Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

The dress is skin-tight.

The shoes are sky high.

The hair is perfectly blonde, in waves down my back.

Am I cold wearing this tiny dress on November sixth in New York City?

Fuck yes.

Am I willing to ruin the ensemble with a coat?

Absolutely not.

So instead, I smile at the coat check man before walking to the hostess.

“Hi, I’m Abbie. I’m meeting a Damien Martinez tonight?” I say, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder, to check and see if he’s at a table nearby, watching the door for me.

All of my previous training is kicking in.

There was a time when you could say I was going to college to get my MRS rather than a bachelor’s—to find a husband. We’d spend nights at expensive, exclusive clubs, dancing and waiting on the CEOs and tech titans hanging in the VIP sections to invite us.

It always worked, by the way.

It’s also how I met Richard one night at a downtown nightclub.

Over those years, I perfected the balance of disinterested and eager, of sex kitten and sweet innocence.

It only took a few days and some careful planning to brush off those old skills.

Now to put them to work.

“Ah, yes, he’s already here. Let me take you to him,” the pretty woman says with a smile.

I follow her through tables spaced far enough apart to imply privacy, diners sitting close in the dim lighting, sharing drinks and hushed, intimate conversation. It’s the perfect romantic spot for a date, somewhere I’d begged Richard to take me to a million and seven times, and the place that Mr. Martinez suggested without my even mentioning it.

On a first date, nonetheless.

A major check in the “pro’s column.”

Not that I care. As much fun as dating this incredibly good-looking older man could be, I need to remember the purpose of my mission: payback.

Revenge.

The look on Richard’s face when he realizes I’ve walked into that party on his boss’s arm.

God, it’s going to be magical.

Who needs a Christmas present or an engagement ring when I’ll have that look forever cemented in my mind to keep me warm at night?

When we turn a corner, we enter a private room with just one table, a single red rose in the center, and a man sitting alone.

He’s wearing a white dress shirt, no tie, the top few buttons undone in a way that nearly every woman in America and beyond finds appealing, and a fine black suit jacket that I bet cost more than my rent.

He was clean-shaven in his profile, with a bright smile in what I assumed was his headshot for work.

Here, he’s got a scruff that, for a very brief, inappropriate moment, I wonder what it would feel like on my tongue.

Or between my legs.

Focus, Abigail!

His skin is tanned in a way that I know stays year-round, his hair neat on the sides and longer on the top, combed back. I can’t tell if he’s been touching it all day and the product has been disrupted, or if he just lets it dry that way, but as we approach, his hand runs through, pushing back a strand that had fallen to his forehead.

And like the gentleman I instinctively knew he’d be, he stands, moving to pull out my chair for me.

And then he smiles.

It’s a good smile.

A panty-dropping smile.

Surprisingly, not a lawyer’s smile.

Strange. Granted, everything I have heard about this man, that insight was relayed through a piece of shit human, has been negative. Everything has been about how this man is manipulative and greedy and a low life.

This smile says the opposite. It says . . . genuine.

“Abigail?” he says, and again, I’m surprised.

It’s not the well-greased, perfectly neutral voice of a lawyer.

It’s not the voice of the man I watched in old YouTube videos giving commentary to the press when he got a well-known actor out of a tight prenup.

It’s . . . thick. Deeper. And with just the most attractive hint of his home neighborhood of the Bronx, where research informed Cami and me (Kat was sitting in the corner, shaking her head and telling us this was a bad idea during our marathon research fest) he was born and raised in. I also get a chill down my spine at his use of my full name.

No one calls me Abigail.

Anytime someone does, I give them my stellar smile and correct them.

It’s Abbie, please, I usually say. Abbie is a fun name. A sweet name. Abbie is sparkles and pink and sunshine.

But on his lips? I could let it pass. On his lips, it feels seductive and exotic.

Jesus, I think I could let a lot of things pass if a man like this was doing or saying it.

“Yes,” I say, my seducer’s smile in place, my siren eyes loaded with mascara and falsies. “Damien?” He nods before pushing in my chair after I sit before moving back to his.

He smiles at me again, and it hits me all over. He smiles like he’s happy to see me and glad I’m here.

“It’s nice to meet you finally,” he says, that smile still in place. Panic that he recognizes me makes my veins run cold.

Well, shit, that plan didn’t take long to fall apart.

