Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

The lobby is decked out in full-on magic when we walk in before an employee takes our coats and quickly ushers us to the stairs and elevator. I look down at Abbie, whose eyes are locked on the stairs with disgust.

“How many flights is this?” she asks.

“Don’t worry, rubia. We’re taking the elevator,” I say with a smile, pulling her that way. “I won’t make you do any crazy cardio.” She rolls her eyes at me. “At least not until tonight.” That sends a shiver down her spine that I don’t miss. When I see the elevator attendant and feel the shake of Abbie’s hand in mine, I turn to him. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet and some cash before slipping it to the kid working the elevator. “Give us this one, yeah?” I ask, tipping my chin to the empty elevator with a smile. The kid’s eyes go wide at the cash, and he nods.

“Uh, sure, yeah. It’s the 60th floor,” he says, holding the automated doors open as we step in. “Have a great night, sir.” And then the doors slide shut. I know this elevator—I’ve been on it enough times. It’s slow and takes forever to reach the top. We’ve got at least two minutes of peace.

I move, pinning Abbie in place in the corner against the wall.

“You look fucking beautiful,” I whisper in her ear, dipping my head until my lips brush the soft skin of her neck. My hands move from the cold metal wall of the elevator, grabbing her hips and then moving up in a slow glide. I skim her waist and then the sides of her breasts, marveling at how her breathing changes, before burying my hands in her hair. Finally, I tip her head back until she’s looking at me.

“Stop, you’re going to mess up my hair,” she says with a smile, but it’s not her usual smile. It’s a different smile. One covering anxiety and panic.

What is she so nervous about?

My mind moves to the conversation about the dress, about wanting to fit in, to fit some image she thinks I need her to slip into.

If I ever meet the shithole ex of hers, I’m going to punch him square in the face for doing this to her. For making her self-conscious, for questioning that she’s anything but beautiful and perfect.

He’s an idiot, pushing this gorgeous, loving human being aside.

Thankfully, I am not an idiot.

“Good,” I say, pressing my lips to hers gently.

“Good?” The furrow in her brow forms, and I kiss it too.

I fucking love that furrow.

I hope when she gets older, she gets a permanent crease there that I can kiss every fucking day.

If I could, I would press a kiss on every ounce of confusion and insecurity she feels.

The truth is, this started as fun, as a way to pass the time and get a date for these mundane events. It’s morphed into so much more.

So much more.

And I’m still not fully sure if she knows that.

“Naranja, why would I want to go into that party with you on my arm and let any man in there think I’m not keeping you satisfied?” Now she fights a smile, that smile of hers that is from her devious, reckless side. I wonder how much of that side was suppressed, how much has come back.

How much is there left to discover?

“But they might—”

“Drop this perfect shit. You’re real. I’m real. We? We’re real. These assholes? They don’t fucking matter.” Her face drops, a mix of panic and adoration that is absolutely confusing taking over her face.

“Damien, I need to talk—” she starts, the ding of the elevator going off, signaling that we’ve reached the Rainbow Room. I press another kiss to her lips.

I’m sure she’s about to tell me things have gotten too far, that this isn’t just fun and easy for her anymore, and I can’t wait to have that conversation with her, watch the look of shock and awe come over her face when she understands I’m not letting her go, no matter what she says.

“We’re here, rubia. Tonight, yeah? Tell me tonight after I fuck you in this dress,” I say, and her eyes widen.

The entire firm is staring at us as the doors slide open, and I tip my head back with laughter, pulling my woman into me.