Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  Eventually, Stella and Caroline order an Uber and leave, and Sarah and I chat a little more before we decide to crash. I take the guest bedroom and lie awake for over an hour, thinking about Charlie and how I can convince him this won’t be such a bad thing, going to a few parties. I want to help Isabel. I want to help the Sullivan family.

  Really?

  I need the distraction.

  Nine

  Trying to get a hold of a certain stubborn man is like banging my head against a wall. He ignores my texts. He doesn’t answer my calls. I decide to cool it, since I’m acting like a nagging girlfriend on steroids, so I leave him alone over the weekend.

  Since surly Charles Sullivan refuses to meet me somewhere for lunch or over coffee so we can discuss the upcoming and supposedly not very busy social schedule we’re going to keep (surprise! It’s going to be very busy), I decide to come to him.

  This is why I’m pulling into the dirt parking lot of the Sullivan Christmas Tree Farm first thing Monday morning—and first thing for me is right around nine-thirty or so. Look, I know I run a little later than everyone else, yet I’m still surprised to see the farm is bustling with activity. Though I guess I should’ve expected it, considering this Thursday is Thanksgiving, and all the Sullivan Tree lots open for business on Friday.

  I turn off the car and put it into park, then just sit there for a minute, watching the busy scene before me. There are employees everywhere. A small group of them are stringing red-and-green lights along the low wooden fence that lines the front of the lot. A man is on a riding lawn mower, cleaning up the path between the seeming endless rows of trees. There are two men adjusting a string of white lights that hang from poles, both of them on ladders at opposite ends of the poles where the strings hang from.

  Not one of them is Charlie.

  Grabbing my latte, I carefully climb out of the car, shutting the door with my hip before I make my way toward the red building I assume must be the office. There’s another smaller red building that has a giant sign over the window in the center that says Cashier, but it doesn’t look open.

  “Can I help you, miss?” One of the men who was helping straighten the lights hurriedly climbs down the ladder, landing on his feet and directly in my path.

  “Oh.” He’s so close, I take a step back. I can’t help but notice he’s cute, with golden brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. Probably in his early twenties—meaning he’s right around my age. He’s smiling, which I take as a good sign. If only Charlie would act this friendly around me all the time. We’d have much more pleasant interactions. “I’m, um, looking for Charles Sullivan. Is he in this morning?”

  He glances over his shoulder, looking around before he returns his attention to me, his hands resting on his lean hips. “Not exactly sure where Charlie is, though I know he’s around somewhere.”

  I notice he’s got a two-way radio clipped to his belt loop. “Maybe you can call him on that?” I nod toward the walkie-talkie.

  “Sure.” He grabs the yellow-and-black radio, brings it to his mouth and presses a button before he speaks. “Hey, Charlie, you copy?”

  A bunch of static comes over the tiny speaker and I take a sip of my latte, not sure what I should do next. I wonder if Charlie’s not answering on purpose. The man is impossible. He’s avoiding me. It doesn’t take a genius to realize this.

  But he has no idea I’m the one who’s actually looking for him, so hopefully we can draw him out.

  “Let me try him one more time. He might be on the other side of the property,” the man says before he speaks into the radio once more. “Sullivan, do you read me? I got someone looking for you here at the front.”

  More static.

  And then I hear his familiar, deep voice. “Who the fuck is looking for me, Jonesie?”

  Oh dear. He sounds irritated. What else is new? And Jonesie seems a tad embarrassed by Charlie’s language.

  “Sorry about that,” he whispers, holding his hand over the radio speaker, like that’s going to prevent Charlie from hearing our conversation. Doesn’t he have to be pressing that button for Charlie to be hearing anything? “Can I let him know who you are?”

  He asks like he knows people don’t want to let Charlie know they’re looking for him. Interesting. “Tell him my name is Dolores, and I’m the head of the Pacific Grove Christmas tree lighting committee.”

