The Twelve Holidates: a Sweet Christmas RomCom Novella Read online

  “I’m always nice,” I protest.

  “Mm-hm. Tell that to the man in red.”

  Suddenly, a blonde dressed in a red and white costume that looks like it’s missing a few yards of fabric steps in front of us with a clipboard. Other than the elf ears under her red hat, her short skirt and tight sweater would look more fitting at a nightclub. Her bored expression shifts into something a lot more perky when she spots Weston behind me.

  “Hi. I’m Brandi, Santa’s elf helper.” She ends with a giggle and a finger twirling her blonde hair, two things that I bet aren’t part of her normal character. “Can I have your card?”

  Weston leans forward to hand Brandi the card he filled out at the start of the line. She brushes her fingers over his hand as she does so, her grin brightening. I frown, taking a step closer to Weston.

  Brandi scans the form, then looks up, her expression hopeful and fixed on Weston, like I’m not even standing here. I don’t like it.

  “Y’all aren’t a couple? It says on the form you’re friends.”

  I glance up at Weston. It’s true; we are just friends. But somehow I feel betrayed knowing he wrote it down. Like now it’s official official, immortalized on Santa’s form forever in his own handwriting.

  West gives me a look I can’t read and then clears his throat. “We’re uh …”

  Brandi seems to be inching closer. Sorry, elf-witch. Not today. Not on my watch.

  I wrap an arm around his waist. “Very close friends,” I tell Brandi. “Very. Close.”

  She looks between the two of us, her eyes narrowing, assessing. I’m not sure how far I want to push this. Or why it even matters that this half-dressed she-elf is falling all over Weston.

  It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. When Weston and I go places together, it’s like he emits a supersonic signal irresistible to the female species. And yeah, it’s always bothered me. Never so much as right now.

  Brandi turns to help the family currently having their photo taken, and Weston looks down at me. I’m still clinging to him like a Christmas ornament in my red and green sweater covered in bells. We decided to combine dates, so today counts for a photo with Santa and an ugly Christmas sweater event. Weston picked mine out, and I think it might need to join the stocking in his fire pit.

  A faint smile plays on his lips.

  “Very good friends?” he says.

  I’ve still got my arm around him and I find the spot on the side of his ribs that I know is ticklish. He laughs, trying to jerk out of my grip, but I don’t let him go.

  “We are very good friends,” I say. “Aren’t we?”

  Weston’s hand comes up to cover mine, stopping my tickle assault. But instead of letting go, he keeps his hand in place.

  His caramel eyes meet mine, and for a few beats, all the sounds of the mall fade away. My hand is hot underneath his big palm, so, so hot. The heat travels to my wrist and up the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow.

  Weston and I have touched many times over the years, but has there ever been this thick tension between us? For once, I can’t read the expression in his eyes. His stare is intense, like he’s trying to tell me something.

  Does he feel this too? Could Weston possibly—

  “Your turn, friends.”

  Brandi interrupts our moment and the question I’m not sure I’m ready to ask. Because I don’t know that I could stand putting myself out there one more time for Weston. It hurt too badly the first time. He’s had years—years—to make a move, and he never has.

  That tells me all I need to know.

  I pull away, wanting to put space between us. But of course, that leaves an opening for Brandi, who slips her arm through his, leading him over to Santa’s seat with a big smile on her face.

  “Such a Chad,” I mutter.

  I didn’t think I said it loudly enough for Weston to hear, but he barks out a laugh as he extricates himself from Brandi’s clutches. I toss a glare her way, and she slinks back to her post at the edge of the workshop.

  “Ho ho ho! What big kids we have here. Who’s going to sit on Santa’s lap?”

  Weston and I exchange glances. Dumb as it may sound, we didn’t talk about the logistics of this. Now it seems awkward and borderline inappropriate.

  “Not it,” we say at the same time. And then, “Jinx.”

  Reverting back to a game we played incessantly as kids makes all the tension from the last few minutes, good and bad, slip away like a skin I’ve shed. Weston raises his brows and I raise mine right back. He shrugs, and I shrug.

