Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

“He took you there?!” Cam says, her voice going up at least three octaves with the words.

It’s the day after my date with Damien.

This morning my internal clock woke me up at seven, and I attempted to roll out of his fancy ass bed and dress in my clothes from the night before quietly, needing to be at the store by 10 and knowing I needed to get home, change, and be ready for work in three hours.

His arm, still weighed down with the nicest Rolex I’ve seen, was across my waist when I woke up.

The sheets smelled of Armani.

This was confirmed when I looked on his dresser the night before and saw the blue bottle.

I know my fragrances.

I planned on getting out from under him without waking him, leaving a cute note with a Chanel pink kiss on it, and then patiently (okay, very impatiently because I’ve never been a patient person) waiting for him to call me.

But instead, his arm tightened, and I felt scruff on my bare skin as he buried his face in my neck.

“Good morning, rubia,” he said, the words gravelly with sleep and hitting every nerve ending in my body in the absolute best way ever.

“Hey,” I whispered, suddenly shy.

I’m never shy.

I haven’t been shy since Hannah dared me to stand on a table in the mall food court and sing “Defying Gravity” at the top of my lungs in exchange for her buying me a Frappuccino.

I got the Frappuccino and lost every molecule of shyness.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I said, rolling back toward him until we faced each other.

He was smiling, his eyes squinted with sleep.

He looked . . . cute. Adorable, even.

Not the words I would have thought I’d use to describe the man in a million years, but here we are.

“I’m glad you did. Were you trying to sneak out?” he asked, moving a blond strand behind my ear, pushing it back behind my neck, and trailing his finger down my arm.

“No, I—”

“You totally were,” he said with a laugh. “Were you going to call me later at least?”

“A woman should never make the call after a first date. She waits so as not to sound desperate,” I said near instantly and then regretted it almost as quickly because it sounded like a bitchy thing.

Damien smiled that megawatt smile I’m sure wins him juries and more, rolling until I lay beneath him, caged between his strong arms. Arms I spent a good deal of time late into the night admiring in all sorts of ways that has my sore body warming just at the reminder of.

“Are you desperate for me, Abigail?” he asked. With his dark eyes boring into mine, his smile penetrating my fortress and deconstructing the plan I carefully constructed, I answered honestly.

I didn’t mean to. It just . . . happened.

“I don’t know. I think I could be though,” I said, and my voice was breathy and soft even to my own ears.

He liked that answer.

He liked it enough that he moved down in a pushup, the move so fucking suave I found it hard to concentrate, and pressed his lips to mine.

Nothing crazy.

A sweet caress of lips, a soft good morning.

A great way to start the day.

When he broke the kiss, I was dazed and he was looking down at me with a smirk on his full lips, that dimple I saw last night poking through.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he said and then rolled to his back, taking me with him. One hand ran down my back, stopping right above my ass, and the other dove into the back of my hair, holding me there. “Why the rush to leave?”

“I have work. At ten. Gotta get home, get cleaned up, eat something, get caffeinated, head to work.”

“Got it. You gotta get back to Long Island. What time is it?”

“Seven fifteen, last I checked,” I said, and he groaned, looking at the ceiling above the bed.

“Don’t tell me you’re a morning person.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked. I was almost irritated at how disgusted his words were.

“First negative to you,” he said. “Mornings are created by Satan himself.”

“Aren’t you some big fancy lawyer?” My eyebrow raised, but I was still smiling, no longer annoyed. Something about a powerful man acting like a teenage boy who doesn’t want to wake up is endearing.

“To the best of my ability, I try to schedule things late. On court days, I gotta be up early, but adrenaline helps then. On a random Friday? Nah. Sleep in. Always.”

“Got it. Well, some of us are governed by corporate America and must be up early as can be, especially when we have to catch the LIRR or grab an Uber home.” Then, feeling braver, I mimicked his move from earlier, raking my fingers through the long hair at the top of his head that was now messy and combing it back. “As much as I’d like to hang here for a while, I gotta get going.”

