Baby, It's Cold Outside Read online

  Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.

  I flick the lights on in my office and sit down at my desk to get to work. While my laptop boots up, I look at the phone.

  And consider calling Kate.

  I don’t like it when she’s pissed at me. It feels . . . wrong. Off-kilter. And it’s distracting. Tonight I need to be focused—on top of my game.

  I don’t pick up the phone.

  Because calling her to say I’m sorry, but I’m staying at the frigging office anyway, won’t go over well. Besides, she’s never been able to stay mad at me for long. By the time I get home, I bet she’ll be over it, just like I said.

  An hour later, I’m staring at my computer screen, reviewing the proposal I’m gonna pitch to Media Solutions. I yawn deeply and my vision blurs. The scorching rechristening of our living room and kitchen must’ve worn me out more than I thought. I stretch my arms and crack my neck, trying to wake myself up.

  But after five minutes, as I read paragraph seventeen, my eyelids become heavy. Until they droop and drag to a close.

  I bolt awake at my desk—disoriented and slightly panicked. The way my grandfather used to snore away in his recliner, before jerking up and claiming he was just “resting my eyes.”

  Glancing at my watch, I’m relieved to see it’s only been a few minutes since I dozed off. “Wake the fuck up, Evans. No time for a nap.”

  I head over to the conference room and make myself a quick cup of coffee. I sip the hot beverage of the gods and step back into my office.

  And there, sitting on my suede couch—the same suede couch that played such a prominent role in my early Kate Brooks fantasies—is a woman.

  Do you see her, too?

  She’s strikingly beautiful. A pert nose, full lips, bright green eyes, and aristocratic cheekbones. Her hair is honey blond and long with a slight curl. She’s wearing a conservative white dress, blazer, and heels—something Kate would wear to the office. A string of pearls adorns her long neck and matching earrings decorate her lobes.

  “Hello,” she greets me in a warm voice.

  My eyes dart from her to the door. Security always calls before letting a client up.

  “Hi,” I return. “Can I . . . help you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to help you, Drew.”

  Huh. She knows my name.

  Has she crawled from the sea of my former one-night stands? It wouldn’t be the first time one tracked me down at my place of business. But with me riding the monogamy bandwagon these last eight years, it hasn’t happened for a long time.

  “Have we met somewhere before?” I ask—but I really mean Have we fucked somewhere before?

  She laughs, though I don’t know why. It’s a pleasant, alluring sound. “Always so clever. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Drew. You never fail to entertain.”

  I set my coffee on the desk and face her head-on. “You’ve been watching me for a long time? Yeah, ’cause there’s nothing weird about that.”

  “Well, it’s my job to watch you. I’m your guardian angel, after all.”

  There’s a lot of crazy walking around New York City. And I don’t just mean the obvious vagrants mumbling around Penn Station or the naked cowgirl in Times Square. Professional dog walkers, bicyclists, and most employees of the sanitation department have several fucking screws loose, too.

  You have to be careful with insane people. Getting them worked up isn’t a good idea. So I just nod and try to keep her calm.

  “Interesting. You don’t look like an angel.”

  “How do you imagine I should look?”

  “Wings, halo, blinding heavenly light.”

  She winks. “I only bring the halo out for formal events. As for my wings . . . I’m still working on earning them.”

  I snap my fingers. “That sounds familiar. To earn your wings, you have to, like, stop me from offing myself, right?”

  Her jade eyes round with surprise. “Oh, nothing as drastic as that. If things became that desperate I wouldn’t be doing a very good job. I’m here because you’re starting down the wrong path, Drew. We need to nip your behavior in the bud; get you back to where you should be.”

  With a chuckle, I sit down in my chair and roll closer to the phone.

  Her head tilts to the side, regarding me. “You don’t believe anything I’m telling you, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, but no, I don’t.”

  She’s unperturbed. “That’s all right. No one believes at first.”