But before I can open my mouth and explain, he’s continuing. “It’s been nice chatting with you through text, but meeting face-to-face is always ideal. Plus, you’re just as gorgeous as your profile picture,” he says, smile widening as his eyes roam what is above the table.

Oh.

Oh.

He doesn’t mean it’s nice to finally meet me because he’s heard of me from Richard. He means because we’ve been texting and messaging each other for the past week since the universe spoke and matched us.

Duh.

Shit, if this is going to work, I need to get out of my head and emotions. I need to focus on the endgame. The entirety of today, nerves ate at me. If I’m being honest, they’ve been eating at me for almost a week since I woke up with a killer hangover and realized that the night before hadn’t been a horrible nightmare. When I woke up bloated and nauseous, burping up French fries and wine and seeing a notebook filled with petty ideas and a plan for revenge.

And when I looked in the mirror that morning on my way to brush my teeth and attempt to start the day, I didn’t recognize myself.

Dark hair, swollen eyes, boring but comfortable pajamas hanging from my body. A body that I’d overworked and underfed for years to fit some standard I thought would get me my dream future.

I leaned into the mirror, dramatically widening my eyes, trying to see who I once was, but she was gone. The girl I was before Richard—carefree, fun, able to win any man, and absolutely ignorant of how others perceived her—was gone.

In her place was this . . . shell of a woman I barely recognized. She was removed from color and personality.

I read a study a few months ago where they were talking about how all the color was leaving our world—decor, design, and fashion were moving to neutrals and muted tones, and I remember thinking that was sad. I remember looking around my apartment—my pink girl paradise Richard never really entered—and thinking I was glad that wasn’t me.

But I was lying to myself.

I had turned into that—muted and conforming and . . . boring.

So damn boring.

There was a time when I was fun. I was unapologetically me. I was pink and sparkles and rainbows, not because I thought it was who I was supposed to be, but because it was me, and why on earth would I not want to wear me on my sleeve? To wave the flag and let the world know precisely who I am at first glance? Over time, I had built a wall between my sense of self and the world, keeping their thoughts and judgements away from who I was.

Protecting me.

And then Richard crumbled that wall, poisoned how I saw myself, and molded me to become who he wanted me to be.

And she still wasn’t enough.

Really, how sick is that? To spend so much time and energy changing someone, crafting them to be different, knowing all along she’d never be what you wanted?

I think that’s the thought that has me standing my ground, the thought that had me rebuilding my wall that morning as I stared in the mirror.

And now that wall isn’t just keeping the universe from telling me who I should be. It’s also keeping out feelings, emotions, and morality from taking me off my plan of revenge.

Shaking my head and smiling my coy, sweet smile, I get my mind back into the restaurant, focusing on the man in front of me.

“You as well. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” He smiles at me, accepting my words at face value.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t fit it in earlier. Work has been crazy, lots of cases trying to close out by the end of the year,” Damien says.

“It’s no worry, I—” I almost tell him I know, I understand. I almost explain just how familiar I am with his line of work, his firm even.

Thankfully, the waiter comes over, interrupting my near mess up.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?” the waiter says, a pad in his hands, ready for what we’d like.

Damien speaks first.

“A bottle of champagne for the table, two flutes,” he says.

My inner diva smiles, clapping excitedly because she loves champagne. It’s one of those things I feel truly makes a night feel special. Of course, Richard rarely ordered it, never feeling like a night out together was “worthy” of celebrating.

No matter how many times I told him I’d pay for it, that being alive and healthy and in love was worthy of celebration, he never agreed, and I’d sit there sipping water begrudgingly.

And as much as I’d love a glass of bubbly, much less an expensive, fancy bubbly that probably comes in gorgeous crystal flutes that celebrities like Reese Witherspoon and Luke Wilson have drunk from, my next move is the beginning of step one of the plan.

My hand, tipped in Barbie pink acrylics I had done on Wednesday (no more boring nudes and French manis for me), reaches out to touch his wrist gently. I bite my lip just barely in a well-rehearsed, nervous look. His eyes move as my teeth press into my lip, and I don’t miss the quick, nearly undetectable glimmer of heat in his eyes at the move.

But what has my mind momentarily scrambled is the small zap of electricity the brush of my fingertips on his skin sends up my arm.

What in the fuck is that?

I ignore it and speak.