  The man is frowning as he eyes me up and down. I’m sure he doesn’t believe my name is Dolores, but I know for a fact that’s the name of the woman who is the actual head of the Christmas tree lighting ceremony committee in Pacific Grove. I’ve worked on their committee before, but not this year. Dolores is a delightful woman.

  She also happens to be eighty-two years old.

  “It’s—Dolores,” he finally says into the radio. “From Pacific Grove. She’s in charge of their tree lighting ceremony this year.”

  “Goddamn it.” Jonesie hurriedly walks away as Charlie continues to curse and complain, trying to gain some distance from me so I don’t have to hear him, no doubt. I continue to stand there, sipping my latte, trying to ignore the curious looks from the various employees who are working nearby.

  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. But I promised Isabel I would help her, and it’s obvious this man needs my help. And despite his rude behavior and abruptness, I can’t help but be drawn to him.

  Crazy, right? Sometimes, you can’t explain chemistry.

  “He’ll be right out,” Jonesie says a few minutes later, as he makes his way toward me. “Sorry about that, ma’am. Charlie’s a good guy. He didn’t know you were standing right in front of me and could hear him.”

  Excuses, excuses. I believe Charlie would’ve cursed like that even if he knew I could hear him. “Thank you so much for your help. What’s your name?” I ask, smiling at him.

  “Isaac Jones, but everyone calls me Jonesie.” He actually appears a little bashful and I can’t help but think his behavior is kind of adorable. Very aw shucks, ma’am. “Nice to meet you, Dolores.”

  I start to laugh. I can’t help it. Isaac is looking at me oddly, his head tilted to the side as I continue to laugh, and when I can finally find my voice, I tell him, “My name isn’t Dolores. I just said that so you’d tell Charlie and he wouldn’t know it’s really me.”

  “And who’s really you?” he asks, chuckling.

  “My name is Candice. I’m positive Charles is avoiding me, so I had to take drastic measures to ensure he’d come out here,” I explain, Isaac nodding as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  And when it comes to dealing with Charlie, I’m going to guess Isaac does know. I’m not a special case. Charlie treats everyone like this.

  I hear a motor in the near distance and turn to see Charlie making his way toward us on an all-terrain vehicle. It’s dark green, with giant wheels and a loud engine, and I’m so thankful he hasn’t spotted me yet. So I can watch him without judgment as he draws nearer, that determined expression on his handsome face, the firm set of his jaw. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been attracted to plenty of men before. Gone on more than a few dates. Had only two relationships in my adult life besides my high school sweetheart, though nothing ever lasted for long. One semi-serious relationship that the man ended, which crushed me a little bit, and my other, most recent relationship which I ended about six months ago, before I got too emotionally attached.

  There is something about Charlie I can’t quite put my finger on, though. I think about him and my skin grows warm. I see him—like right now—and my heart leaps. And when I hear his voice, when his gaze lands on me, or when he says my name? Forget it.

  I’m done for.

  “Candice, can I give you a word of advice?” Isaac asks, his cautious voice interrupting my lusty thoughts.

  I smile up at him. “Of course.”

  “I don’t hear many people call Charlie Charles. Sometimes his mom calls him that. Or his dad. But no one else, not even his brothers and sister. Don’t believe he’s a
big fan of his name, if I’m being honest. So I’d recommend you don’t call him Charles too much, if you know what I mean,” Isaac explains.

  Aw, isn’t he sweet, warning me off. “You are so kind for telling me.” I reach out and touch his sleeve, smiling at him. “Thank you, Isaac. I do appreciate your help.”

  Charlie chooses that exact moment to pull up on the quad directly in front of us. So close, I swear the tires are mere inches from where I’m standing. If he’d come any closer, he probably could’ve knocked me over. He shuts off the engine with a flick of his wrist and I lift my gaze so it meets his, noticing the annoyance there, flaring in the depths of his striking green eyes.

