Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

Damien is adjusting his suit jacket as he stands after signing the check, and before I can even push my chair out, he’s going full-on gentleman and pulling it out for me. Then he moves in front of me, gives me a hand, and helps me stand.

Standing, I can see how fucking tall he is.

No wonder Richard loved to hate this man. His two insecurities were always that stupid hairline and his 5’9” height. He’d wear heeled dress shoes to work, adding lifts and other random mechanisms to help him feel taller, but never let me wear any of my favorite shoes. Nothing over two inches.

Do you know how hard it is to find hot shoes with a two-inch heel?

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a short man. Nothing at all. The issue becomes when the man puts so much thought into how tall he is that it starts to impact who he’s with.

I would never have even put height into the equation with Damien. But right now, my 5’4” plus four-and-a-half-inch heels still leave this man towering over me.

“You’re a little thing, aren’t you,” he says when he helps me stand but doesn’t step back to give me space.

My chest is nearly touching his, and the small strip of air between us is warm, brushing against my exposed skin like a summer heatwave, even though we’re nearing winter.

“I’m five-four,” I reply, staring up at him like an idiot, and I could kick myself for saying something so dumb when he handed me the perfect line to add a Marilyn Monroe seductress flair.

Instead, I keep acting like a moron. “I’m actually incredibly average. The average American woman is five foot four. So it’s not . . . tiny.”

His smile gets wider, and I get lost in it.

“Yeah, well, I’m just about a foot taller than you. You’re tiny to me.”

“I have heels on,” I say. Jesus, Abbie! Shut up! “They add four more inches.”

He takes a step back, easing the space between us again, and my mind can instantly function again now that he’s out of my air space. His head tips down, looking at the high shoes with a big patent leather bow on the toe, hints of pink complementing my dress.

“Yeah. I like those.” A burn washes down my spine at his words. Holy fuck. “Can you walk in them?” My eyebrows come together in confusion.

“What?”

“Can you walk in those? They’re tall.”

“I can work an eight-hour shift in these,” I say, because I can. I have.

I can carry gigantic boxes from the stockroom to the front, unpack new merchandise, and bring the cardboard back to the compactor in these shoes.

“So if we go for a walk, you’ll be good?” he asks, and I smile.

Oh, I’ll be good, I think as we walk toward the front door.

When we’re at the coat check, Damien digs in his pocket for a ticket before turning to me, hand out.

“What?” I ask, staring at the hand.

“Coat check.”

“I’m sorry?” He looks at me with a small smile, like he thinks my confusion is cute.

“Your coat check ticket. Give it to me, and I’ll have the attendant get yours too.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a coat check ticket? Did you lose it?” he asks, looking back over my shoulder toward where we came from, toward the table.

“No, I didn’t wear a coat,” I say, and although I won’t admit it, when the front door opens and lets in a gust of the early November cold, I almost regret it as it hits my bare arms. But then I remember this dress is hot as hell and should not be hidden beneath a trench coat.

“You didn’t wear a coat?”

“No.”

“Why not?” He looks genuinely confused, and for a moment, I wonder if the blonde dye got to me and I’m missing something.

“Do you see this dress?” I say with an air of incredulity and “are you dumb?” in my voice.

“Yes.” I don’t respond but continue to stare at him. “It’s a nice dress.”

“You don’t cover a dress like this with a coat, honey,” I say and smile the winning smile I’ve been practicing in the mirror since I was ten. The smile that has gotten me jobs, tips, boys, and so much more.

And in that moment, I think it gets me Damien Martinez.

Because he smiles back at me, and it’s a pleasant smile, one I haven’t seen yet.

I wonder if he’s been practicing his as long as I have mine.

“I can see that.” Then, still keeping his eyes on me (notably, not on the curves or the cleavage, for which I have to commend him because both are very much on display), he hands the ticket to the kid working the coat check. We’re both silent as he leaves and returns with a coat, and Damien hands him a tip.

And then Damien turns back to me and crooks a finger.

I don’t think a single motion has ever been so sexy. There has never been a single motion that made my entire body go up in invisible flames.

This man—fourteen years my elder, boss of my ex, lawyer superstar—just crooked his finger at me and melted my damn panties off.

And even more impressive, I oblige, taking a step closer.

That finger moves, twirling just a tiny bit, telling me to turn around.

And fuck if I don’t do it.

“Arms out, rubia,” he says, low and in my ear, his body heat on my bare back now.

I do as I’m told, and cool material is dragged up my arms and placed gently—ever so gently—on my shoulders. His hand goes to my waist, gently turning me until I face him. My entire body is on fire with this interaction, with his movements, though most are barely even touching me.

It hits me then.

Armani Prive Bleu Lazuli.

That’s what he’s wearing. The cologne that’s been slowly wafting over with each movement. Now that I’m this close, I can smell it.