Now, what on earth would make me say that? I thought, ignoring the voice in my head that was screaming DANGER!

“LIRR?” I screwed up my face in confusion.

“Long Island Railroad?” I mean, my extensive Google sleuthing showed he was from the Bronx, and that accent that comes out once in a while confirms that, but maybe he never really left the city? And just moved to Manhattan and stayed there? It doesn’t make much sense, but—

He laughed.

His laugh was magic, deep and full and spicy like mulled wine that warmed my whole body.

“I know what the LIRR is, babe. Why are you catching it?”

“Well, if I can’t, I gotta get an Uber, and an Uber from Manhattan to Long Island at peak times is crazy money,” I said, then I second-guessed my words because I may be a vengeful bitch, but I’m not a gold digger. “I’m good for it, I swear. I just hate wasting money—”

“I’m taking you home, naranja,” he said, moving his head up to press his lips to mine again. He did it like he didn’t mean to, like it was an accident or an impulse he couldn’t deny.

“Naranja?” I said, almost offended. “Doesn’t that mean orange?” He smiled. “I’m more of a pink girl.” I moved my eyes over to my bag, and dress, and shoes, all three boasting the perfect bubblegum pink color. “If you couldn’t tell. Orange is more of a fall. I’m a spring.”

That laugh again.

Looking back, the thing about that laugh is that it’s not the way Richard laughed at me when I said things like that. Like I was the butt of my own joke, like he was laughing at me. I never realized he did that until I heard Damien’s laugh. His laugh was like he found entertainment in my words because he liked to hear them.

“It’s a saying, Abigail.” Another impulsive kiss, another burn in my gut with how it made me feel. “Can you wait here for ten, fifteen minutes? Let me get ready for the office? I’ll take you for food, get you caffeinated, and then take you home before I head in.”

“Oh, Damien, you don’t have to do that. It’s so far out of your way—” He cut me off with a stern face, a hand moving to my chin to hold me with his thumb and forefinger until I looked into his eyes while he spoke.

“No man sends a woman home in a cab after a night like we had. He feeds her, caffeinates her, and walks her to her door. He lets her know he had a fucking amazing time, and he secures that he’ll get to see her next time.” I just blinked at him. “So, can you wait ten or fifteen minutes?”

I was lying naked on top of a man built like a god, was smart, funny, and kind, who could fuck me until my voice went hoarse, and he was the key to my ultimate revenge plan.

Of course, I could wait ten or fifteen minutes.

But I left that entire exchange out when I relayed the night to Cami and Kat as we drove to Queens to pick up the materials for today’s addition to Project: Payback Dickhead after work.

And I also left out what else happened this morning.

This morning, he walked out into his living room, adjusting expensive cuff links on a shirt that fit too fucking well, gleaming dress shoes hitting dark hardwood, and his hair still damp but combed back.

Ready for the day.

I was wearing my dress from the night before and holding my heels in my hands like an idiot when he pulled me into him, the tug sure and steady before he kissed me.

My knees went weak.

He pushed me back and looked me up and down.

“What are you wearing?”

“I didn’t exactly pack a bag, big man,” I’d said, smiling up at him. Without my shoes on, he towered over me.

“No, but next time you will. Come, let’s get you some sweats and a tee,” he said, tugging me back toward his room. “It snowed last night, remember? Too cold for that, especially since you didn’t wear a jacket.”

“Damien, nothing you own is going to fit me unless you have a drawer of clothes from women past,” I said, and the words tasted sour in my mouth.

I hated them.

I also hated that I hated them.

Not the plan, Abbie.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to me, moving me, pressing me to the wall in his room next to the door. “Drop that look, rubia. I don’t date. I downloaded that stupid app on a whim and my dream girl dropped in my lap. You’ll go home wearing clothes you’ll swim in, but they’ll be mine, and you’ll be warm. Next time, you bring clothes.”

“Oh,” is all I could say, staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Yeah, oh,” he’d said before moving back, grabbing a pair of sweats. “These shrunk, so they might not be horrible,” he’d said. Then he handed me a colossal sweatshirt I told him he’d never see again unless I was in it.

