Baby, It's Cold Outside Page 8

  “I know it was intense, darlin’. I know it’s a lot to take in, and it was only one night, but here’s the truth. I’m giving it all to you in one shot. My whole life I’ve been searching for something incredible. My other half, a woman who made me feel whole. From the moment I found you in that car and carried you in, my senses have been in overdrive. And when I finally drove inside your body, felt your heat around me, I knew. I just knew.

  “It’s you. I’ve been searching for you.”

  Her body shook like it was in the grip of a fever. Fireworks went off in her brain, short-circuiting, and she tore apart in two. Half of her sobbed in relief and surrendered. The other half cringed in bone-gripping fear of the unknown and unrealistic.

  Marriage and relationships were about compromise. Communication. Likability. Not this crazy hormonal ride, and soul-ripping, raw need. It couldn’t be.

  So Riley stood in his arms, frozen, not able to say a word. His hands stroked her cheek, the truth shattering them both, and then he kissed her.

  Pure. Oh, his kiss gave everything she’d always wanted, sweet and gentle and humbling. She kissed him back, savoring every last moment, and when he pulled away she knew what she had to do.

  “It’ll never work,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, trembling with the force of her need, and the iron-will control she had to stay strong. “You and I together will never . . . fit.”

  “That fucking box again.” He stepped back, releasing her. He quickly turned, but she already caught the agony on his face, making a moan emit from her throat. He fisted his hands, cursing viciously under his breath. Finally, he spoke, but kept his back turned.

  “I guess you’ve made your decision. I can’t force you to take a chance. I can’t force you to have feelings you may not. And I’m sorry, too.”

  He moved toward the door. “I’ll call the tow truck to get you out of here and give you a lift home. Help yourself to coffee.”

  He left. Riley shuddered, slumping down to rest in the chair and catch her shaking legs. She knew he had done more than left her in the kitchen. He’d respected her very rational, logical decision and let her go completely.

  Too bad the win suddenly felt like the biggest loss in her life.

  chapter 9

  Two weeks later, Riley slumped in her office chair. Usually, her work schedule energized her, revving her up. Goals and deadlines were her happy place. But since she left Dylan, everything seemed . . . flat. Uninspired. Even the chocolate chips she’d put in her bran muffins didn’t make her happy.

  Now, that was just plain scary.

  Holding back a sigh, she tapped the pen against her blotter and tried to think. She’d told Kate to schedule her as many dates as possible with partners who complemented her list. She’d gone on four dates. A lawyer, accountant, teacher, and doctor. They’d been intelligent, low key, and respectable. They wanted children. She had a good time. But God, they were so dull.

  Dylan had ruined her.

  She’d reached for the phone to call him a hundred times during the past two weeks. He’d probably hang up on her. Riley ached that she’d been the one to hurt him, when all he had done was be brave and confess his true feelings. The same exact feelings she had for him, but was too chickenshit to follow. What a mess.

  The unstoppable truth haunted her night after night. Dylan McCray was the man she was meant for. He may not be the type she imagined, but he completed her. Got her. He didn’t allow for her bullshit, respected her career, knew her past, ravished her body and soul with a hunger never matched. Life may be calmer without him. More reasonable. But it would be empty and lonely and dark.

  What was she going to do?

  How could she get him back?

  The red light flashed on her phone. “Ms. Fox, you have a visitor. He’s not on your schedule but insisted you’d see him. Dylan McCray.”

  Her mouth fell open. After trying to talk several times, she finally managed a squeak. “Yes, thanks, Cindy, you can send him in.”

  She scrambled to neaten her desk, stood up, sat back down, then stood up again. Sweat dampened her palms. What did he want? Was he still angry? Would he try to get her back? What if he laughed and said her leaving was the best thing that ever happened to him? He strolled through the door thirty seconds later in a navy blue pin-striped suit, red tie, and leather loafers. He was the symbol of the gorgeous, successful American man, powerful and commanding with every move, the sharp fabric creased perfectly and a tangy aftershave floating from his skin that made her want to keep sucking in air.

