Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Abigail’s phone has been beeping since I picked her up, and it’s cute watching her face blanch and blush each time it happens. Sometimes she ignores it, and sometimes she puts up a sheepish smile, glimpsing at the phone.

Those times, her face goes slack with . . . jealousy?

A part of me fires each time that look passes her face. That jealousy. Is it photos of a man with someone else? Of her ex?

Acid burns each time.

And I know we’re not that. We’re not serious. I told her that from the start, but right now, watching that jealous look cross her face, I have to wonder if I made a huge mistake.

I want this girl as my own. I do not want to be sharing her, not in the slightest.

The restaurant we’re at is some fancy place downtown, chosen by Tanya. It’s . . . a lot. Strangely low lighting and exotic ingredients and unorthodox methods of cooking.

It’s not my favorite, but when I said the name, Abigail seemed impressed, which was a win for me.

But now, she seems less than enthused with her drink, much less the restaurant’s ambiance.

And then her phone rings again

“Okay, I gotta ask—who is it?”

“What?” she asks, her face ashen and anxious. Fuck. It’s another man.

It doesn’t matter, Martinez. This is easy. Simple. Not serious.

That’s what I wanted. That’s what I told her on that first date, and it’s what she agreed to. And more, it’s what I need, my life and work being too chaotic to commit to a full relationship.

But fuck if the idea of her being not serious with another man doesn’t drive me insane.

Plus, I told her I don’t share. That we might not be serious, but we are most definitely exclusive.

“Who is it? Texting you?” She doesn’t respond. “Look, I know we said we aren’t serious, but—” I don’t get the chance to finish.

“Shit, it’s Cami. And Kat.”

“Your friends?”

“Yeah.” That sounds like the most overused excuse in the book. She turns her phone toward me, and I see two women smiling together in a dark room. One I recognize as her friend Katrina. “They’re at this concert together, and I was supposed to go, but the tickets were crazy expensive, and I bought these Jimmy Choos instead because experiences are temporary and shoes are forever.” Her foot pops out from under the table, and she rotates her ankle to show me a high-heeled shoe with a petite ankle strap in the lightest shade of pink. “Honestly, worth it, but now they’re sending me non-stop texts bugging me about it because Cam doesn’t believe in investing in footwear.” She rolls her eyes, and it’s clear this isn’t some elaborate story—she’s telling the truth.

And while she is holding the phone up, a new photo of who I assume is Cami flipping off the camera and the words “Wish you were here, bitch” and “At least you’ll be getting the good dick tonight” pops up.

“Am I the good dick?” I ask, smiling and leaning back in my seat.

“What?” she asks then moves the phone to look at it. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Fucking Cam. Ignore that. Please, for the love of god, ignore that.” Her hand reaches out, and she downs the rosé in front of her—not whiskey.

I found that interesting as well, the change in drink.

“Where are they?” I ask, sipping my whiskey.

“Madison Square Garden.” My interest is piqued. “I know it’s lame, but our favorite boy band from middle school is still touring. So when they come to town, we dress up, make stupid signs, get hammered, and sing until our throats hurt.” She cringes like she’s embarrassed to admit this. “But it’s a blast.”

“And you’re not there?”

“Nope. Shoes, remember?”

“Do you want to be there?”

“What?”

“Would you like to be there? At this concert?” I ask, reading her cues. She wants to go.

But . . . something makes her not want to admit it.

“Oh, no, I’m fine here. This place is . . . gorgeous. I’m pretty sure I saw a tabloid piece and Jennifer Aniston was eating here a few weeks ago. This is a dream!” she says, and any other man would pat himself on the back for a job well done.

But my job is to read people.

To know the true words they’re saying beneath the ones they think I want to hear.

To interpret the signs until I find the truth.

“You want to be there.”

“No,” she says quickly. “It’s childish and stupid. I know. I’m happy to be here. It’s just an embarrassing tradition.” There’s something in her face that makes me wonder if someone else once told her that. Told her that her charming tradition with her friends is childish, is embarrassing. That it is something she should be ashamed of.

“Come on,” I say, standing and putting a hand out to her.

“What?”

“Come on,” I repeat. She stares at my hand, confused. I look at my watch. “Come on, Abigail. They have my card on file; they’ll bill me. Let’s go.” It’s seven, and most main acts will start around 8. We’ve got time, but we also have to get across town.

Slowly, she lifts her hand.

“I don’t understand . . .” I grab her hand, tugging until she stands, moving her straight into my arms.

“I have season box tickets at MSG. Call your girls. Tell them to go out front. We’ll meet them, walk them to my box.” Her face is adorably confused. “I’m taking you to see your concert, rubia.”

A slow, small smile crawls across her face. It’s the kind of smile I think she’s fighting, like she doesn’t want it to show, like she’s nervous that this might be a trick.

I think it’s then I know I’ll do whatever it takes to make this woman happy, to see that unbridled joy in her face.

“Really, Damien, we don’t have to. It’s childish . . . .”

“What brings joy should never be embarrassing,” I say and stare at her. Her face melts into a look I can’t quite understand for once. She waits for a beat, staring at me and moving closer until I can feel her body heat on me.

“What brings you joy, Damien?” she asks, her voice low and soft.

“Right now? It’s standing right in front of me.” She looks at me, awed and slightly confused, but fuck if I don’t love that look on her face.

That look tells me I might just be the first man in her life to put her first.

And we might not be serious, we might just be fun, but every moment I spend with Abigail Keller makes me wonder why.

Two women are standing at the box office of Madison Square Garden when we walk in, and they start screaming and jumping.

They’re both decked out in what looks like homemade shirts celebrating their love for the lead singer of a band I sort of remember being big when I was in college, but Abbie must have been in middle school when they blew up.