He just smiled and helped me roll up the sweatpants until I could see my pink-painted toes and called it a day.

And then he bought me coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, drove me all the way to Long Island during 8 am traffic in downtown New York City, walked me up ten floors to my apartment and kissed me at the door, and made me promise to see him on Friday, at the latest.

Who the fuck is this man?

But Cami isn’t asking about the escapades of my morning.

She’s asking about my night because I just finished telling her how we left the restaurant, walked to Rockefeller Center, and kissed as the snow fell around us like some kind of 00s rom-com my love-drunk sister would have watched on Lifetime.

She’s asking because of this crazy fucking plan we cooked up while I was drunk, heartbroken, and looking to deflect that pain back onto the man who dished it out.

“And he mentioned the Christmas party,” I say, remembering how him bringing it up made me feel suddenly icky, like what I was doing was wrong.

“No fucking way!” Cami says, nearly swerving her car into oncoming traffic. A horn blares and a taxi driver inaudibly screams at Cam while flipping her off.

“Jesus Christ, Cam!” Kat yells, putting her hands to the dash as she sees her life flash before her eyes.

I would know—it’s what anyone who sits in the front seat of Cami’s car experiences.

“Oh, shut up. He had plenty of room. We’re fine. Abs, he mentioned the Christmas party!? This is going by so much easier than I ever thought.” At this moment, I wonder if maybe Cam is more invested in this plan than I am.

Still, I smile as I relay the next part, nearly smug. “He asked if I wanted an invitation.”

“No fucking way!” Cam says, flying through a red light.

“Cam, please, pull over and let me drive,” Kat says, her tan skin pale and her hand holding onto the handle above the door.

“Stop being a baby, Kat, or you’re going to be stuck in the back next time.”

“At this rate, there won’t be a next time because we’ll all be in the city morgue! And then how would Abbie get her revenge!?” Those magic words seem to click for Cami, and her speed dips just a hair.

But no more than a hair.

“So did you get the invite?!” she asks, turning left into the neighborhood we’re headed to.

“I didn’t get to answer because then he asked if he could kiss me.”

“Shut. Up!” Kat says, turning around in her seat to look at me. “That is too freaking cute!”

“Wait, so you didn’t get the invite?” Cami asks like she’s annoyed by the change in conversation. The car stops outside of an apartment, and she puts it into park.

“Don’t talk too much until I get back, okay?! I don’t want to miss anything.” Kat says then skips toward the apartment number from the ad with some cash to buy our next project.

“I didn’t get the invite,” I say, answering the question Cam asked because I know she’s bubbling and dying to know.

“Why not?”

“The time wasn’t right.”

“What do you mean the time wasn’t right?” she asks, and quick as that, Kat is back with a box of unmarked keys of various shapes and sizes.

“Oh my god, there’s way more than expected here!” I say, taking the box into my lap and listening to the metal cling together.

“She asked what we were using them for, and when I told her, she added more,” Kat says with a smile, and I laugh. “Okay, so what did I miss?” she asks as Cami puts the car in drive and starts back toward my place. She’s smart enough to know that Cam inevitably did not stop her inquisition when she left for a total of two minutes.

“Abs didn’t get the invite,” Cam says, irritation tinging her voice as she lifts her hands on the wheel. My body tenses until she puts them back at ten and two.

“Well, of course she didn’t. They just met!” Kat says. “Why would he invite a stranger to a Christmas party?”

“Exactly! It would have been weird to ask!” I say, sticking my tongue out at Cam in the rearview mirror.

“You both are such babies,” Cam says.

“I’m sorry that we’re not all as brave and demanding as you are, Camille,” Kat says with a laugh and smacks her in the arm.

“Hey, hey! Let her drive. I want to get home in one piece!” I shout, and the keys in the box jangle as the car swerves a bit.

“Okay, can we please change the subject and interrogate Abs about her date when I don’t have to worry about Cami killing us all?” Kat asks, and I breathe a sigh of relief, both because then Cami can concentrate on freaking driving and because I’m tired of talking about this date and the mixed emotions it’s giving me.

