ll be okay when I wind up being too busy to take her out again.”

  “Wow,” said Macy.

  They started walking again. He glanced her way. She had a funny look on her face. She seemed a little rattled. Vulnerable. Something about her eyes, and the way her lips were slightly parted.

  He noticed she didn’t try to convince him to go out with Barney again, so he was making progress. Not only that, thanks to Barney, he was on date number two with Macy. And she had no idea.

  * * *

  Never eat a gyro in front of a guy you want to impress, Macy realized too late, just a half hour after Barney left her stranded at the fire station with Deacon. First of all, you had the onions to deal with. She forgot to tell the waiter to leave them off, so she pulled them off herself and hoped Deacon didn’t think she was doing it in anticipation of a kiss later.

  No, she was totally not going there. No kisses, no way.

  Which immediately made her want to kiss him.

  But back to the problem of gyros on dates—not that this was a date, of course—there was that sauce, as well as the abundant lettuce and tomato. It wasn’t easy looking elegant eating a gyro, so Macy gave up. She wolfed it down, eating it with a few little moans of pleasure. She allowed herself that luxury because Deacon said, “I hope you don’t mind, but the only way to eat a gyro is to really go for it.” And then he took a big chomp out of his, promptly losing a chunk of tomato in his lap.

  She was full, and happy. They laughed a lot, and at one point, when she dropped her napkin and went to pick it up, he bent down too, and they knocked heads—not hard enough to see stars but enough that they both said, “Ow.”

  “You’ve got a hard head,” he said, wincing and grinning.

  “So do you.” She chuckled.

  And they sat and looked at each other for a few seconds, their hands to their skulls.

  “Sorry for being such a klutz.” He was smiling now, a sweet smile.

  “I’m sorry too,” she barely eked out. Because the truth was, he was adorable, and the right thing to do, it seemed to her, was to lean across the table and kiss him in apology. It took everything in her not to do so.

  He paid the bill when she wasn’t looking—it was her turn, she protested—and when that had been settled, she grabbed her purse. “I guess I should go now. The shops are calling.”

  She wanted to ask him to go with her. But then he might get the wrong idea. And she might too. He was an awful temptation, this bad boy who was heading back to New York after Christmas.

  He stood with her. “Do you need any help? I’m trying to earn my Good Cheer badge in a serious way.”

  Yes! a voice within her cheered. But she couldn’t show him how excited she was. “Sure,” she said. “I’d love the help. But I’m warning you—once I start shopping, I don’t slow down.”

  “I’m good with that,” he said. “I’ll hold all the bags.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been shopping with a guy, and for him to be so accommodating was really flattering. It made her want to lean into him, put her hands on his chest, and give him a slow, hot kiss.

  Help me, Santa! she thought in her head. Like an idiot. But she was a fool around Deacon Banks. She never should have eaten gyros with him. She should have let him go home and have lunch with George and Fran.

  “Guess what,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have any bags.”

  They’d crossed George Street and were walking down Meeting Street.

  “Why not?” Deacon asked.

  “We’re going to the Bicycle Shoppe.” She turned to him. “The big kids love getting bikes. Or electronics. This year I want to do bikes.”

  His eyes lit up, which made her even more excited. “Great idea! I’d love to contribute some.”

  “The more the merrier,” she said.

  His hand brushed against hers, and she had this overwhelming urge to grab it and lace her fingers through his, the way they’d done walking home from FIG. But that had been a practice date. He’d been playing a part. She reminded herself she was contracted to find him casual dates with other women, no strings attached. He wasn’t interested in a real relationship.

  Somehow, that sort of cynicism didn’t fit the man she’d come to know. But she had to take him at his word. She never wanted to be one of those people who imagined qualities she cherished in other people. That was naïve.

  Thirty seconds later, they were at the bike shop door. He opened it for her, and when she walked past him into the shop, she smelled his cologne. It was light. Manly. She imagined him buying it at a discreet men’s shop somewhere in Manhattan. And then she imagined him taking it home and putting it on in front of the bathroom mirror, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Something up?” he said, like a kid.

  She’d been caught looking at him. Having naughty thoughts about him. “Nothing,” she replied lightly as she picked up a bike’s price tag. The owner was behind the counter, helping a customer with a bike lock. Two other customers milled around the store. The bikes were lined up in gleaming rows, all colors of the rainbow.

  “You were thinking something,” he said over her shoulder. He was too close for comfort.

  She giggled. And couldn’t believe she had. She wasn’t a giggler. But around him, she’d become one. “I can’t say,” she said. “Santa would give me coal in my stocking.”

  “Hmmm,” he said back. “You’ve intrigued me.”

  She gathered herself and looked him in the eye. “I need to buy twenty bikes. Would you look for the kind boys ride? And I’ll look for the girls’ bikes? I try to keep the colors fairly neutral, except for one or two pink or purple ones. Most need to be beach bikes. But we can get a few that shift gears. We can’t go too expensive because then the bike is more likely to get stolen. Just pick out your average, quality bike, something teens would be proud to ride.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  The owner was free then and came over. Macy and Deacon exchanged holiday greetings with her, a lovely woman in her seventies who’d owned the shop for forty years. Her name was Laura, and she wore blue reading glasses on a pearl chain.