  As per usual, my heart skips a few beats, but I refuse to let him see that he’s rattled me. Squaring my shoulders, I stand up straight and send a polite smile in his direction.

  “You’re not Dolores,” he practically spits out, full of irritation. He’s the epitome of outdoor vitality, clad in jeans and a green-and-white plaid shirt along with a black puffer vest. A black cap hides most of his glorious dark hair and he appears to have not shaved in a while, which means he’s starting to get the appearance of a full-on beard.

  I’ve never thought a man could pull off the puffer vest look well, but somehow, Charlie manages it.

  It’s kind of annoying.

  “Nice to see you too this morning, Charles,” I say, my voice light and easy. Like I’m about to make a presentation in front of a ladies’ club.

  Isaac sends me a look, one that says, lady, you’re playing with fire.

  I smile at him in return, just before he turns and scurries away.

  “What do you want, Candice?” Charlie snaps as soon as Isaac’s out of earshot.

  “I need to speak with you,” I tell him, keeping my voice calm.

  “I don’t have time.”

  “It won’t take long. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

  He shakes his head. “No can do. I’m busy.”

  “You eventually take a break, don’t you?” I try to keep the smile on my face, but it’s difficult when you’re dealing with a grumpy man who won’t budge.

  “I don’t take breaks.” His lips thin as he continues to study me. “You do realize it’s Thanksgiving week, don’t you? This is by far the busiest time of the year for us. The lead-up to Black Friday keeps us going as we finish setting up our tree lots all over the peninsula. I don’t have time for niceties or small talk. And I don’t appreciate your tricks either, Dolores. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He starts to walk away and I stare at his retreating backside, words escaping me, which rarely happens. The reason I do so well with my charity work is because I can talk. Talk, talk, talk, until you have no choice but to agree with what I’m asking you. And that’s either giving your time, or your money. I am the fundraising queen. I can convince anyone to do what I want. Anyone.

  Expect Charles Sullivan.

  The man is just so…rude. And not just to me. He’s equal opportunity rude. It’s as if everyone’s allowed him to behave this way for the entirety of his life, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stand for it.

  What’s worse is that I know he has potential. He’s not always treating people terribly. Sometimes, he can be nice. Sometimes, he can be kind. When he took me home that afternoon after I fainted, he was perfectly polite. He has it in him. I know it.

  But I’m guessing that was maybe an off day for him.

  I go chasing after Charlie, thankful he hasn’t hopped back on that ATV and torn out of here. He’s headed straight for the giant red building, and I follow behind, having to pick up my step since one of his long strides equals about three of mine. He’s just so stinkin’ tall.

  And handsome.

  And gruff.

  And he smells good. Have I mentioned that? He smells like a pine tree, of course, and his scent is mouth-wateringly delicious.

  Ugh. I hate myself sometimes.

  He pushes open the door of the building almost violently, sending it swinging wide, and I sneak in behind him, causing him to turn and practically snarl at me when he realizes I’m standing in front of him.

  But I forget all about his snarl when I see how enchanting this room is. It’s not an office, but an actual store, filled to the brim with holiday decorations and knickknacks for sale. Candles are burning—I can smell cinnamon and spice wafting in the air. The scent of the real pine trees laden with ornaments standing in the room also lingers, and I breathe deep, closing my eyes for a moment so I can take it all in.

  When I open my eyes, it’s to find Charlie standing there, his hands on his hips, his brow lowered. “Are you okay? That head injury still flaring up and giving you trouble?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, you idiot. I’m enjoying the festive atmosphere.”

  Oh, that was mean. I shouldn’t have said that.

  But I don’t think he even noticed.

  I slowly turn in a circle, pure delight flowing through my veins. I don’t know what to look at first, it’s all so beautiful. And there are layers upon layers of decorations. On the walls, cluttering shelves and tabletops, overflowing giant baskets. And of course there are the trees. They almost sag with their bounty of sparkling ornaments and twinkling lights. It would probably take me hours to explore it all, and I’m dying to start my exploration right at this very moment. “This store is so adorable!”