  You’re probably wondering why I’m not getting the hell out of here. I’m a fantastic judge of character, and in this case, I’m just not feeling the psycho vibe. In fact, despite the words that are coming out of her mouth, she seems completely harmless. So I play along.

  “For argument’s sake, let’s suspend reality for a second and say that you are my guardian angel. I think I should fire you. You’ve done a shitty job. Where were you when I thought Kate was cheating on me, and I pulled that stupid stunt with the stripper? That would’ve been a good time to show up, kick me in the shin, and say, ‘Hey asshole, it’s not what you think.’ ”

  She nods sympathetically. “It was difficult to watch you go through that. But I couldn’t intervene. It was a lesson you could only learn by living through it. Kate, as well.”

  “But you’re here now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because I’m about to commit some grievous sin?”

  “Because you already have.”

  I brace my elbows on the chair, clasp my hands, and rest my fingers against my lips. “You’ve got your wings crossed, honey. I haven’t done anything. I work hard every single day to be a good father and a devoted, thoughtful husband.”

  She raises a doubtful eyebrow, reminding me of Kate.

  “Thoughtful? Really? Were you being thoughtful when you came to work on Christmas Eve, even though Kate asked you not to?”

  I roll my eyes. “This is a onetime thing. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s never a big deal, Drew. Until it is. Do you think the Grand Canyon was created in a day? No. It happened in increments—one small grain of soil at a time. Tonight is how it starts. Then you’re missing birthdays, basketball games, anniversaries, simple but crucial quiet moments. You mean to make it up to them later, but later never comes.”

  I put up my hand. “Hold up—that’s . . . that’s not gonna happen. I would never do that.”

  “Just like you would never leave Kate to put together your son’s gifts all alone on Christmas Eve?”

  Bull’s-eye.

  She has a point. A completely impossible, unrealistic point—that makes me feel like dog shit all the same.

  “The first step downhill is the hardest, Drew. After that . . . sliding is easy. Taking our loved ones for granted works the same way.”

  I stare at her for a moment. And she looks so sincere, I almost believe it . . .

  Until I come to my fucking senses.

  I laugh. “Did Kate put you up to this? Are you a friend of Dee-Dee’s? An actress?”

  She sighs. “Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits.”

  “Wow, a foursome. Will they all look like you?”

  That makes her chuckle. “No.”

  I pick up the phone from my desk. “While this has been memorable—and totally bizarre—I have work to get done.”

  “They will come to you one by one—the spirits of Christmas past, present, and future—to show you what you will never again forget.”

  “Since it’s Christmas Eve and all, it seems only fair to warn you—I’m calling security.”

  “Good luck, Drew. It was a pleasure meeting you, at last.”

  I look down at the phone and punch in the extension for the security desk, then glance back at the couch. But—you guessed it—she’s gone.

  What. The. Fuck?

  I stand up and look out the door. No trace.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Evans?” Sam asks through the receiver.
>
  “Did you see . . .” I clear my throat. “Have you let anyone up to our floor tonight? A woman?”

  “No, sir. It’s been quiet down here.”

  I knew he was going to say that.

  “Well, if anyone comes by, make sure you call before letting them up. Okay, Sam?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Evans.”

  I put the phone in its cradle and stand there, brow furrowed. What the hell was that?

  My cell phone chimes with an incoming email. It’s Media Solutions’ lead attorney, confirming our conference in . . . damn it, in two hours.

  I brush off the uncomfortable, eerie feelings left from the crazy woman’s little visit, and sit down at my desk to focus on what’s really important. What I came here to do—pissed off my wife to do.

  Close this major fucking deal.

  chapter 3

  Here’s where shit gets weird.

  Weirder.

  Ten minutes later, while I’m detailing the projected profit margin in my proposal, I hear a giggle from the hallway.

  A feminine, familiar giggle.

  And a second later, my niece Mackenzie comes breezing through my office door.