  Santa coughs, probably trying to get our attention, but it quickly dissolves into what sounds like a smoker’s cough, thick and wheezy. I do my best to laugh silently, because until Weston and I buy each other sodas, the jinx is in full effect. Unless one of us breaks, which ups the ante to buying dinner for the other person.

  “Well? We’ve got children waiting,” says Santa, as Weston’s shoulders silently shake.

  The glow of laughter lights his eyes, shifting them to a warm, golden brown. I could stare into his eyes forever and never tire of the color.

  The smile slowly slips from my face as the full weight of that thought hits me like a battering ram.

  Suddenly, Santa’s lap doesn’t seem so bad. I plop down unceremoniously, perhaps a bit harder than I should, based on the grunt he lets out. Weston, fully committed to this silent game we’re playing, mirrors me, settling down on Santa’s other knee, also with more force than intended.

  “Oh—ho ho,” Santa says, coughing again, so hard this time that his belly—which is obviously very real, by the way—jiggles against both our backs. His knees tremble, jostling me and Weston toward one another. I almost lose my seat, grabbing West’s arm for balance and grinning like a fool.

  This is going to be some picture, I think, just before the flash starts popping.

  And it is. When we walk away, holding up the hastily printed picture, we both look half-crazed with gleaming eyes and smiles bigger than Christmas morning. My hand is clutching Weston’s sleeve, and in the ugly Christmas sweaters we’re wearing, the photo looks even more ridiculous. I want to frame it and put it on my mantle.

  As soon as we leave Santa’s workshop, Weston tugs my arm, pointing toward an alcove with restrooms and a vending machine.

  To some, this whole jinx thing might be stupid. Well. It is stupid. But it’s our stupid thing, and we’re both too stubborn to let it go. Our silence lasts until I dig enough change from the bottom of my purse to supply us both with sodas. He hands me a Dr. Pepper, and I hand him a Sprite. How he still manages to drink such a boring soda, I’ll never know.

  Our silence lasts until we each take a sip, and then our laughter sputters out, loud and raucous, drawing attention from a mom with a stroller. She gives us both disapproving glares, like we’re doing something more than laughing in a hallway.

  I understand her impulse though, because this moment feels like more to me too. Only, I can’t seem to turn away, and I definitely don’t want to.

  Date 5

  Weston

  The next day in my office, I answer my cell phone without even looking. That’s how deep I am into planning the remaining holidates with Taylor, even though I should be looking at spreadsheets and balancing the year-end sales totals.

  If I had looked at my phone, I would have seen YOUR DEAR MOTHER, a customization Mom added, and let it go to voicemail. Not because I’m avoiding my mom or anything, but because if I answered every time she called, we would basically talk at all times.

  “Weston! You answered! I’ve been trying to reach you!”

  I make a last note on the margin to call the skating rink and then drop my pen. Talking with my mother requires my full attention so I don’t accidentally agree to go caroling or be in charge of the turkey fryer for our famous Christmas Eve dinner.

  “Hey, Mom. How’s it going?”

  “You’d know if you listened to the seven voicemails I’ve left you.”

&nbs
p; “Mom, that’s excessive. Even for you. I’m assuming no one died or you wouldn’t sound so excited.”

  “Unfortunately, Uncle Tony is still hanging on.”

  Uncle Tony is our dog, an irrationally mean and completely blind Pekenise. Mom can’t bring herself to have him put down, so we’ve been waiting for him to die for four years. He’s basically the only reason I’ve had to buy any new pants since college. Once he latches on, it’s bye-bye to your cuffs.

  “And Grandma is coming to dinner this year.”

  I groan. “I thought we agreed that we would visit the home on Christmas Day, but that we weren’t letting her out.”

  If I sound cold, it’s because Grandma is basically the human version of Uncle Tony. Except what she latches onto with her dentures is your soul.