“Do you mind if I get a whiskey on the rocks? It’s been such a long week, and I totally need to unwind,” I say with a flirty shake of my head and roll of my eyes, the perfect balance of a ditzy blonde and self-assured woman.

There was once a time when I could use this move to get absolutely anything in the world. Men, drinks, an extension on a school project—anything.

It feels good to use her again, to shake off the dust and slip into me again.

He smiles and, fuck, that smile.

“Of course,” he says, looking at the waiter. “Champagne, two glasses of McAllan, two glasses of water, and a bread basket.” The waiter nods, smiles, and walks away.

“Water?” I ask, sitting back in my seat and draping the fine white napkin across my lap. I may have been raised by trash in a small town in Jersey that no one’s ever heard of, but I know how to act in an establishment like this.

“And bread. Have you eaten today?” he asks, tipping his chin to me in question. Ice moves slowly in my veins.

“That’s kind of . . . personal,” I say, scrunching my eyebrows together. Damien’s eyes move to the spot my ex once begged me to get Botox in, taking it in. This was the kind of question Richard liked to ask me if he thought I wasn’t keeping up with my workouts or eating too much junk. I bite my lip, wondering if I maybe just chained myself to a revenge plan with more baggage than he’s worth, out of the frying pan and into the fryer.

But Damien just laughs, tipping his head back. He finds me . . . funny.

I didn’t intend to be funny.

My body prickles uncomfortably, a feeling that is part embarrassment, part nerves, and part irritation overtaking me.

“Personal? I just want to make sure you don’t drink two fingers of whiskey on an empty stomach and need to be shoveled into a cab.”

Oh.

He’s asking to make sure I don’t get drunk.

Hmm.

I’m . . . not sure how to feel about that.

This is new for me.

I go with my playful seductress.

“Isn’t that a perk for men? A woman who loses her inhibitions?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

He laughs again, and, damn, he’s got an excellent laugh.

“Losing her inhibitions? Yeah, that’s a plus. But the women I date? They don’t need to drink for that to happen. It just . . . does.” His smile is feline, sly.

Hungry.

I can see how that would just happen.

It reminds me of the conversation I had with Cami yesterday when she was at my place helping me choose my outfit. We settled on a tight pink dress with major nineties vibes and tiny spaghetti straps holding it up. The shoes are four inches, much too tall for walking around the city, but for a special occasion—or a special plan of destruction—I decided it was worth it.

“Fuck, babe, he’s going to want to peel you out of that!” Cami said as I turned in the mirror, my newly blond hair falling down my back in loose curls. The dress is brand new from Rollard’s, as are most of my outfits from “Pre-Richard Brainwashing,” as I’m calling it, fitting just a bit loose with the weight I lost while dating him.

I can’t wait to get my curves back, a part of me I used to love before he’d grab my hip while we were naked in bed together, saying something like, “Maybe in the morning you should go for a run.”

The worst part is I did. I went for a run that morning. And I did four times a week from then on.

I hate running.

I hate cardio. I hate sweating and having to wash my hair and how it makes everything stick to me and feel itchy.

I hate it with every bone in my body.

But like everything else, I did it for Richard, thinking maybe that was the key to making him happy.

“What happens if he does?” I asked Cami. “Want to peel it off me, I mean?”

It’s something I’d also wondered.

If we’re together for a full six weeks, long enough for him to invite me to the company party, it definitely will be passing the expected three-date rule, and from what I’ve heard, Damien Martinez enjoys having a woman in his bed, not just on his arm.

But would sleeping with Damien make me a horrible human?”

“Then do it,” she said. “A man like Damien Martinez isn’t looking for commitment, Abbie. He’s looking for a pretty young thing to bring home and fuck.” She’d been scrolling her phone and turned it to show me. A photo of my date was on there. “And it would be an absolute crime not to find out if the promise of pure sexual conquest this man holds in his eyes is true.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Even looking at him now, he radiates sex.

“I guess . . . ,” I said, still unsure of how I felt about that.

Thankfully, Kat, our voice of reason, was also there, organizing my shoe collection while Cami and I wondered about the morality of fucking my unwitting revenge partner.

“Look. Dating casually isn’t a big deal, Abbie. But you should ask him. Ask what he’s looking for, expecting.” Her face was still in my closet, but she turned to me then. “This plan . . . it’s fine. There’s no talking you out of it. And I think we can all agree that Richard deserves it. But . . . if feelings join . . .”

