by Lauren Runow
“Then, let’s get dinner.”
His statement shocks me, not enough for me to argue though. “Fine, but I get to pick.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, opening his coat with his hands that are still in the pockets as if he’s open to going anywhere I’d like.
A wide smile develops on my face. “I have the perfect place.”
Nestled in the bucolic Central Park setting is Tavern on the Green. When the taxi drops us off at the iconic restaurant, I hear Hunter sigh and watch him drop his chin to his chest. I toss the driver a twenty and hop out of the car, pulling my winter coat close to my chest as I step to the sidewalk.
Hunter closes the door behind us, and I turn to him with a grin. He’s staring at the stone building with curved brows and a pout on his lips. I flip his collar up to cover his neck.
“It’s not so bad.” I grab his hand and pull him around the circular drive to the long red awning that leads inside.
“There’s no way we’re getting a table. It’s Christmastime in New York. This place is booked months in advance.”
I wave him off as I weave through the patrons waiting inside the entrance for their tables, and I walk up to the podium, where a woman is taking names.
“Two for Branson Ford,” I tell her.
She looks down at the reservation log and gives a nod. Of course it’s packed tight, and his name is nowhere on the list, but there are certain names that get instant access anywhere in this city, and Branson’s is one of them.
“Right this way,” she says, grabbing two menus.
I give Hunter a smug look as he follows me into the glass-enclosed dining room. Even the biggest Grinch who can’t get into the holiday spirit would have a rough time staying a curmudgeon in this space. Crystal chandeliers, accented in red bows; white linen-covered tables with fresh red flowers as the centerpieces; and a giant Christmas tree, ornately trimmed, decorate the historic dining room.
The waitress leads us to a table for two in the center of the room. I have to shimmy in between two chairs to get to mine. Hunter pulls out his seat, his wide shoulders nearly bumping into a waitress as he takes his coat off and hangs it on the back of the chair. With my own coat shrugged off, I take a seat and look back at him, beaming.
“You made a reservation under the boss?” he asks.
“It’s Christmastime in New York. This place is booked months in advance,” I take his comment from before and throw it in his face.
“And you did this—”
“From my email in the cab. Branson does a lot of business with the publicist for this restaurant. I think she has a crush on him,” I state matter-of-factly.
“And no one’s gonna notice the CEO of Empire Media isn’t here?”
“They don’t care.” I unfold my white napkin and lay it over my thighs. “If someone were to ask, I’d say he was held up and sent the producer of Empire Media’s top show, On the Sidelines, instead.”
Hunter grins. “I’ve never used my title to get anything.”
“You should. Branson does all the time. Tickets to late-night shows, VIP tables at clubs, and an autographed baseball for his nephew. He’s a name-dropper.”
“That’s very clever of him.” He gives a sigh that sounds like an eye roll would if it were audible.
“You could, too, you know.”
“I like to get things on my own merit. Besides, I’m not the kind of guy who likes the most popular things. A glass of whiskey at a bar with good music and plenty of jokes is perfect for me.”
The waitress comes over to ask what we’d like. There aren’t many choices, as the holiday menu is set, so we go for the tasting. Before she walks away, Hunter orders our drinks.
I take a moment to enjoy the room and admire the holiday decor. Even the people help set the mood with women in their red sweaters and dress pants and men in their finest dinner attire. The music overhead is holiday classical tunes, and I find myself humming along.
As my eyes drift over to my dinner partner, I notice he’s staring at me, studying me with a grin.
“What?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see if there’s something behind me.
“Just looking,” he states.
My hand covers my mouth. “Do I have something in my teeth?”
“No. And if you did, I’d tell you.” He leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. “You really love Christmas, don’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders and tilt my head. “Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Some people,” he says as the waitress brings our drinks to the table. He lifts his and clinks it with mine. “To holiday spirits.”
“May you find yours,” I say as I tap his glass and bring it to my lips for a sip.
“Clever,” he muses as he takes a drink.
“You know, Scrooge, you can always join me at the soup kitchen on Christmas Eve. It might help that heart of yours grow two sizes bigger.”
He stares at me like I missed the joke. “I never said I didn’t like Christmas. And why are you volunteering at a soup kitchen? Aren’t you going home for the holidays?”
“Home is in Ohio, and with the plane tickets being so expensive, my parents have postponed Christmas to January. My brother, Liam, and I are on opposite coasts, so we’re flying home to celebrate on Little Christmas. You know, when the Three Wise Men—”
“I’m familiar,” he says and then asks curiously, “It doesn’t bother you not to spend the holidays with your folks?”
I slowly raise my shoulder. “It’s not the date that counts. It’s about family.”
“You sound like a Hallmark card.”
His comment makes me smile. “Why, Hunter Johnstone, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I take a drink and lean on the table. “Anyway, since I’ll be in the city and I don’t want to be alone, I signed up to do a good deed this year.”
“That’s kinda sad,” he says and then follows it up with, “Not the philanthropy part. That’s admirable. You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve.”