  She’s twelve years old now, with her mother’s build—tall and lithe. Her blond hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and she’s wearing a red coatdress with pearl buttons, black leggings, and flat black boots.

  I have no frigging idea how she got here or why, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.

  She talks into a glitter-covered cell phone. “Tell them if we don’t have those numbers by tomorrow, their balls are going to be sitting in a glass case on my desk, goddamn it.”

  It’s safe to say the whole bad-word jar thing didn’t work out like my sister had hoped.

  “Mackenzie?”

  She ends her call and flops down into the chair across from my desk. “Hi, Uncle Drew.”

  “Did you come here by yourself? Do your parents know where you are? What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, come on—you know why I’m here.” Mischief dances in her big green eyes.

  Which is frigging strange, because Mackenzie’s eyes are blue.

  I don’t have time to comment, because in a flurry of red fabric, she’s on her feet holding her hand out to me. “Let’s get going. Places to go, people to see. Time is money.”

  I take her hand and we walk out of my office, down the hall to my father’s closed office door. Mackenzie opens the door and we step over the threshold.

  And I feel the color drain from my face.

  Because this isn’t my father’s office. Not even close.

  I stumble backward, making contact with the yellow living room wall.

  “What the fuck . . .” I whisper. Confused. A little horrified.

  “You don’t look so good, Uncle Drew,” Mackenzie comments.

  Losing your mind will do that to you.

  I turn in a circle, taking in beige couches and an oak entertainment center housing a television that is definitely not a flat screen. Miracle on 34th Street is on, and the air smells like fresh baked cookies. A modest Christmas tree sits decorated in the corner and dark red poinsettias are scattered between multiple framed family photos on the shelves. Family photos of my parents, my sister, and me—until I’m about five years old.

  And then I finally fucking realize what’s going on.

  “This is a dream,” I say, in a voice that can’t decide if it’s a question or a declaration. “I fell asleep at my desk and I’m dreaming right now.”

  Funny. Usually my dreams are the more X-rated variety. Involving me and Kate in multiple porn-toned scenarios. Sometimes I’m a Roman emperor and she’s my toga-less slave girl who feeds me grapes and happily caters to my every whim. Sometimes I’m Han Solo and she’s Princess Leia, screwing our way across the galaxy. Other times she’s the powerful, ambitious businesswoman who lands a major client with me, then we fuck on the conference table until neither of us can walk.

  Oh, wait—that last one actually happened.

  The point is—out of all the dreams I remember having, my sweet niece sure as shit hasn’t featured in any of them. And not a single one took place in this place—an apartment I barely remember living in.

  Mackenzie shrugs. “If it keeps you from wussing out on me, we’ll call it a dream. Do you know where we are?”

  “This is the apartment we lived in when I was a kid, before we moved uptown.”

  “That’s right. Do you know why we’re here?”

  I try really hard. “Um . . . the sushi I ate for lunch was bad and the toxins have spread to my brain, causing some strange-ass hallucinations?”

  Giggling, Mackenzie drags me forward. “Come on.”

  We enter the kitchen. Sitting at a small round table is the preteen version of my sister, Alexandra. Around this time, she hadn’t yet grown into her nickname, “The Bitch,” but the early signs were there. She’s chewing gum and flipping through a Tiger Beat magazine with the New Kids on the Block on the cover. And her hair—Jesus Christ, she must’ve used a whole can of hair spray, because her bangs form a poof on top of her head, stiff and unnaturally high.

  Sitting beside her, looking dapper in a long-sleeved Back to the Future T-shirt, is me. Five-year-old me. I’m kind of small for my age; the growth spurt won’t hit for another few years. But with my thick black hair brushed to the side, my deep blue eyes shining with youthful exuberance, I’m nothing short of fucking adorable.

  There’s a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, with still-warm gooey chocolate chips. My mom’s homemade cookies. They’re indescribably awesome. But when young Drew reaches for one, Alexandra smacks his hand. “No more cookies, Drew. You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.”