“That won’t happen,” I said, reassuring her, but also myself, because the thought had crossed my mind a few times. It’s one thing to hurt Richard—-he deserves it. But to trick another person into having feelings . . . then it all being fake? That’s cruel. “He’s a dick and goes through women like water,” I said.

“Says Richard,” she reminded me.

Valid.

I sighed, knowing that she was right. “I’ll ask,” I decided then and there, trying to ignore Cami rolling her eyes at Kat and my moral compass. “If he’s looking for something . . . real, we’ll cut it off. If he’s not . . . no harm, no foul.”

And in that moment, I gave myself permission to date Damien Martinez and potentially really enjoy it while it lasted.

And with that hungry look running down my body, I’m glad I did.

“I bet it does,” I say, smiling at the man in front of me. Before I can elaborate, the waiter returns with our drinks and a bread basket.

The whiskey is set in front of me, and I stare at it like an enemy.

I do not like liquor.

The taste of it, the smell of it, the way it burns . . . none of it brings me any kind of joy or satisfaction. If it were up to me, hard liquor would only be to drown out heartbreak. Otherwise, it would be liberally doused in sugar and juice until it’s just a gentle, complimentary flavor in the background that can get you nice and toasted without the actual taste.

But then Damien is grabbing his own cut crystal glass and tipping it toward my own in almost a challenge, waiting for me to lift my own.

I do, begrudgingly.

But on the outside, the sultry goddess mask is in place.

A sultry goddess who loves hard liquor. Especially whiskey.

You can do this, I think to myself, hyping myself up to love this.

“Cheers,” he says, just lightly clinking the edge of his glass to mine before bringing it to his lips.

I do the same, sipping the drink delicately and working to school my features when it burns. I’d much rather drink the champagne, some fruity rosé, an embarrassingly girly daiquiri or, literally anything but this shit, but the plan. I must go with it.

As expected, it burns as it goes down.

Unfortunately, I might be great at being petty and doing makeup and picking out the perfect pink for literally any skin tone on the first try, but I’m not good at pretending I like whiskey.

I cough.

I cough embarrassingly loud once I swallow, scrambling to find the white linen cloth napkin to cover my face.

When my coughing fit is over, thankfully lasting only a few seconds, I put the napkin down and look to Damien’s face, a mix of shock and worry.

And then he laughs.

Embarrassment blooms throughout me, burning my cheeks.

This is not going how I planned. I’m supposed to be chic, cultured, his perfect match.

I’m supposed to impress and win him.

Instead, he’s laughing at me.

“You good?” he asks, handing me a glass of water. I grab it with a small embarrassed smile, taking a sip and nodding.

I have no idea what to say.

“A little harsh, yeah?” he asks, and it’s a relief.

“Yes, very. Unexpected. I guess . . . I guess last time I had whiskey, it was a . . . different one.” Damien lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t argue.

“I like this, but my father—he makes amazing whiskey.” I finish dotting my mouth, putting my napkin back on my lap. “Smooth, barely burns,” he says, an eyebrow raised.

“That sounds absolutely lovely. He makes it himself?” Damien hands over the glass of champagne, and I happily take a big sip. He smiles, clearly fighting another laugh.

I’m sure he’s figured me out.

“Yeah. He always wanted to when I was growing up. Once they retired, I bought them a place in Florida, and it had a small shed distillery. Now he makes his own whiskey moonshine.”

“He sounds like a fun time,” I say with a smile.

“He is.”

“And you’re a wonderful son, buying them a home.”

“They raised me to be successful. It’s the least I could do.” This I didn’t know. This bit of information was nowhere to be found in interviews and bios and through the stories Richard spewed.

“Tell me about it—your parents, how they inspired you,” I say, picking up a menu to inspect what I should order.

And he does, following suit. He tells me about growing up in the Bronx, and I tell him about the tiny town of Springbrook Hills. I ask about his work after we order and then tell him all about working at Rollard’s. A shy, nervous flutter sits in my belly when I tell him I do makeup for a living.

But unlike my ex, he doesn’t scoff at the idea, instead telling me his mother loves makeup, that he finds the artistry and capabilities of modern makeup interesting.

And when we’re eating our meals, I feel the distinct need to drag out our conversation, not just to end here and head home.