“I won’t be,” I clarify. “I’ll be with a hundred and fifty people. What are your plans?”
“Johnstone family Christmas,” he says matter-of-factly. “At my parents’ house in Connecticut. It’s a big affair. A ham, a turkey, a punch bowl full of eggnog. Twenty-three people, including my narcoleptic grandmother, who falls asleep at the table, and my crazy uncle Gerry, who tells inappropriate jokes. And my dad dresses up like Santa yet can never keep his beard up.”
“That sounds wonderful!”
He smiles out the side of his mouth. “It’s not too bad.”
“Tons of presents?” I ask, resting my elbows on the table, dropping my chin in my hands.
“Too many.” He laughs and seems to relax. “Every year, my mom says she’s going to go simple, and then there are a hundred presents under the tree. And I’m not talking about little trinkets. Bikes, stereos, and whatever the hottest gift of the season is. She does throw in some sweet gifts. Something is always monogrammed. Not to mention, the yearly ornament to commemorate an accomplishment of ours.”
“Are you close with your family?”
“Yes,” he answers easily, and I curve my mouth. “Are you surprised by that?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I just don’t know that much about you, and what I do know, well, I always thought you were more of a Casanova than a family man.”
He sits back in his chair and rubs his jaw, as if thinking about what I just said. I get the feeling I offended him. I try to think back to the last few years to remember why I thought this.
His eyes narrow slightly as he tilts his head in question. “Why is that?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything. I honestly thought so because of the way you are with women. You always find someone to flirt with at the bar after work. You date, and I’ve seen you stroll out of the office with enough bouquets of flowers to keep the florist in business, yet your relationships never last mor
e than a few weeks. You have the characteristics of someone who doesn’t want marriage or intimacy, which is usually someone who doesn’t have a good view of family.”
He turns his glass in thought but doesn’t take his attention from me.
“Well, you know what they say when you assume.” He raises his eyebrows at me, and I know he’s back to his playful mood.
“You make an ass out of you and me,” I say with a grin.
“Exactly. You’re right about one thing though. My relationships don’t last more than two weeks.”
I lean in, dying to know the answer to a question I’ve had for years. “Why is that?”
“I don’t believe in stringing someone along. If the feelings aren’t there, then it’s not worth it,” he states, and I nod in agreement. His eyes narrow. “What, no comment from the peanut gallery?”
I shake my head. “Actually, it makes perfect sense. This whole time, I thought you just didn’t want a commitment. I never considered you might not be dating the right girls.”
He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he takes a sip of his drink.
I wait to see if he responds, but instead, he changes the subject completely. “Is there anything you don’t like about the holidays?” he asks.
“The pickup lines,” I say with a groan, which makes him smile, but he tilts his head in wonder. With an eye roll at myself at what I’m about to do, I lower my voice into a male octave, mimicking a guy. “Wanna see the North Pole? That’s what Mrs. Claus calls it,” I say.
He laughs out loud, like really laughs from his gut, and it sounds awesome, so I do another one.
“Your left leg is Thanksgiving, and your right leg is Christmas. Can I visit between the holidays?”
Hunter can’t help but lean back in his chair and laugh into his fist. “You’re fucking with me.”
I place my palm flat on the table and give him a deadpan expression. “Wish I was.”
We share a laugh, and it feels good.
Our first course comes—a mesclun salad over sautéed beans—and we fall into an easy conversation. While we’ve been friendly for two years, I realize I don’t know as much about Hunter as I thought. I know he was a college quarterback, he loves to travel on a whim, and he enjoys a good glass of whiskey, but I don’t know how he found himself in television.
“After I tore my knee, I was hired to be a sideline reporter for college football games. Eventually, I was producing my own pieces and found I liked being in charge behind the camera more than the guy in front of the lens. By the time I was twenty-nine, I was hired by Empire Media to executive-produce my own show.”
“An amazing feat, considering some people wait their whole careers to get that opportunity.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “You just have to know who to sleep with.”
My eyes widen as my jaw drops.
“I’m kidding.” He laughs. “I’ve worked way too fucking hard to get to where I am. No tricks or shortcuts. Just good old-fashioned hard work.”
“No tricks at all?” I ask teasingly.
“Well, I’ve found if you exude confidence and enthusiasm, it opens doors. I never say no to a job, which has led to me taking on more than I can handle but I’d never admit it.”
“You just did.”
He lifts his glass. “That’s because I trust you.” He winks and takes a sip. “I never worry though, which seems to bother others. Everyone stresses way too much. All I want is to do a great job and say I love what I do at the end of the day.”
I smile at the notion. It sounds so simple.
“What about you?” he asks. “What’s the endgame for you? You want to be a career assistant?”
“Hell no. I have my sights set on research and development. I want to be the brains who comes up with show ideas for people like you to produce.”
“The master behind the madness.” He steals a cucumber off my plate. I scowl at him for taking it even though it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. “And you think working for Branson is the ticket?”
