Holidate

by Monica Murphy

  “Are you one of those control freaks who won’t let anyone else do the work? That you’re the only one who can do it right?”

  He rubs a hand along his scruffy jaw. “Maybe.”

  I pick up my own printed schedule and skim over the details about the tree lighting that’s happening tomorrow evening. “It starts at five, and your duties should be taken care of by seven at the absolute latest. Casual dress, so you don’t need to wear anything special. I mean, you should probably dress up a little more than what you’re wearing now.”

  Charlie glances down at himself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?”

  Absolutely nothing, I want to tell him, but I keep the words locked in. He doesn’t need to witness me salivating over him and his lumberjack chic. Who knew I had a thing for men who work on the land? “But you’re wearing work clothes.”

  “You don’t like my work clothes?” His smoldering gaze locks with mine, and my throat grows dry. Is he flirting with me right now? Has it been so long that I can’t tell the difference between normal conversation, arguing, and flirting? Am I that rusty?

  Apparently so.

  “You look perfectly fine. But you probably need to dress it up a little. Jeans will work.” My gaze drops to the jeans he’s currently wearing, in particular to the front of his jeans, and my cheeks go hot. “Maybe you could wear a sweater?” I say when I jerk my gaze up to his once more.

  He smirks at me, like he knew I was checking out his junk. “Jeans and a sweater? I can manage that.”

  “So you’re actually agreeing to go with me to the tree lighting tomorrow?” Hope lifts my voice, and I try to remain calm. I’m finding this is a common mantra when dealing with Charlie.

  Nodding, he takes his paper and quickly folds it into a square, shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans. “If this gets you off my back a little bit, I’ll be there. You want me to pick you up?”

  I blink at him, both insulted by the off his back comment and surprised at his offer to pick me up. “I figured we could meet there.”

  “Good. That’ll give me more time to spend here.” He slaps the edge of the counter with his palm and then starts walking. “See you tomorrow, Candice.”

  “Be there right at five, and don’t be late! In front of the main entrance of the mall,” I call after him, taking in the broad line of his shoulders, the width of his back. He is so big. And he makes me feel very small.

  I kind of like it.

  He lifts a hand, I suppose in an indication that he heard what I said, before he pulls his hat back over his head, hiding his glorious hair. Never saying another word, he exits through the still wide-open door, and then he’s gone.

  Ten

  I check my phone yet again, blowing out an exasperated breath as I glance around, scanning the crowd for Charlie. It’s hard to see, though, considering the sun has already set and the twinkling Christmas lights that are strung up aren’t quite bright enough for me to thoroughly examine people’s faces as they pass by.

  It’s five-fifteen, and of course he’s not here. I should’ve known. Dang it, I should’ve known he wouldn’t show up and leave me feeling abandoned and angry.

  I don’t like being angry during the Christmas season. This is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, am I right? I’m surrounded by hundreds of people milling about, clutching cups of mulled cider or hot chocolate in their hands. There are lots of kids running around wearing the free red-and-gold antlers that are being passed out. A live band is playing rockin’ Christmas songs, there’s a booth full of volunteers serving fresh snickerdoodle cookies to everyone and the smell is absolutely divine.

  But I’m too mad to want to wear red-and-gold antlers or drink hot chocolate or munch on a snickerdoodle. No, I want to punch Charlie Sullivan right on his perfectly sharp jaw and tell him to go stuff it.

  Why does he make me so emotional? I don’t get it. I am the epitome of calm.

  Well. Maybe that’s a lie. I wouldn’t call myself calm, but I’m not one to get riled up over someone and a certain someone is riling me up on a constant basis. Since meeting Charlie, I feel like my heart is beating at an accelerated rate at all times. This can’t be good for my health.

  I frown. Charlie Sullivan isn’t good for my health. Who knew a human could do such damage?