  “My sister Victoria runs it.” He glances over at the counter where the register sits, but no one’s there. “I don’t know where she’s at, though. Maybe you could talk to her about—whatever it is you want to talk about.”

  No way is he pushing this agenda onto his sister. Isabel wants Charlie to do this, and no one else.

  “We’ve wasted the past five minutes with you huffing and puffing and refusing to speak to me.” I reach into my large bag and pull the folder out I wanted to show him. “Give me ten minutes. That’s all I need to talk about what we’re going to do over the next few weeks.”

  He grimaces. Sighs. Tugs the cap off his head, all that gorgeous hair spilling across his forehead, and my fingers literally itch at the chance to push it out of his eyes.

  But I restrain myself.

  Barely.

  “Fine,” he finally says, making his way toward the register counter. I follow after him, setting the bright red folder on the counter between us, as he’s currently standing on one side and I’m on the other. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I place my latte on the counter as well and rub my hands together, as if I’m really relishing this moment. Which I am. Finally, I have his attention. “Okay, here we go.” I crack open the folder and hand him a copy of the calendar I reworked last night when I couldn’t sleep. I pull out the second copy that’s for me, watching as he skims over what I wrote.

  “What the hell is this?” he asks when he lifts his gaze to mine.

  “Our schedule.” I went for it, adding back every single thing that I originally had on that calendar. I know I said I would wade in slowly, but this man gives me no choice.

  He needs to know what he’s up against.

  “Our?” He reads over it once more, the creases in his forehead deepening with every second that passes. He’s going to suffer from premature aging if he doesn’t watch it. “I can’t do all this.”

  “You don’t have to do all of it,” I reassure him. “Just—most of it.”

  He slaps the paper onto the counter with a soft whap. “Candice. This is too much. I already have enough on my plate as it is. I can’t be expected to work all damn day and then go out and smile and eat shitty appetizers while chatting up a bunch of snobs.”

  I take his schedule and place it on top of mine. “You’re right. You definitely won’t be able to manage it with that kind of attitude.”

  He glares at me. Then reaches over and swipes my latte, taking a huge swig.

  I can only stand there, gaping at him as he finishes off my beloved gingerbread latte, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he’s f
inished. “Damn, that was good.”

  “You—animal. You stole my drink!” I grab the to-go cup and shake it. I don’t think there’s even a drop left.

  “It was delicious.” He licks at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying to have one last taste, and I ignore the way my blood runs hot at first sight of his stupid tongue. “What was it?”

  “A gingerbread latte from Sweet Dreams,” I tell him, unable to keep the snide tone out of my voice. “My absolute favorite.”

  “I can see why.” He grabs his schedule once more and studies it carefully. “You want me to attend five Christmas tree lightings.” The look he sends me says get the hell out of here.

  Yes, I cursed in my thoughts. His word choice is probably even stronger.

  “Every single one of those tree lightings is using a specially cut Sullivan tree from your farm in Oregon,” I remind him, trying to remain calm. I think he behaves this way to ruffle my feathers. “It’s best if you make an appearance, however brief it may be.”

  “I didn’t realize they held five freaking tree lightings in a matter of a few weeks’ time around here. That’s a lot of tree lightings.” He squints at the paper. “One of them is happening tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, the one at the mall in Monterey. That’s a big one.”

  His gaze meets mine. “I can’t attend.”

  I knew he would do this. “Oh yes you can.”

  “I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be here. It’s two days before Thanksgiving. We’re working nonstop.”

  “At six o’clock at night?”

  “By then I’ll probably be sleeping.”

  I scoff. I am not one to scoff, but this man makes me want to scoff about every other minute. “Stop. You have plenty of employees who can take over while you’re gone. I see them all outside at this very minute.”

  “I don’t know if I can totally trust them,” he mutters under his breath, his fingers digging into the paper, making it wrinkle.