“I know so,” I state smugly before popping a cherry tomato into my mouth. “He has put me in charge of analyzing show ratings because my analysis is better than the outside firm Empire Media hires for input. I’m putting together a presentation on my findings for the shareholders.”
“You must be good if you’re being given that kind of opportunity.”
“I’m quite brilliant actually. If all goes well, when there’s an opening, it will hopefully be mine.”
“Well, look at you.”
He holds his glass up to me in congratulations. We clink and take sips.
For an impromptu dinner, it’s turning out to be a really great evening. I haven’t been on a decent date in a while. Not that this is a date. I should probably tell the old woman at the table next to us, who keeps looking over at us with heart eyes. Her nod tells me she approves of my dinner companion. I grin and bite my lip as I try not to laugh. Hunter looks at me and then to the woman who has stolen my attention, seemingly in wonder to what I’m giggling about.
“So, tell me, do you miss it?” I ask, trying to bring the conversation back to our table. “Playing ball, I mean.”
“In some ways. I’m mostly thankful for what the sport taught me and the success it’s brought me in my career today. I know strategy and how to be a team player. I don’t give up easily, and since I’ve been inside the head of an athlete, I know how to tell their stories on-screen.”
“That’s really beautiful,” I muse with a grin. “There’s no I in team.”
He nods and smiles at my aphorism. “Something like that.”
“Well, I, for one, am not the team sports type. I know; surprise, surprise. Book nerd all the way.”
Leaning off his chair, he appraises my body. “You’re actually quite fit.”
I burst out laughing at his use of the word fit. When he raises his hands in question, I explain, “Fit is actually British slang for sexy. You’d use it when you’re describing someone you’re attracted to.”
With a chagrin, he responds, “Yeah, you’re fit.”
And now, I’m blushing.
As the dinner course is served, I tell Hunter about my college days. I moved to Manhattan from my small town in Ohio two years ago wanting to work for a major television network. I started as a page at Empire Media and slowly worked my way up to assistant.
“I know about Katie the assistant. What about the girl who leaves the office?” he asks. “No ex-boyfriends hidden in your closet?”
I move my food around my plate. “I had one long-term boyfriend in high school, but we broke up before senior year. I dated a guy in college for a while, but he wanted me to stay in our hometown while I had my heart set on moving here.”
He looks down at his plate and lowers his brows. “If you’d stayed, do you think you’d still be together?”
I take a bite and cover my mouth, nodding before I can honestly say, “I’d probably be married with two kids right now. That’s not uncommon for someone in their mid-twenties back home.”
“And here I am, a thirty something year old bachelor with no kids in sight.”
I can’t tell by his tone if he means that as a good thing or a bad thing.
“I’d also be wildly unhappy. He was a nice guy. Really funny and sweet, but he didn’t make my heart race. You know?”
He runs his hand along his jaw. “Does Branson make your heart race?”
I have to stop and think about that. Yes. My heart beats with nervous energy whenever Branson is around.
Then again, my heart also races when I’m with Hunter, but that’s so very different. When he kisses me, it’s like my heart is pounding so strongly that it’s going to burst through my skin. That’s not love though. It’s attraction. Blistering need from intoxicating kisses. I can see why so many people confuse lust for love.
He must take my silence as something else. “Hold your head up, kid. Maybe Branson will fall in love with you, and you’ll be mar
ried with two kids by the time you’re thirty.”
His words are said seriously, which makes sense because me wanting Branson is literally why we’re sitting here, eating dinner. Except there’s something about that being a reality that isn’t sitting well with me right now.
I know I’ve lusted over the man for a long time, but hearing it coming from Hunter’s mouth has me thinking, wondering if that’s really what I want.
My focus drops to my plate, and I play with the remainder of my food, confused even more now.
“Ready for a dirty joke?” he says, and I laugh at his abrupt change in conversation. “Why does Santa always come through the chimney?”
I tilt my head, waiting for him to finish.
“Because he knows better than to try the back door.”
“Oh jeez, that’s awful,” I taunt him.
“Come on. You have to know at least one bad Santa joke.”
I blush, shaking my head. “I don’t have an uncle who likes to tell inappropriate jokes. He must be such a character.”
“You have no idea,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, how about, why doesn’t Santa have kids of his own?”
I bite my lip as I rest my hand half over my face. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“He only comes once a year.” His smirk is so cute yet so cheesy.
“And we’re done. Check, please.” I jokingly raise my hand as I hear him chuckling.
After dinner, Hunter holds the door open for me as we walk outside. Like kismet, a horse and buggy are parked in front of the restaurant.
“Oh, no,” he says in a long enunciation as he tries to guide me in the other direction.
“Oh, yes,” I say and pull his arm over to the carriage.
He’s fighting me but not too hard because he’s still walking up to the cart of his own will.
He sighs. “Only for you,” he says as he gets in.
I grab the giant afghan and drape it over us. Hunter puts an arm around the back of the seat. As the carriage moves, a slight breeze whips through, making the chill in the air even colder. I settle into the crook of his arm and look up into the snow-covered trees as the horse clip-clops around Central Park.