  “Dylan.” Her voice ripped from her throat. “I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Riley.” He nodded, but his eyes gleamed with a mysterious intent. “I’m surprised I’m here myself. But after the two weeks I had, I realized I had no choice.”

  She stumbled forward. The space between them yawned with emptiness. His body heat hummed from across the room. “Do—do you want to sit?”

  “No, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Riley fought a shudder and tried to look calm. She shifted on her high heels, glad she’d worn her smart pink plaid Jones suit. She needed all the confidence possible. “Why are you here?”

  He grinned. Shot his cuffs. His casual pose reminded her of a jungle cat lazing in the woods for a nap before hunting its prey. “I’m tired of waiting. I was a good boy, deciding to give you the time you need. But watching you go out with other men has been pissing me off, and I’ve lost patience. Who’s in the box, Riley?”

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Excitement slithered in her veins and she was thrust from dreary Kansas to Oz in seconds. She took a step forward. “You.”

  Those eyes burned hot and demanding. Her muscles softened in surrender. Finally, the truth released her and joy burst through her body. She blinked away the mad sting of tears.

  Dylan nodded. “Damn right. About time, too. Now there’s just one last thing you need to do.”

  She’d do it. She’d do anything for him. Because Riley knew in that moment she belonged to him as wholly as he did to her. They were a team, and she’d never doubt it again. “What?”

  He gave a slow grin. “Prove it.”

  “This is ridiculous. It’s the middle of the day. People just don’t do these things in the afternoon, Dylan. It’s too . . . decadent.”

  He tried not to laugh at her whispered horror, because he knew she frikkin’ loved every second of it. Hands firmly clasped together, he led her around the circle of the rink while the lights twinkled, and the scent of popcorn and candy filled the air. The carousel sang merrily, the painted horses bobbing up and down as children laughed with delight. Still dressed in her work clothes, heels swapped out for skates, they glided in perfect coordination, and Dylan realized he’d never been so completely and utterly content.

  He’d finally found her.

  “You love it,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get married here.”

  She stumbled and he caught her. “You always were arrogant, egotistical, and assuming,” she declared.

  “I’m also right.”

  “Funny, before the marriage part comes another element I haven’t heard yet.”

  He laughed, spun her around, and pressed her back against the gate. Her nose was red, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled. Dylan lowered his head. “I love you, Riley Fox. I probably always have. It was you I was searching for all along.”

  “Damn right.” She lifted her arms and buried her fingers in his hair. “And I love you.”

  “About time. I have a wonderful plan already for the honeymoon.”

  “Oh yeah? Someplace warm and tropical?” she teased.

  He nibbled on her lower lip. “No. I intend to fill an entire room with stainless-steel appliances and fuck you thoroughly on every last one of them.”

  Her body shuddered and a low moan vibrated from her throat. Crap, he loved this woman. Body, mind, heart, and soul. He couldn’t wait to see what the next fifty years would bring.

 
; “But for now, I just want to skate with the woman I love.”

  She smiled and pressed her lips softly to his.

  And they skated.

  chapter 1

  Deck the halls with boughs of holly,

  Fa la la la la, la la la la.

  ’Tis the season to be jolly,

  Fa la la la la, la la la la.

  Urban legends. We’ve all heard of them—eating pop rocks and soda will make your stomach explode; the tourist who gets his kidney stolen in a faraway land; alligators living in the sewers. By the time you reach adulthood, you realize they’re all crocks of shit. Stories that get passed on from generation to generation to scare the hell out of us and keep us on the straight and narrow.

  Well . . . except for the alligator one—I’ve lived in New York City my whole life and that’s completely possible.

  But the others, yeah, all lies.