  “Hey.” Strong fingers wrap around my arm, gently pulling, and I know who it is. The voice, the way his hands on my body affect me, even in such an innocent manner. I turn and face him. It’s Charlie.

  Relief floods me and I almost sag against him. He came.

  He came.

  “Charles.” I stand up straighter, keeping my voice bright. No way do I want him to know I was angry and I’d already given up on him. “You made it.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” He actually sounds apologetic. I can’t believe it. “Traffic was hell. I had to park across the street.”

  “I should’ve warned you.” I realize he’s still touching me, and I think he realizes it too, because he lets go of me as if my arm is made of fire and I just burned him. “There’s a lot of people here tonight. I’m sure traffic will be a nightmare when it’s over.”

  “I’ll say there’s a lot of people.” He takes it all in, giving me the chance to take him all in. He’s somehow tamed his hair this evening, though it curls at his ears and at his nape, giving him a vaguely wild look. I know I should tell him to go get his hair cut, but I can’t quite work up the words to say it.

  I like the hair. What can I say?

  Oh, he shaved, which is wonderful because that handsome face is on full display. He’s wearing jeans just as I told him to, and a charcoal sweater that clings to his shoulders and chest almost lovingly.

  Or maybe that’s my imagination going into overdrive.

  I’m wearing jeans too—skinny dark rinse, to be exact. And a thick forest-green sweater I found last year but never got a chance to wear. It’s oversized, covering my butt, with a high neck that almost gives me the I’m-wearing-a-neck-brace look but not quite.

  It keeps me warm and it’s festive, and I’m all about the festive.

  “This is a big turnout.” He starts walking and somehow I’m able to keep up with him. Maybe because he’s going at a slower pace? “That the tree over there?”

  He waves at the tall, majestic tree that’s currently shrouded in darkness.

  “It sure is,” I tell him, stopping when a woman dressed up as an elf offers me a hot chocolate. I take one for myself and hand one to Charlie before we continue. “Be careful, it’s hot,” I warn him after I take a tiny sip of the scalding drink.

  “Thanks for the warning.” He brings the cup to his lips, taking the quickest taste and making a face. I swear he does things like that because he doesn’t believe what I say. Or he flat out doesn’t listen. “So how does this work tonight?”

  “The lighting is scheduled for around six-fifteen. Santa and Mrs. Claus will make their appearance around six, when they’re brought in on the giant sleigh led by reindeer—”

  “They actually bring in reindeer?” Charlie interrupts, his expression full of surprise.

  “Of course,” I say with an authoritative nod. “What’s a sleigh without some reindeer?”

  He doesn’t bother acknowledging my question. Typical. “How long does the actual lighting take?”

  “Only a couple of minutes. Once the tree is lit, Santa and his beloved have the children line up, and they get to sit on their laps and confess their Christmas wishes.” I smile, remembering when my mother would take me to see Santa when I was small. The memory has mostly faded, but I can still recall how she asked me what Santa said, and how strongly I believed in him.

  We come to a stop near the area that’s roped off for the gold chairs the Clauses sit on. “Don’t the kids catch on that Santa and his old lady are showing up all over the place throughout the holiday season? And figure out that maybe they aren’t who they seem?” Charlie asks.

  “When I was a kid, my paren
ts told me the Santa at the mall or the ones standing out on the street worked as representatives for the real Santa,” I say.

  “And you fell for that?” His brows shoot up.

  “It’s easy to believe when you accept the magic,” I tell him, sounding perfectly logical.

  He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. Again I have itchy fingers. “I never believed in the magic.”

  My heart aches at his confession. I don’t know why. It’s not that big of a deal. And I don’t know him that well, so why should I care?

  But I do. If your family celebrates, then every child should be able to believe in the magic of Christmas.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “When your family works in a business like ours, where you’re busy for the entirety of the Christmas season and your parents barely have time to buy you gifts, let alone make sure Santa is going to put a few presents under the tree for all of us, you find out quick what’s real and what’s not,” he says ruefully.