A bit shocking to think of our age difference from that angle, but I choose not to dwell on it.

But the outfits are less surprising than what happens next.

Abbie unhooks her hand from my arm, starts shouting, and runs to her friends, where the three of them all start laughing and jumping and hugging.

It’s a sight to be seen, with a few ushers looking on with amusement.

I’d let it go on, see just how long it goes on, because there does not seem to be an end in sight, but as she jumps in those unbearably high, unbearably sexy pink shoes, the tight dress she’s wearing slowly rides up her curves, and the eyes of the ushers are watching the fabric move as well.

Nope. No way.

I walk over, eyes not on my girl but on the usher closest, and put my hand on her hip. I maintain eye contact with the kid as I move two fingers under the fabric, pinching it and pulling it down.

The kid’s eyes shoot to mine in panic, and I just stare, a strange, unhealthy obsession and jealousy coursing through my veins. This is not my style.

But with the move, Abbie stops jumping, a shiver running through her. Her head moves up and over to look at me with wide eyes.

And through her excitement and surprise, there’s the slow-burning ember of desire.

I just smile, press my lips to her temple, and whisper in her hair, “Later. You almost showed your ass to everyone in this room, and that’s just for me.” I watch with fascination as her pink lipsticked lips curve into a smile and rub together, a look I’ve seen a few times and that I’m quickly learning is her I’m turned the fuck on look.

“You’re Damien,” the woman I haven’t met yet says, and I turn my face from Abbie, smiling quickly at Kat, and moving to who I can assume is Cami.

“You must be Cami,” I say, putting a hand out to shake.

She doesn’t take it, instead raising an eyebrow at me.

“You can call me Camile,” she says.

“Cami!” Kat says, slapping her friend on the arm.

“Cam!” Abigail says with an annoyed voice.

I just laugh.

“Camile, it is.”

“Stop being a bitch, Cam, or you can go back to your plebeian seats while Abbie, Damien, and I all go to his fancy box seats.” Cami rolls her eyes at Kat, but it’s all fun. It’s easy to see these three are less like friends and more like sisters.

“I’ll play nice,” she says with a hand to her hair, brushing it behind her shoulder with a femme fatale level of attitude before putting a hand to her hip. “Let’s get to these fancy seats before the main act starts.” I nod with a smile then move to the box office, giving the employee my credentials. Once all situated, the usher I glared at leads us up some stairs, his eyes purposefully locked to me and not deviating to look at any of the women.

Good, I think like a total psycho.

Who the fuck am I?

“This is amazing!” Kat says, walking in a circle in the box, a small table in the back with snacks and drinks and comfy seats toward the balcony. The view of the stage is impeccable, as always.

“Shut up! Champagne!” Cam says, walking toward the drinks. I just smile and put my hands in my pockets, watching Abigail take in the box.

I refuse to look too far into why I want her to be impressed, why I want her to enjoy this. She looks around then her eyes stop on mine. Her feet lead her to me, and her hands run up my chest, moving until they’re clasped behind my neck.

“This is amazing, Damien,” she says, the words low, and in the roar of the venue, they shouldn’t be audible, but they still reach my ears.

“Are you happy?” I ask, taking a hand and moving a lock of hair behind her ear before setting both hands on her waist.

I love seeing her with me, her height contrasted to mine, the pale of her skin against the dark of mine.

The perfect polar opposite.

“Beyond,” she says with a smile, but it fades, concern and anxiousness moving over her face. “Not that I wasn’t happy before, I swear. I was having a blast, I just—”

I laugh and press my lips to hers to keep her quiet. When I pull away, I don’t miss the dazed look she seems to get every time I kiss her.

“All good, rubia. Nothing to explain. You wanted to do this with your friends. Now you are.” I pause, thinking about the high as hell delicate shoes that I can’t wait to fuck her in later. “And you got to keep the sexy shoes.”

“They are pretty,” she says with a wistful sound in her voice. She kicks her foot out, and we both look at them.

“They’re very you. Very sexy. Very pink,” I say. She scrunches her nose at my words.

“Pink is very me?”

“Yes?” I say, confused. She is pink. If there was a person who personified a color, it would be Abigail and the color pink.

“Pink isn’t very . . . serious,” she says, and in a way I’ve seen a few times since we met, her eyes go off, somewhere distant. She’s not here with me but somewhere else. With someone else.

“Serious?” I ask, and before she can answer, Cami, who must have supersonic hearing, says from a few feet away, two champagne flutes in her hands.

“Her ex was an asshole and told her that when she wore pink, she wasn’t serious enough to be seen with.”

“Cam!” Abigail says, stepping back and snatching the spare glass from her hand. “Can we not dump all of my relationship trauma on the man who is letting us spend the night in his fancy Madison Square Garden box seats?! Jesus!”

I want to smile at her embarrassment, but an anger of my own is brewing.

“Your ex didn’t let you wear pink?” I ask, confused.

“Nope!” Kat says, popping the “p” in the word. Abigail glares at her other friend.

“They’re exaggerating. He didn’t not let me. It just . . . wasn’t his favorite,” she says, but little white teeth move out to bite her bottom lip.

“Sounds like an asshole,” I say then pull her back into me with an arm around her shoulder. I grab the champagne flute, take a sip, and hand it back with a smile. “You wear pink when you’re with me, yeah?” I say, my words stern but with a smile on my lips.

She looks up at me with wide, shocked eyes, and somehow, I know this is important to her. An important moment.

Across the room, I hear Kat breathe out an “ohmigod,” but I’m focused on Abigail, whose eyes are wide still. “Yeah, rubia?” I ask, my voice lower.

“Yeah, Damien,” she says with the smallest, self-conscious smile as the lights in the arena drop and fans scream.

But I don’t miss the way her face lit up for just a millisecond before that.