  In the latter part of the last century, new urban legends sprung up that society’s all too willing to fall for: action stars who die on movie sets doing stunts; rain-forest plants that cure obesity; and Justin Bieber actually having a set of balls.

  Sometime in the late 1970s, after the city’s crime rate began to drop and New York became more tourist friendly, another urban legend was started—one that annually throws a fucking wrench into the otherwise smoothly operating machine that is my life.

  That would be the myth that New York City is a prime place to go Christmas shopping.

  I don’t know what moron started the rumor, but I will gladly stick my foot up his ass if I ever find out. Because now, scores of people from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and upstate clog our bridges, tunnels, and streets from Black Friday to Christmas Eve, scurrying to make their holiday purchases like rats going after a gourmet piece of cheese. To get little Timmy a train set from FAO Schwarz and grandma a brooch from Tiffany.

  Sure, they’ve heard of the Internet. Of course they know it’d be easier—and less expensive—to order online and have packages delivered right to their front door.

  But for them, it’s not about what’s easier. Christmas shopping in the city is now—say it with me—tradition.

  They want to see the big tree, the lights. They want to stand in an endless line to skate in Rockefeller Center and take a picture with Santa at Macy’s in Herald Square. They want to watch the fucking Rockettes and eat a family dinner at a restaurant whose menu has been price-gouged to the gills.

  You can forget about getting a cab—they’re all taken. And even walking down the sidewalk is an exercise in frustration, because every few feet a stroller-pushing, shopping-bag-carrying tourist will come to a complete frigging stop right in front of you to take a picture of the red-and-green-lit Empire State Building.

  You think I sound pissed off? How very perceptive of you. The Christmas spirit and me? We’re not friends. Ebenezer Scrooge had the right idea: bah fucking humbug.

  The reason for my current antiholiday rant is because I’m in line—the same line I’ve been in for forty-five minutes—trying to buy a last-minute gift for my perfect wife.

  Please, take my money and just let me fucking leave.

  When it comes to gifts, I’m usually way ahead; eleventh-hour purchases aren’t my style. But walking past Saks Fifth Avenue, I saw a pair of Valentino crystal and silk heels that would look amazing on Kate. She’ll enjoy wearing them, and I will definitely enjoy watching her wear them—especially naked—so it’s a win-win.

  Except for the line.

  I’m not used to waiting in lines. I’m used to personal shoppers and commission-seeking salespeople vying for my attention with phrases like, “Can I hold that for you, Mr. Evans?” “We have that in four other colors, Mr. Evans.” “Would you like that wrapped, Mr. Evans?”

  But this is Christmas Eve. Which means stores don’t give a crap about the quality of the shopping experience. It’s all about quantity—getting as many shoppers through their doors as possible before closing time. Which brings me to my next point:

  Most people in the world today are fucking idiots.

  Don’t laugh—you may be one of the walking stupid and just not know it. But it’s true. Say what you want about income inequality or the inferior public school system—the harsh truth is, the majority of the population is simply not intelligent. And even more suck at their job. They don’t give a rat’s ass about doing it well or longevity; they’re only interested in performing the minimum required to get a check.

  And there’s no better example of that than the temporary holiday employee.

  Companies don’t hire them because of their skill or what they may contribute to the work force. They’re hired because they have a pulse. Spare bodies, decked out in holiday ensembles, whose main purpose is to corral consumers the same way a fence encages cattle. And they’re equally as helpful.

  The twentysomething blonde behind the register is one such employee. You can tell by the slow, cautious way she pecks at the keys and her confused expression if someone—God forbid—asks her where an item can be found. She’s the reason for the sick amount of time I’ve wasted waiting to buy these shoes.

  The good news is, I’m about to cross the finish line. I step up, with only one more customer left in front of me—a tall, regal-looking older lady in a pricey red coat and genuine pearl earrings. I take out my wallet so I can pay as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.

  See the blazing yule before us,

  Fa la la la la la, la la la la.