  “I’m guessing you found out Santa didn’t exist when you were pretty young?” That is just awful. If I could, I’d still believe in Santa. There’s just something so sweet in believing that a jolly fat man cruises the skies on Christmas Eve, shouting ho ho ho over and over again while delivering presents to all the children tucked in their beds.

  “I don’t know if I ever believed in Santa. He wasn’t much of a thing at my house.” Charlie shrugs. “It’s okay, though. I view the season differently than others.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s prime business time for us Sullivans. We’re here to cash in on the Christmas spirit. Sell as many trees as possible. And wreathes and pine boughs and all the other bullshit people want to hang on their doors or decorate their house with. The entire family works during the season. We have since we were kids. My youngest sister Margaret is in college in Washington, studying business, though she’ll be back when she graduates. Victoria’s store is a huge moneymaker for us, selling all the decorations and stuff, and my brother Russ runs three of the tree lots, while my parents run the others.” He taps his thumb against his chest. “And I run the farm during the season.”

  “Sounds like a lot.”

  “It is, but I’m used to it. We all are.” He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

  His words linger within me as we continue mingling with the other people who are here for the tree lighting. There are mostly families here tonight. Lots of children running amok, or toddlers in their strollers, or sweet little babies tucked against their mom or dad’s chest in a snug sling. All these children believe. And their parents are playing along, wanting to recreate that magic they experienced when they were children.

  Charlie doesn’t believe in the magic. He never has.

  And that’s kind of sad.

  Carolers join the live band, and we stop and listen to them, me discreetly checking my phone to see how close we are to lighting time. It’s almost six. Mr. and Mrs. Claus will be making their appearance at any minute.

  “Can I be honest with you?” I ask Charlie when the band and carolers take a break and it’s quieted down.

  “Sure.” He sips from his now cool enough hot chocolate, leaving the thinnest film of chocolate above his upper lip. The urge to leap over the table and lick it off is strong, but I restrain myself.

  “When I was waiting for you to show up, I thought you’d bailed on me,” I confess, handing him a clean napkin from a stack on a nearby table.

  “Really?” He seems surprised, but come on, Charlie Sullivan. You shouldn’t be surprised at all. You’re the one who growls and snarls at me as much as possible.

  “You haven’t given me much reason to have faith in you, Charlie,” I say drolly.

  “True.” He takes another sip, then wipes his mouth with the napkin. “I wish this was a gingerbread latte.”

  He made me so angry, stealing my drink yesterday. I’m getting mad all over again just thinking about it. “You liked my latte that much?”

  “It was delicious.”

  “Your mother thinks they’re too sweet.”

  He grimaces. “My mother drinks her coffee black. Doesn’t add anything to it.”

  “What a heathen,” I say.

  “No shit,” he mutters, making both of us laugh softly.

  It’s a nice sound, his laugh. I didn’t think he knew how to do it.

  Music suddenly booms over the speakers, the familiar sound of Andy Williams singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”. Spotlights shine, sweeping over the crowd, flashing onto the dark tree, then the gleaming red-and-gold sleigh that magically appears with Mr. and Mrs. Claus sitting inside it. They’re smiling, waving to the crowd.

  I can’t help it, I start bouncing on my feet, clapping with excitement. Charlie sends me an amused look, but I ignore him. I’m not going to let his crankiness and lack of magic ruin my feel-good moment.

  The fire engines that are parked nearby for the event turn on their lights, beams of red sliding across the crowd, giving it an even more festive atmosphere. The kids are screaming and pointing. Parents have giant smiles on their faces. Their excitement makes me even more excited, and when the sleigh passes close by us, I scream out, “Santa!” at the top of my lungs like I’m freaking Buddy from Elf.

  For my efforts, he gives me a ho ho ho in return.

  “Santa talked to me!” I grab hold of Charlie’s arm and tug on it. I’m totally overplaying this. I hope he doesn’t think I’m being serious. “Did you see?”