Cologne can tell you a lot about a man, especially if you work in the makeup department and have a degree in fragrance.

Most men overdo it, use it to cover up, to fill some kind of void.

Some men choose the first thing they see, or something in a cool bottle, or promoted by some celebrity or athlete.

I know Damien took his time when choosing his cologne. He tried dozens before landing on this one that perfectly complements him in every way. Earthy, expensive, powerful. It’s just . . . him.

His hands—thick and tan and with a wide silver ring with a red gem on one finger—come up and grab the jacket’s lapels on either side of my breasts and straighten them, pulling me just a hair closer as I look up at him.

“There. That’ll do. Next time, you wear a jacket, yes?” he asks when our eyes meet.

Next time.

“Will there be a next time?” I ask, testing my luck. He smiles.

“Things go my way, baby, there will be.” And I smile back because I like how confidently he says it.

Like not a single part of him is in question that there will be a next time.

And I freaking like that.

An icy breeze freezes the air in my lungs as we walk through Bryant Park. The few remaining leaves on the trees hold on for dear life while others skitter across the sidewalks, collecting in orangey brown piles along buildings and and in corners.

I love this time of year.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask, pulling his coat closer to my chest. He laughs like he finds me hilarious, but it’s a joke we’re both in on, not like he’s laughing at me, and that feels good.

Rare, even.

“No, I’m good. I like the cold; it’s better than the hot,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him. Our steps are in sync despite his longer legs. I look up at him to see he’s not looking forward, but down at me. The streetlights cast gorgeous shadows on his high cheekbones and luminous smile.

“What about you?” he asks with genuine interest. “Hot or cold?”

“Both,” I say, and I watch his head tip up just a bit when he laughs.

“Why do I feel you rarely give a straight answer? Always knowing what you should be saying.” I smile a coy smile, but something about that doesn’t sit right. Too close to home for my carefully crafted persona of mystery and intrigue.

“I like the summer. The hotter, the better,” I say, giving him a bit about me. “Vacations? All of them need to be hot. If I come back without a tan, I’m filing a formal complaint.” He laughs again, and I look forward as we exit the park towards Midtown. “But I like the cold during specific times.”

“Specific times?” I look over at him again as we hit a crosswalk and wait for the little walking man to light up.

“After Halloween through January first. At those times, it’s allowed to be cold. Ideally, cold and autumnal for Thanksgiving—”

“Autumnal?”

“Autumnal. You know, the air should have that rotting leaves smell.”

“Rotting leaves smell, got it,” he says, and his body shakes with laughter against mine. I turn just a hair and punch him in the side. He groans a sound of fake pain but continues to laugh.

“You know what I mean! The . . . autumn leaf smell!”

“You’ll have to sniff the air in a few weeks. Tell me when the smell is right.”

And fuck, I like that. I like that he’s making plans for a few weeks from now when we haven’t even finished our first date and doing it without embarrassment. Even if it’s regarding decaying leaves.

“Will do,” I say, looking forward and trying to hide the eager smile on my face. His arm squeezes my shoulder.

“Okay, so the rest of your cold weather demands?”

“They’re not demands,” I say with a smile. “Just . . . preferred conditions.”

“Ah, of course.”

“But if you’ve got any connections with Mother Nature, please, fill out a comment card for me.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t met her yet.”

“Bummer. Anyway, so Thanksgiving—autumnal.”

“Of course.” A car honks at us as we cross the road, a taxi trying to make a right on red, but Damien just gives the man the finger and pushes me along, getting me out of traffic. When we turn left, he switches sides, making sure he’s on the side of the street and I’m toward the buildings.

A perfect, gentlemanly touch.

“After Thanksgiving, snow is acceptable. Light dustings Cyber Monday through Christmas Eve. Then one big snow storm is acceptable on Christmas Eve, but just enough to have a white Christmas. Not so much that you can’t drive to see family, you know? Ideally, Christmas is snow covered, but sunny and cold.”

“Cyber Monday?”

“Yeah. You can sit at home and shop.”

“And no snow Black Friday?”

“No, people have to drive to get to work. It’s no fun to drive to work on the shittiest retail day of the year and also deal with snowy roads.”

He slows his walk and looks at me.

“So you’re worried about the workers, not the shoppers?” His smile is wide and shocked.

“Have you ever worked retail?” I ask, but I know the answer.

“No, can’t say I have.”

“If you had, you’d know how horrible it is to work retail on Black Friday. Absolute hell, that whole weekend. So no. No snow is acceptable the weekend after Thanksgiving.”

“Got it,” he says then stops in front of a stand.

“Hot chocolate?” he asks, and something about it is so fucking wholesome and unexpected. I smile and nod before he orders.

As he’s handing me the steaming cup, having asked for extra whipped cream on both and leaving a healthy tip for the worker, a tiny part of me panics.

Because it would be so damn easy to fall for this man.

Too damn easy.