  “So glad you’re back,” Laura said to Macy. “Just rip off the tags of the ones you want. I’ll reduce the price fifteen percent and deliver them the morning of the party. And please throw in two extra bikes, my gift.”

  “Thanks so much.” Every year Macy marveled at the generosity of people at Christmastime. But the most heartening thing of all was how happy their expressions and voices were when they talked about helping her with Toys for Tots. Each year she witnessed over and over that it was giving that brought people joy, much more than receiving ever did, just like her parents had taught her. “We’ll need bike locks too, and gift certificates for helmets. I always let the kids pick those out.”

  “Excellent.” Laura beamed.

  Macy looked at Deacon. “I always want to cry when I see the bikes lined up at the party.”

  “I can see why,” he said. “This is … this feels really good. Please let me pay for them. You’re going to the effort of having the actual party. I’d love to donate all the bikes this year.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that. I’m touched by your offer. Truly. But that’s a lot of money.”

  “Not in the big scheme of things. It’s a drop in the bucket. I wish I could buy a bike for a thousand kids. Please let me do this.”

  “Okay.” She could tell he really needed to. “Thank you, Deacon.”

  He grinned from
ear to ear. “Thank you for letting me.”

  She gave into impulse. She hugged him. He hugged her back. And she felt it—the Christmas spirit, lifting them both. She could hug him all day.…

  But after only a few seconds, she pulled back. “That was it,” she said. “That’s all the shopping I have to do today.”

  “You did great.” His gaze was warm, steady.

  She felt very close to him then. He felt like a real friend. But she didn’t know how to tell him. She hoped the hug had conveyed something of her feelings to him.

  At the counter, Laura finished the transaction and said, “Hey, you two. Would you like to take two of my rental bikes to Waterfront Park? It’s a nice day.”

  Deacon looked at Macy. “I’m game.”

  “I have some work to do,” she said, “but sure. You’re very kind, Laura.”

  She was crazy to hang out with Deacon even longer. But she couldn’t help herself.

  So they rode bicycles, and it was sheer, simple fun. She’d forgotten how easy it was to have fun. She’d been working too hard. When they got to the fountain, they got off and walked the bikes around the edge, where large drops of water splashed against the concrete sidewalk, and headed down the pier. They passed the big swinging benches and finally came to the railing overlooking Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter.

  The water was a navy blue, flecked with white caps. The wind was light. And the sun felt really good.

  “I’m always so happy coming out here,” Macy said.

  “It’s great.” Deacon seemed to be soaking it all up. “I can see why my aunt wants to live here six months of the year.”

  “You do? You really like it?”

  He looked down at her. “I really do.” He turned his gaze to the Ravenel Bridge, its two diamond-shaped spans gleaming in the sun. “It’s not New York, of course. But who wants a New York vibe down here? It would be out of place. I love my home town, but it feels good to go somewhere so mellow. And beautiful.”

  “And still with lots happening,” Macy said. “This town has tons of energy.”

  The wind lifted the hair off his forehead. “I feel it,” he said.

  They shared another smile, and Macy decided to broach another topic. “So, since we’re not rescheduling with Barney, should we talk about Louisa?”

  “No need,” he said. “I’ve already called her. We’re good to go.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I’ve talked to all the women on your list,” he said. “So you and I don’t need to mention them again. I promise. I got it covered. You did your job.”

  “But—”

  “You gave me their names and numbers,” Deacon said. “And we’ve got dates arranged.”

  “You do? Already? With all of them?” Her face heated. Somehow, she felt stupid for not being more actively involved.

  “Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?” He took out his phone and showed her his calendar.

  She gave a little laugh. “I thought you’d need me to facilitate—”

  “Nah,” he said. “You can relax now. I’ve got it covered.”

  “That’s terrific.” She smiled a bit wanly. “You have a lot going on. And these are only first dates. It could be you decide to go out with someone again.”

  “Could be.”

  She was horrified that she felt jealous. And regretful that she’d ever decided to be his matchmaker.

  “What with these dates and Aunt Fran’s party schedule, I’m going to be busy,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll get time to hang out with you much. But George is always looking for someone to chat with, so please feel free to come over any time. Unless you’re going to be as busy as I am. We might run into each other at parties. Right?”

  “Yes, we probably will.” And she didn’t want to. The last thing she cared to see was him with his arm around a date, or if he were escorting Fran, flirting with available women at parties with lots of spiked egg nog and bourbon flowing. But she hated admitting that to herself. It terrified her that she wasn’t thinking like a matchmaker—at all. “Shall we go back?” she asked him.

  “Sure.”

  They began walking the bikes back down the pier, past the benches, and approached the fountain. He seemed a little more distant. She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t very well ask him, could she?

  Of course, she could. She turned to him. “Anything on your mind?” The fountain was loud. Actually, it was really loud.