  “Yeah.” His shoulders shake, like he’s trying to contain his laughter, but then he lets go and chuckles at my over-the-top behavior. “I saw.”

  “Let’s go follow him.” I hook my arm through his and practically have to drag him toward the tree, where the sleigh is headed. Everyone else is following the sleigh too, and it feels like we don’t even have to move our feet. The crowd of people is pushing us along as if we’re all just one big mass.

  “This is wild!” Charlie yells. He has to yell to be heard, the crowd and the music and the screaming kids are so loud.

  “Isn’t it great?” I beam up at him, thrilled to be swept up in the excitement and anticipation.

  Within minutes, Santa and his wife are standing beside the dark tree, a local realtor who’s also a popular speaker standing with them and holding a mic.

  The realtor starts talking, mentioning the various sponsors and thanking them for their kind donations. No one had to pay for anything they receive tonight, and that warms my heart, seeing our little community come together and help support families by offering a free holiday event.

  “…and we also want to thank the Sullivan Family Tree Farm for their generous donation of this magnificent tree,” the announcer says. “The Sullivans have donated their trees for our annual lighting for the past fifteen years, and we’re hoping for at least another fifteen years or more of beautiful Sullivan trees to be gracing this event.”

  I can’t help but notice the look of pride on Charlie’s face, the way his chest puffs out a little. He’s enjoying the attention, I can tell.

  Not that he’d ever admit it.

  “I believe Charles Sullivan is with us tonight!” the announcer exclaims. “Mr. Sullivan, are you here?”

  The spotlight sweeps over the crowd again, right as Charlie raises his hand indicating who he is. The spotlight finds him, shining upon both of us, and the entire group erupts in applause.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan, for your kind and generous donation,” the announcer says. “And now, without further ado, let’s get to lighting this tree!”

  A few more things are said. Santa plays it up for the crowd, his ho ho ho’ing impressive, but the children are growing restless. They want to get this show on the road, as they say, and a few of them have even started crying.

  But just like that, those lights are switched on, there are lots of ooohs and aaahs, and finally Santa and Mrs. Claus settle into their gold chairs, the line of children f
orming for them endlessly long.

  “They’re going to be there for hours,” I murmur, watching as the line barely moves. “Hopefully Santa will be able to bust this out.”

  “Santa bust this out? That doesn’t sound very Christmasy. How unlike you,” Charlie chastises, but there’s a gleam in his eye and I know he’s teasing me.

  Shocking, I know. I didn’t think he had that in him either.

  “That line is huge.” I point at it. “It’s going to take all night for them to talk to every kid who wants to sit on their lap.”

  “I’m sure they know what they’re doing. They’ve been at this a long time.” He glances down at me. “Have you been to this event before?”

  “Not for a couple of years,” I admit. I go to a couple every year, but I don’t go to all of them. I’m only making Charlie go to every tree lighting because they feature Sullivan trees.

  I try my best to ignore the incredulous look on his face, but he’s making it difficult.

  “Seriously? I thought you came to all this shit,” he says.

  I send him a look for his word choice, but I’m pretty sure it goes right over his head. “My favorite tree lighting is the one in Carmel. Which is in two weeks, by the way, and you’re going,” I remind him.

  Charlie makes a face but otherwise doesn’t protest. “Are we done here?”

  On one hand, I want to tell him we should stay a little longer. But on the other hand, he might resent me for keeping him here when it’s unnecessary.

  So I decide to cut him loose.

  “We can go,” I tell him, not surprised at all when he starts walking faster, eager to get out of here and away from me, I’m sure.

  We make our way to the parking lot, and I remember Charlie said he had to park across the street. “Could you maybe walk me to my car and I’ll drive you to yours?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Where you at?”

  “Just down this row.” I point and start walking, Charlie falling into step beside me. “I’m not too far. I got lucky.”

  “Yeah, you did.”