by Katy Evans
“Nice dress,” he drawls back softly.
I feel myself warm as he looks at me in a long cashmere dress that hugs my body and reaches my ankles, but for the most part I try to ignore his compliment—maybe he was teasing me—as I head to his desk and watch him take a seat behind it. My eye is drawn to a frame holding a picture of an older woman and man smiling at each other.
“Who are they?” I ask as I lift the frame and study the black-and-white photograph.
“My parents.”
“You must be close, to have their picture on your desk. Do you go visit them?”
I try to remember if I’ve ever heard him mention that he’s going home to see them, and I can’t remember an instance.
He leans back in his office chair and links his hands behind his head. “Only when I have to. They’re always on my case.” He smirks.
“Are you going for Christmas?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. Too much to do.”
I set the frame down on his desk. The quality of the photograph is incredible.
I feel like my pictures are even lamer now than I imagined. But although my budget was limited, my intentions were good. I slowly start peeling open the top of my manila envelope. “Okay so I’m trying to figure out what to give Trent. It’s not like I can give him a car, and he’s a vegan and sells produce so I can’t even give him a fruit basket. Plus he doesn’t wear ties. And he’s been away and I feel like he isn’t thinking about me—”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because his texts take forever.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not thinking of you.”
“Well, I thought this was a good reminder, and something easy and cheap to ship to him by Christmas day.” I pull out the eight pictures and clutch them to my chest. “So, you’re a connoisseur about this. I really want your opinion on these.”
If you’re a big-butt girl, nobody made you feel it was alright to have a big butt better than J. Lo. So when I booked this shoot, I was inspired by the pics she took for Ben Affleck, except I didn’t go that far. I’m wearing white boy shorts with a lacy behind, and my back is bare, with my dark hair loose and curly and reaching to the small of my back, and I’m mostly in profile except for one shot where I turned to ask something of the photographer and she snapped the camera.
I don’t like that one, I look unaware and…naked. Even with my boy shorts.
I don’t think I look that sexy, but I’ve spent all my Black Friday commissions on the shoot.
“Which one would a guy react to more strongly?” I ask him as I spread them out.
He scans them all with a quick sweep of his gaze, looking thoughtful. “Just one?”
“Yup.”
Frowning, he points toward all of them with a motion of his hand. “I’m supposed to like one better?”
“Yes! Don’t be obtuse. Oh, but not this one.” I push it aside. It’s the picture that included my face. I’m not photogenic. I don’t like pictures of my face.
Stroking his chin, he looks at me carefully. He picks up each photo and studies it for a long moment. His eyes have never looked so blue.
“Who took these?”
“Taylor Watts.”
His voice is oddly textured. “That a guy or a girl?”
I’m confused. Does it matter? “Girl.”
His face is unreadable, but almost imperceptibly, he relaxes his shoulders as he studies the pictures again. “This one.”
The one I’m most covered in?
“Are you certain?”
“Dead certain.” He taps it with his finger. “This one.”
“But it’s not the one in which I look sexiest, in my opinion.”
He just looks at me as if I’m stupid. “You look like sheet-clawing sex in all of them.”
His comment is so forthright and matter-of-fact, my knees nearly buckle.
“So what is he getting you?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” It isn’t until I speak that I realize my voice came out a little too wispy.
He nods at the pictures. “You’re giving him a gorgeous picture of yourself, what’s he giving you?”
“I told him chocolate.”
“Chocolate,” he says flatly. “Really.”
“Yup. Anything chocolate totally wins me over.”
I gather the pics and carefully slip them back into the envelope.
“He hasn’t answered my calls,” I whisper.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers back.
I glance up at him in confusion. “I feel like I’m screwing it up, Tahoe. Like there’s something about me that just can’t…make it work with a guy.”
“You’re not screwing it up. How can you, Regina? You’re too good for the guy.”
“Relationships take effort! Which is why you choose not to be in one, am I right? Cause you can’t be bothered.”
“Pass me the phone, I’ll have words with him.” His hand comes down over mine as he tries to take my phone.
I draw back, instinctively leaping at the electricity his touch provoked. “Haha, what kind of words?”
“Like he needs to call you, or he’ll have to deal with me. I’ll tell him if I wanted you to get all fucked up over a guy, you’d be dating me.”
“You don’t date, remember? You’re a ladies’ man. Of many ladies, and you don’t think you can stop or else you’d at least try to get serious with one.”
“I have nothing to offer her. I’m not what a one-man woman needs.”
Silence.
He stretches out his hand. “Give me the phone, I’m calling him.”
“You are doing no such thing.”
“Tell me one good thing that you see in him and I won’t call.”
“He’s not a ladies’ man.” I grin as I gather my pictures and head to the door. “Thanks, T-Rex.”
* * *
I arrive at my apartment shortly afterward and head straight for the fridge to make myself a sandwich. As I take my first bite, I turn over the manila envelope and skim the pictures again. Only seven pictures slide onto my kitchen counter.
I tap the envelope against the edge, then lower my sandwich and peer inside. Empty.
I call Tahoe’s cell. “Did I lose a pic at your office?”
“Negative,” he says lazily, as if he’s got his feet up on his desk or on the couch or somewhere.
The news doesn’t make me happy.