“Yes, let’s,” I say.

“Fine. I can’t believe you’re not going to the concert next week,” Cam says, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.

Shit.

Not exactly the relief that I was hoping for.

This has been a point of contention for weeks and hasn’t improved as the event gets nearer.

“I . . . I can’t,” I say. Cam and Kat are attending a concert next week for the boy band we all bonded over when we met in college. It was the ice breaker during rush that turned us all into lifelong best friends. We’ve all been fans since we were kids, and since college, we haven’t missed a single tour they’ve been on. It’s become a tradition, a reminder of what brought us together, and a celebration of friendship. But this time, I won’t be joining in. “I bought the Choos.”

The Jimmy Choo sandals are beautiful and way too expensive, but not the real reason I avoided buying tickets three months ago when they went on sale. Not the reason that, when Kat told me she’d spot me the money for a ticket, I flat out refused, insisting that missing one concert wouldn’t be the end of our friendship.

As always, Cami sees through my bullshit.

“That’s not it. You don’t want to go because last year when we all went, you and dipshit got into a big blowout, and he told you to grow up and stop listening to ‘music for children’ because he’s a stick in the mud asshole.”

I bite my lip, knowing she’s not wrong.

Last year they toured the area around the same time, and months prior, we all bought tickets as usual. When the night of the event came, Richard and I had a huge argument about it—he wanted me to help him with something at his apartment, and I told him I couldn’t that night but would be happy to the next day. He went off on me, telling me it was childish to see a boy band when I was “closing in on thirty” and I should prioritize him.

It was that night that he told me I wouldn’t be going to the company Christmas party because I was too childish.

I should have left then.

Instead, when the same concert rolled around, a tradition I cherish was pushed to the side to try to prove myself to that piece of shit. And now the tickets are sold out with no hope of making it happen.

I’m ashamed I had to wait for him to break my heart to see it all laid out before me . . . but god, how many red flags did the world need to wave at me before I got the damn picture?

And when did my entire personality become about pleasing Richard? I don’t think most of it was intentional, just some subconscious voice urging me to change and adjust to better suit who I thought was my dream man.

Like some kind of weird dating Stockholm syndrome.

How depressing is that?

“Shoes are a better investment,” I say, not wanting to get into it with her and also not wanting to once again admit just how much of myself I lost over the last four years. “Next time they come around, I’ll go.”

“It won’t be the same without you, Abs,” Cami says, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

“Next year,” I say, a sad smile on my lips.

“Okay, so do we need to stop for anything else?” Kat asks as Cami takes the exit back to my place. God bless her for always changing the subject when I need it.

“Nope. I have the tape, and I cut all the signs out yesterday before my date,” I say of the next step in our “Make Richard’s Life Hell Plan.”

“Perfect,” Cam says, no longer worried about my attending the concert and instead back in villainous revenge mode.

An hour later, we’re sitting around eating junk food and taping “If found, please call” signs to over 300 keys of various sizes meticulously.

The number attached is Richard’s cell phone number. The plan is to scatter them across the city, Long Island, and the mall. I might not be able to see the outcome of Richard being bombarded by annoying calls telling him they found his lost keys, but it’s still satisfying to know it will drive him insane for at least a few weeks.

“You know, I already got the ball rolling with this,” Cam says with a sparkle in her eye. “Last night, I left his number in one of the One Direction Reddit forums and said it was Harry’s leaked cell number.”

My hands stop taping, and I stare at her.

“No, you fucking didn’t,” I say with a smile.

“Well, it wasn’t his cell number; it was his office number.” My mouth drops farther. “His direct line.”

“Oh my god,” Kat says with wide eyes.

“That’s devious,” I say with a laugh. “I’m sure he spent all morning fielding calls. And he has to answer all of them since it’s his work number! Oh, my god.” Kat, the kindest soul of our friend group, cringes.

“Should we feel bad about that?” Kat asks.