  “But they’re so good,” I whine. And I give her the puppy dog eyes. “Just one more? Please?”

  At first Lexi’s expression is stern. But under the power of young Drew’s cuteness, she melts. “Okay. One more.”

  Are you feeling the foreshadowing here?

  He smiles his thanks and talks with a mouthful of cookie. “You’re the best sister ever, Lexi.”

  She ruffles his hair.

  I chuckle and tell Mackenzie, “How irresistible am I? Didn’t even have to work at it.”

  Mackenzie laughs. “You were really cute. Watch—this part is important.”

  My mother breezes into the kitchen, smooth skinned, blond, and beautiful—despite the atrocious Christmas tree sweater she’s sporting. In her hand she holds a cordless telephone.

  A heavy, square cordless phone. With an antenna.

  “Drew, guess who’s on the phone?” she asks.

  “Is it Daddy?” he asks hopefully.

  “No, darling—it’s Santa Claus! He took time out of his busy day-before-Christmas-Eve schedule just to talk to you.” She taps five-year-old Drew on the nose.

  He flies off the chair, knocking it over behind him. Lexi, who by this time was old enough to know the truth, smiles at his excitement.

  Young Drew brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

  And it all comes back to me. Like a door opening to a dark room, finally letting the light in, I remember this.

  “How do I know this is the real Santa?” My five-year-old self asks skeptically. Because even as a kid, I was damn sharp.

  My father answers in a deep, bellowing, disguised voice, “Well, I’ve got the Christmas list you mailed to me here in my hand.”

  Young Drew braces the phone on his shoulder and walks out to the living room. Mackenzie and I follow. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Santa clears his throat. “A BMX bicycle, the new Sega system, GI Joe action figures, a Walkman.”

  That’s right, a Walkman. Because this is the eighties, kiddies.

  “Holy crap, it really is you!” five-year-old Drew yells.

  “It really is. Now tell me, young man, have you been a good boy this year?”

 
His face scrunches up as he attempts to be honest. “I try. It’s hard to be good.”

  Santa chuckles. “Do you do what your mother tells you?”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you listen to your sister?”

  He frowns. “Lexi’s bossy.”

  “Yes, she is bossy. But she’s your big sister, Drew—she wants what’s best for you. You should always listen to her.”

  Reluctantly, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, young man,” my father exclaims. “I’m getting my sleigh all ready for the big night! I should be at your house tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, with lots of presents for you.”

  Five-year-old Drew looks behind him—making sure the coast is clear. Then he speaks hesitantly into the phone. “Hey, Santa, can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask me anything, Drew.”

  “Would it be okay to add something to my list?”

  I hear worry in the old man’s voice when he responds, “Add something? I’m not certain we could—”

  “Or, I could trade. You can keep my other presents—I think I really only want one thing.”

  “What do you want, Drew?”

  “I want you to bring my daddy home for Christmas.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

  My younger self explains, “He had to go away for work, and Mom says she doesn’t think he’ll be home on Christmas Eve. And . . . she’s sad about it. We all are. It’s not as fun. I miss him.” He sighs. “So, if you can make sure he’s home tomorrow—you can keep the other stuff.”

  I grin. Because I know what’s coming next.

  Wait for it.

  “Well . . . maybe not all the other stuff,” he amends. “You could still drop off the Sega. But you can keep all Lexi’s gifts—she won’t mind.”

  Santa’s voice turns rough with emotion and conviction as he promises, “Your daddy will be home for Christmas Eve, Drew. I promise.”

  Young Drew smiles with so much enthusiasm. Delight. Innocence.

  It makes me think of my son. The sound of his laughter. The warmth of his embrace. The way he bounces on the bed—even when Kate tells him not to—and he jumps into my arms, with total abandon. Complete faith and trust. Because he knows I’ll catch him. That I’d never let him fall.