  “I know, but she insisted. I guess they printed up the menu for Christmas Eve dinner at the home, and she refuses to attend a dinner where yams are served.”

  “Yams? We have to spend Christmas Eve dinner with Grandma because of yams?!”

  In our family, Christmas Eve is the big event. We have a huge meal, open presents, and attempt to drink our weight in eggnog. It used to be a neighborhood thing, but so many families have moved over the years that now it’s just our family and Taylor’s.

  And this year, I was hoping to finally be able to announce that Taylor and I are a couple. Throwing Grandma into the mix will make things … interesting. While it’s no secret that my mom and Taylor’s mom have been hoping Tay and I would end up together, Grandma hates her. Which only means good things for Taylor. If Grandma does like someone, it calls their whole character into question.

  “Maybe we should serve yams,” I suggest.

  “Oh, Weston. Don’t be such a baby. It’s your grandmother.”

  “Are you sure? Because the last time she attended Christmas Eve dinner, she told me I must be adopted because there’s no way she was related to someone with a hipster beard.”

  “Grandma knows about hipsters?”

  “Grandma knows everything.”

  Mom is silent for a moment. “Well. Maybe we’ll get her started early on the eggnog.”

  “She’s worse when she drinks.”

  “Maybe we can give her a job to do, like making one of the side dishes.”

  “Do you trust her not to put laxatives in our food?”

  “Probably.” But Mom doesn’t sound so sure. “Maybe we will have yams.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I say.

  “Anyway, you’ve distracted me from the real reason I’m calling. I met someone!”

  I know we aren’t doing a video chat, but I still pull the phone away from my ear and look at it.

  “Mom? Is there something you and Dad forgot to tell me?”

  Like, maybe, that you’ve secretly gotten divorced or are now swingers?

  “Not for me, silly. Which you’d know, by the way, if you listened to your voicemails. I met someone for you.”

  “Ohhhh. How … interesting.” And poorly timed, considering my end game for the week.

  But it’s not like I can tell Mom my plans. She’d much rather I date Taylor than whatever woman she’s met for me. If I spill the beans now, Mom will go completely bananas. We’re talking tears, yard signs announcing it, and a marching band. She’ll call Taylor’s mom, who will call Taylor, and then there go all my plans to win her over this week.

  Plus, if I tell Mom about it, and then Taylor rejects me …

  I swallow hard. I haven’t given much thought to my plan not working. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll chicken out altogether. Taylor will meet a good guy one of these days, and I’ll spend the rest of my life full of regret.

  Mom is still going on. “I know you hate being set up, but this woman is different.”

  “I was actually thinking about bringing someone this year,” I say, which is somewhat true. It’s just that Taylor will be there whether or not she’s my date.

  “She’s a model!” Mom says. “Well. A foot model.”

  I cover my mouth to hide my laughter. A foot model. How did that even come up in their conversation? And where did Mom meet a foot model, anyway?

  She’s still going. “But her face is really nice too. She could just as easily be a face model. Or a leg model.” Mom pauses. “All her parts are really nice.”

  “Her parts?” No sense hiding my laughter now. “Are we at an FFA meeting talking about a prize sheep?”

  “Stop it. You know what I mean. And even if you bring someone, Gisele will be there so you can keep your options open.”

  “The foot model’s name is Gisele?” I ask.

  “Unique name, isn’t it? I think she’s from Europe. She has an accent.”

  “Is she married to a pro football player by any chance?”

  “Of course not! I wouldn’t set you up with someone who’s married!”

  I clear my throat. “Right. Just had to make sure it wasn’t another model named Gisele.”

  “You know another model named Gisele? What a small world!”

  Indeed.

  Mom continues. “I know you don’t like being set up, but I’m so tired of watching you mope and pine after Taylor every year. Especially since she’s with Chad.”

  I could correct her. I should correct her. But talking about Taylor right now is like navigating a minefield. The wrong tone of voice or choice of words, and BOOM! Mom will know everything.