  Strike the harp and join the chorus,

  Fa la la la la, la la la la

  But my hope of an imminent escape is crushed when the blond temp rings up the purple Burberry of London tie and tells the old lady, “That will be one hundred and ninety-five dollars and thirty cents.”

  Pearl Earrings looks offended. “That can’t be correct. This tie is on sale for one hundred and fifty dollars—not one eighty.”

  A panicked expression swamps the blonde’s face. She taps a few buttons on the register and swipes the tie’s bar code with the red laser beam. “It’s ringing up at one hundred and eighty. Plus tax.”

  I push a hand through my dark hair and listen for the predictable old woman response.

  “That’s false advertising! I refuse to pay a penny over one fifty.”

  The hopeless temp looks around for assistance, but there’s none to be found. So, like the knight in shining armor I am, I come to her rescue.

  “Why don’t you do a manual override?”

  Her eyes gaze at me without a clue. “A what?”

  I gesture to the register. “It’s a computer—it has to do what you tell it to. Override the price and put it in as one fifty.”

  She gulps. “I . . . I don’t know how to do that.”

  Of course she doesn’t.

  “I’m going to have to find my manager.”

  No. No way I’m gonna stand here twiddling my thumbs for another twenty frigging minutes. And I refuse to walk out, either—too much of my precious time is already invested in these shoes.

  Despite the frustration churning in my gut, I shift my attention to the pearl-wearing red coat and turn on the charm that—even with a ring on my finger—women of all ages are still helpless to resist. “Last-minute Christmas shopping?”

  She nods. “That’s right, for my husband.”

  “You have excellent taste. I’m a connoisseur of ties myself, and that one is superb.”

  It’s working—she smiles. “Thank you, young man.”

  “Tell you what, how about we save some time and I’ll front the extra thirty dollars so you can purchase this tie for your lucky husband, at not a penny over one hundred and fifty dollars?”

  Her brow wrinkles. It was already wrinkled with age—but now it wrinkles more.

  “It’s not about the cost, it’s the principle of the matter. They should stand by the price advertised.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Principles are important—which is exactly why I’m making my of
fer. Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I’ve been too busy to show any goodwill toward my fellow man—or woman. This gesture will make me really feel the Christmas spirit. You’d be doing me a favor, miss.”

  The “miss” was just the right touch. Because her eyes sparkle, and she grins warmly. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

  I wink. “I guess you can’t.”

  I smack thirty dollars on the counter and the old lady hands over her black card. While the very relieved temp places the boxed tie in a shopping bag with a ridiculous amount of useless tissue paper, Pearl Earrings glances at my left hand. Then she pulls a business card out of her purse, slides it toward me, and whispers low, “My husband and I host parties every month. Parties for . . . adventurous . . . couples.”

  Oh boy.

  “You’d certainly be doing me a favor if you attend.” She winks. “I would thoroughly enjoy having you. Think about it.”

  I wait until she walks away before I chuckle. Just goes to show you—don’t judge a freak by their cover. The wild ones come in all shapes, sizes . . . and ages.

  The holiday-hire hands me my prized shoes, and I’m finally able to head home to my wife and our terribly wonderful son.

  Follow me in merry measure,

  Fa la la, la la la, la la la.

  While I tell of Yuletide treasure,

  Fa la la la la, la la la la

  I shut the door to our apartment and toss the mail down on the front hall table—mostly last-minute Christmas cards. Nothing says “you were an afterthought” like getting a Christmas card on Christmas Eve. I hang up my black wool coat and slide the shopping bag with Kate’s new shoes under the table, to be wrapped later.

  Unlike me, Kate is good about waiting. She likes to be surprised, so I don’t have to put in the extra effort of hiding her gifts to keep her from sneaking a peek.

  I walk into the living room—and stop dead in my tracks. I was planning on going home only for a few minutes, to let Kate know I’d be at the office the rest of the evening. But those plans get tossed out the window.