  He grinned. Maybe he hadn’t heard her.

  “Anything on your mind?” she asked again, yelling the words this time.

  He squinted at the sun, then back at her. “Yes,” he yelled. “You.”

  She couldn’t have heard him right. “What did you say?” she shouted.

  “You!” He said it the way a football captain calls plays to his teammates. He looked serious. But in the zone. And then he pointed at her.

  She pointed at her own chest. “Me?”

  He nodded. Amusement gleamed in his eye. He was a devil. An outright devil. He was trying to discombobulate her. Maybe. Or maybe she was freaking out all on her own. She didn’t know what to think.

  “Oh,” she finally said, then nodded. “All right then.” She started pushing her bike again.

  But she’d only moved a few feet when his big, warm palm covered her hand.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this all afternoon.” He ran a thumb over the back of her hand. Then he pulled it off the handlebar and held it, raised it slowly to his lips, and kissed it. “I have no desire to go out with any of those women. I’m only doing it because I don’t want to let you down. I know how seriously you’re taking your mission.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “Yes. And I admire your dedication. Especially when you’re dealing with a scalawag like me. You used to have pirates here, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, we did. And somehow the word ‘scalawag’ is perfect for you.”

  He kissed her hand again, then looked back up at her, and she felt lifted out of her skin by the desire she saw in his eyes.

  “You and me,” he said. “That’s what I want to see happen.”

  She didn’t pull her hand back. All she could think was that her house was only two blocks away, and there was nothing she’d like more than to ride their bikes there, invite him inside, and stand in the hall and kiss. And then she’d lead him upstairs and they’d strip down and make mad, passionate love.

  But that was a ridiculous thought. Deacon was only being flirtatious. And yes, kissing the back of her hand had a certain Old World charm about it too. She might even say it felt chivalrous to her. It was a sexy kind of chivalry, one that women went crazy for.

  “I didn’t know Yankee men could rival any Southern gentleman when it comes to charm,” she said.

  “That’s because you haven’t gotten to New York as much as you should.”

  “You’re right. I’ve never been.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I know, I can’t believe it myself,” she said.

  “Why don’t you come up sometime? I’ll show you around.”

  Did he have to look so boyish and adorable when he said that? She cleared her throat. “Uh, that would be nice.”

  She started walking her bike down the steps to the street. It would be more than nice to visit him in New York. It would be sexy and hot and romantic! And then she’d go home, and he’d stay in Manhattan, and he’d go back to his bachelor lifestyle.

  She mounted her bike again. “Ready?” Even in December, there were lots of pedestrians and cars, so she’d take as many back streets as she could to get back to the Bicycle Shoppe.

  “As I’ll ever be,” he said, back on his own bike. His jacket disguised the muscles in his upper arms, but his pecs showed to excellent advantage as he leaned on the handlebars.

  “Let’s go.” She could mean that in more ways than one if she wanted to. She sensed all she’d have to do was crook a finger and he’d show up in her bed every night un
til he left town.

  But it had to remain a fantasy. Clearly. One of those holiday daydreams to get her through all the parties with the couples snuggled in front of fires and singing Christmas carols together—or retreating to an unused bedroom or even a bathroom and making hot holiday love with no one the wiser.

  Being single wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t easy, especially around Christmas. She shouldn’t let that lead her into a Yuletide fling she’d regret later.

  But her hand still tingled from that kiss.…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tiffany was Deacon’s next date.

  “You’re going to love her,” Macy told him. She was over at Fran’s house, supposedly helping George make shrimp and grits for supper—the quintessential Charleston dish—but George couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen. He’d had too much of a really good wine he’d found at Harris Teeter, and so Deacon had put him on the sofa to watch Jeopardy with Fran.

  “I’ll help,” he told Macy. She looked sexy in her little Christmas apron she’d brought from home.

  “Good,” she said, her face flushed from the heat off the stove. “Can you chop up that bacon? And then I need you to stir these grits.”

  “Sure.” He rolled up his sleeves. He couldn’t help thinking they made a good team. “Can I get you some more wine?”

  She lifted her glass to her lips. “Mmmm,” she said. “This is really good. But I’m fine for now.” She put it on the counter and smiled at him.

  Little did she know how much that smile lit him up inside. “All right,” he said, and grabbed a knife to chop up the bacon. Easy peasy. When that was done, he went to the stove to replace Macy as the grits stirrer.

  Being that close to her was tough. He wanted to put his hands around her waist from behind and kiss her neck, where those little tendrils hung down so enticingly.

  “Got it?” she asked him, and moved aside to let him get at the wooden spoon sitting inside the pot of bubbling goo. That’s what it looked like to him. But he’d never tell her.

  “Got it,” he replied, and took her place.

  “Shrimp takes only a few minutes to cook,” she said, and started peeling it raw. He noticed the heads were already off. Her nimble fingers handled the shells and tails with ease. “I always buy fresh off the dock at Shem Creek. I freeze plenty for out of season.”