  Instead, I choose sarcasm. “If you meet any other single women this week, be sure to invite them as well. It can be like my own personal version of The Bachelor. We’ll let Grandma be the judge.”

  Rather than laughing at my obvious joke, Mom sounds thoughtful when she says, “My barista this morning said she was single. Maybe I could ask her.”

  I twirl a pen between my fingers. “How are her feet? I have very high foot standards. If she couldn’t model them, I’m not interested.”

  “I’ll ask to see them tomorrow when I get my morning mocha!”

  “I was just kidding. Mom, do not ask the barista if you can see her feet. And please don’t invite anyone else. If you could uninvite Gisele, that would be great.”

  “See you Friday!”

  “Mom!”

  But she’s already disconnected the call. Christmas Eve is going to be quite the party. I wonder if I should just skip ahead and tell Taylor how I feel, the way I should have done years ago. Maybe I don’t need to go through all these dates to work up the courage or win her over. It’s not like I’m a stranger. She already knows me better than anyone else.

  But she knows me as a friend. I need her to realize we could be more.

  So, it’s back to the plans I go, trying to make sure each of these holidates—still a terrible name—helps ease Taylor into seeing me as more than just her best friend.

  Her face as we park outside the rink does not inspire confidence. “Weston, this isn’t ice skating.”

  “Nope.” I grin at Taylor, then tug her hand to pull her out of my car. “Come on. Ice skating is so last year. This will be much more fun.”

  She’s shaking her head, but takes my hand as I help her out of the car. Our hands linger together for a moment, and the feeling of her warm fingers in mine makes me happier than such a small gesture should.

  Until she blinks hard, as though clearing her head, and stuffs her hands in her coat pockets. “Guess I won’t need my jacket. Or hat. Or scarf.”

  “Probably not. But on the plus side, the snack bar has hot cocoa.”

  “Really?”

  “I called to check.”

  It also has snow cones, another Taylor favorite. Honestly, I probably could have replaced all twelve dates with sugary treats and done just as well.

  As soon as we step inside the roller rink, it’s clear why all the romantic holiday movies choose ice skating for their romantic dates. The scent of wood, feet, and the faint aroma of body odor hit us just before the lights from the disco ball do. Romantic, it is not. Though the teenage couple making out
by the snack bar didn’t get the memo.

  “Wow,” Taylor says slowly. “This is …”

  “Going to be fun. Don’t fight it, Tay. They’re playing our song.”

  Taylor tilts her head to the side, listening, before she begins to laugh. And laugh.

  “This is One Direction. And we don’t have a song.”

  I lean closer, my lips barely brushing her ear. “Time to remedy that. Come on.”

  I turn away, my heart thumping out an erratic rhythm after having my lips so close to her skin. My plan is to incrementally increase our physical contact, like I’m slowly turning up the volume knob, hoping the attraction goes both ways.

  I can’t tell if my whisper in her ear had the same effect as it did on me, but it takes her a moment to catch up to me at the skate rental counter. When she smiles at me, her cheeks are pink, and I’ll take that as a good sign. A few minutes later, we’re both attempting to lace up brown and orange skates that have seen better days … in the 1980’s.

  I get to my feet unsteadily and Taylor joins me, grabbing my arm as she finds her balance. Neither of us are good at skating, on blades or wheels, so I thought falling on a wooden rink would be better than a wet, icy one.

  The trade off is that instead of a romantic Christmas tradition under the stars, we’ve got pop music from ten and twenty years ago, a slew of small children to avoid, and a few older kids who clearly spend way too much time in here based on their skill level.

  Taylor and I can barely make it around the rink. My feet weigh a hundred pounds and the wheels need a few good sprays of WD-40. On the plus side? Every time Taylor starts to fall, she grabs my arm.

  Lots of touching? Check.

  Laughter? Check.

  Romance? Meh. We’ll see. I’m not sure if it’s the overall smell of the place or the fact that just staying upright takes so much of our concentration, but so far, this date definitely lands on the friendly side of things. And I need to move it toward the romantic side, ASAP.