Strangely enough, I want to know more about this man, not just because it fits my end game. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been on a date in an eternity, had a man’s full attention on me. Perhaps it’s just being able to hold a man’s gaze for so long is intoxicating, especially knowing he’s such a busy, important man.

There wasn’t a single meal I had with Richard where he wasn’t checking his phone, raising a single finger to keep me quiet while he took a call.

The memory shoots me with a cold realization for what feels like the millionth time in less than a week.

He was never interested in me the way I was in love with him.

He said the words occasionally, but he never meant them.

How did my ability to read people—what I once prided myself on so strongly—get so inaccurate? How did I fog my lens so terribly with love and adoration that I couldn’t see the signs?

And how the fuck did I let that man play me for so long?

All the more reason to keep on with my plan.

“What do you do for fun?” I ask, smiling at him.

“I don’t have time for fun,” he replies, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Life of a lawyer means the fun gets pushed to the side.”

“No time for fun? What do you call this, then?” I say with a small smile, my Tyra Banks energy on full blast.

“This is a re-prioritization. A spur of the moment decision I’m really fucking happy I made,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my hand, his thumb grazing over my knuckles as he does.

As we finish eating, conversation slowing, we sit there for a few moments, waiting for the waiter, and Damien’s demeanor changes. It’s a subtle shift, but one that puts me on edge.

“I gotta be honest with you,” he says, and goddammit, my stomach drops, mind going to the absolute worst case.

“You’re married,” I say, my voice light and disbelieving.

It’s been a good night.

A great night, even.

But that? Being a homewrecker? It doesn’t fit into my master plan of revenge. If he ends up being married or having some kind of woman at home, that’s a line I’m not willing to cross, ever. And it would so be my luck, wouldn’t it? To date this man because my ex is a piece of shit only to realize he, too, is a cheating piece of shit?

I’m ready to leave.

Fuck the plan.

Cam and I can go through that entire list of petty paybacks, each one absolving a grain of the hurt and betrayal Richard made me feel.

There is always a way.

This just won’t be it.

But Damien just laughs at my assumption.

“God, no,” he says, and his smile stretches his tanned skin, laugh lines that show his age deepening handsomely. I just raise my eyebrow. “Seriously, I swear. You can call my assistant; she’ll let you know you’re the first date I’ve had in a long time. No way I could be married, much less dating someone and get it past Tanya.” I stare at him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Seriously, you want me to call her?”

The apparent honesty is . . . refreshing.

God, that’s embarrassing.

Feeling refreshed by immediate honesty.

“No, I’m fine. I . . . believe you.” I take a deep, calming breath, centering myself and clearing the instant jump to the worst-case scenario. “So, what’s your big confession?”

“I’m not . . . looking for anything serious.” He pauses, and I continue to stare. “I know. That’s a huge red flag.” I stay quiet, a small smile on my lips and an eyebrow raised. “Fuck, I am a red flag.” He laughs, running a hand over his face. “Okay, let me try again. Right now, at this exact moment, I’m not looking for a serious commitment. I got on that app on a whim, scrolled around, and we matched. I’m glad, but I also want expectations to be clear from the beginning.” His hand moves across the table, and he grabs my hand, his thumb running over the skin there, that zap of electricity running through me again. “Exclusivity is important to me. I won’t be seeing anyone else if we move forward until we both agree otherwise, and I’d expect the same from you. But I don’t want you to have visions of a white wedding and two point five kids in your mind.That’s not for me. It probably won’t ever be for me,” he says, his eyes narrowing to push his point across. I roll my lips between my teeth.

The honesty is really freaking refreshing.

This is also the best-fucking-case scenario.

“That could change, of course. I’ve learned that I should never say no before I know everything, but at this moment, I want you to know that.”

I appreciate it, his honesty.

I wonder how he would feel about my own truth, knowing the intentions of my accepting this date.

My dinner churns gently in my stomach as I ignore that thought.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“I’m good with that.” I smile at him. I’m more than good with that, I think. It really, really works for me.

He smiles back at me, and it’s full of perfectly straight white teeth.

“You good skipping dessert?” he asks, not moving his eyes from my face, thumb continuing to strum my knuckles.

My gut drops.

He wants to end the date early.

I failed.

I had one shot at this, and I utterly, magnificently failed at it.

“We can go for a walk, maybe hit a bakery?” he finishes, and I smile big.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

And I mean it.