“Do you remember the time Abbie had the flu and he told her he needed her to drive all the way to fucking Pennsylvania to get those stupid shampoos for him because he was out?” I cringe, remembering that drive of pure misery.

And then he had me leave them at the front desk of his apartment because he didn’t want me to get him sick when I delivered them.

God, how was I so fucking stupid?

“Okay, I don’t feel bad anymore.” She turns to me. “Speaking of less shitty men, you never finished telling us about last night.” A blush burns my face because when I left off, he was taking me back to his place.

“Was it good?” Cami asks, a devious smile on her lips as she tapes another tag to a key and tosses it into the pile with a clang.

My blush deepens from remembering his hands on me and the way he absolutely devoured me.

“Oh, it was good,” Kat says with a smile.

“Stop! You know I hate going into details!” I say, studiously looking at the key I’m working on. “But it was very . . . good. An eye-opening experience, to say the least.”

“Ooh, Daddy Damien is good, huh?” Cami says with a smile. I scrunch my face and try to hide anything that will give away everything. I have no problem gossiping with my best friends, but something about last night was . . . intimate. Too intimate to chat casually about.

My inner self whispers that it should be a sign, but I slap her, taping another note onto a key.

“Okay, so after . . . you know. What happened? You went home?” I shake my head at Kat’s question.

“I spent the night,” I say quietly, biting my lip. I didn’t share that part yet, either.

“Shut up,” Cami says, her voice low and her eyes moving from her hands to me.

“Shut up!” Kat says, I just shrug. “So he was sweet?” she asks, her hopeless romantic side coming out, and I can nearly see the hearts above her head. I sigh. This I can share.

“He was . . . sweet. He was very sweet. He took care of me and forced me to spend the night and then . . . I tried to sneak out in the morning, but he insisted on driving me home.”

“To Long Island?!”

“At eight am. And he got me a bagel and coffee.”

“Doesn’t he have work to do or something?” Cam asks, always the skeptical one of us.

“He doesn’t do mornings, apparently. And he said a gentleman makes sure his date gets home safe.” I bite my lips and then continue. “He walked me to my front door. Said hi to Fred and chatted with him about soccer.”

“Shut up.”

“Did Fred like him?” Kat asks, knowing that Fred, the doorman of my building, absolutely hated Richard. Despite my dating him for four years, the few times Richard deigned to make the trip to Long Island, Fred never sent him up without buzzing me. Not that Richard ever wanted to make the trip up to my apartment, always meeting me in the lobby. But still, I’d always remind him that Richard was on my list, and Fred would just mumble a, “My apologies Ms. Abbie.”

“Fred told him to, and I quote, ‘Make sure that young lady doesn’t get too much alone time, now, sir.’” Both of my friends cackle.

“Stop it! What did he say back?!” Kat asks, and I smile a secret smile, one full of hidden hope and butterflies that aren’t to be in the equation of this relationship.

“He said he didn’t plan to any time soon,” I say, fighting the tilting of my lips and failing miserably.

“Shut up!” Kat shouts.

Cami looks at me, less impressed.

“Do you . . . like him?” Cami asks with a laugh, like the thought alone is hysterical. And then she looks at me. She must see something there in my face. “Holy fuck.”

“God, no,” I say quickly, trying, but then change. “I mean, I don’t not like him. He’s hot. He’s nice.”

“I thought he was an ass,” she says, reminding me of what Richard told me.

“Says Richard. But Richard is also an ass.”

“So, what, is your plan off?”

I should have said yes.

Looking back, I’ll think about how I should have said yes at that exact moment, sent Damien a text saying we need to talk, hop on the phone, and tell him the truth.

But then I remember how I felt gutted when Richard told me I wasn’t serious enough to stand by his side at that stupid party. That I was just fun. And I remember just how fucking fun it will feel when I see Richard’s face and he realizes he fucked up.

So I don’t.

Instead, I say, “God, no! Of course not. The plan is still on.” And then I change the subject. “So, how do we distribute these keys?”

And the night moves on.

But the rock that plants itself in my stomach doesn’t.

It stays for weeks.