“It must have fallen out,” I groan, then thank him and hang up. I have a momentary panic when I think about that picture appearing somewhere on some playboy site. My worst pic, too—somewhere out there. Then I shake the thought aside, pray that it won’t fall into the wrong hands, and turn over the picture Tahoe suggested I send to Trent. With a red magic marker, I scribble on the back,
Merry Christmas, xo, Regina.
I package it in a pre-paid envelope, then head downstairs to ship it off.
CHRISTMAS
Rachel invited me to tag along with her and Saint on Christmas Eve to dinner and the poshest club in the city, but I’m exhausted after all the selling. My feet are killing me and my body is starving for a full meal after all the rapid-fire snacking during work breaks. I settle for Skyping with Trent that evening and having the turkey microwave dinner I picked up for myself. He sent me a text this last week.
Thank you for the gift. Going up in a frame soon! I guess I better send you those chocolates soon. Skype?
I’m happy and relieved that he liked the photo. It makes me think of Tahoe—and how his eyes looked so blue when he looked at the pictures. I’ve been wondering what he thought of them, if he really liked them. I’ve even been wondering if a part of me wanted him to see them, see me, feminine and lovely. Or at least trying to be.
I attribute these thoughts to my exhaustion, but I’m still thinking of him after Trent and I Skype and he hangs up to have dinner with his family. I settle down to watch Netflix and heat myself the microwave turkey dinner—there was no way I was g
oing to cook a turkey just for me. I don’t think Rachel and I were ever even able to fit one into our tiny oven.
As the amusing little movie How the Grinch Stole Christmas plays and I fork pieces of turkey and rice into my mouth, I want to wish my T-Rex happy holidays but I don’t want to do it too directly, so I grab my phone and tweet him.
Merry Christmas @tahoeroth
My landline rings less than ten minutes later. I pick up and swallow the last bit of turkey in my mouth before answering.
“Hey.” I hear Tahoe’s familiar baritone on the other end of the line. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
I clutch the receiver tightly, totally not expecting his voice in my ear. “Hey. What are you up to?”
“Hitting this club with Carmichael and a few other friends. Want to come?”
I regretfully look down at my flannel checkered pajamas. “No, thanks.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Well. Rachel said you were busy. Goodbye, Regina.”
“’Bye.” I hang up, and whisper, “T-Rex.”
* * *
I’m still watching the movie at midnight when I hear noise outside my apartment. If I were five, I’d leap to the window thinking it’s Santa Claus, but instead I blame the neighbors for the noise.
I ignore it for a minute, but I hear it again. I mute the Grinch and head over to the door and stand up on tiptoes to peer through the peephole. My breath seizes when I see a tall man outside.
I swing the door open and Tahoe stands on the other side. He’s dressed for the club in a black turtleneck and dark-wash jeans, his blond hair wet from a recent shower. He looks so delicious my mouth waters.
He smirks, but his blue eyes look a little stormy. “Got lost on my way to the club.”
I shake my head, a little breathless.
Yeah. Like this guy would get lost anywhere.
He walks in. “Actually, I didn’t like the idea of you here all by yourself.” He shuts the door behind him.
“I’m not by myself. I’m with the Grinch.”
“I’m comforted then. Hey, I got you something.” He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans with a wicked look in his eyes as he hands me an envelope.
I stare at it.
“It’s a tour of the Blommer Chocolate factory. I thought you might enjoy it,” he says.
“Tahoe.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes still look stormy. “She likes it,” he says.
“She loves it.” I frown. “But I didn’t get you anything.”
He takes a seat on my couch, and I sit down next to him.
“Yeah, you did,” he says.
“Uh, no. I did not.”
He looks at me, his tone low but firm, unapologetic. “Your picture. You didn’t lose it, I took it. You looked lovely and I took it.”
“Wait. What? Why?”
Heat blooms all across my body, and I hate thinking that I’m blushing head to toe.
“You collect those too?” I ask when he doesn’t reply.
He frowns darkly as if he dislikes me thinking this of him and continues looking at me with those tumultuous eyes, then he playfully purses his lips and pokes the tip of his finger into my tummy. “Not yet.”
“Yeah well, knowing you, you’re about to start.”
I rib him, frowning; he ribs me back, laughing for real at last. “What are we watching?” he asks.
“Your twin, the Grinch, whose heart will grow by the end of the film. Watch and learn.”
I motion to the TV and look down at his gift and I want to say thank you again but I can’t trust my voice to speak. It’s my first Christmas gift this year. My parents send me a $50 gift card every Christmas but it hasn’t arrived yet, and this is the first gift that someone actually took the time to choose for me.
So I just hold the envelope on my lap while Tahoe looks at me with blue eyes that look clear now, and I look back into his eyes and smile.
NEW YEAR’S
Trent gave me a box of chocolates when he got back from Atlanta and I’ve limited myself to enjoying only one a day, not because they don’t taste like heaven, but because I plan to look good tonight. I’m determined to spend New Year’s Eve the way I want to spend the entire year.
Wynn said that’s what everyone should do, while she, Rachel and I had our regular weekly brunch. She and Rachel insist that New Year’s Eve sets the tone for the year and whatever it is you start the New Year with, that’s what your focus for the New Year will be.
So I’ve told myself I’m going to be sublimely happy tonight. But since I sometimes seem to require a little help loosening up, I have a few glasses of wine as I mingle with the crowd.
I’m dressed in an emerald green sweater dress and brown leather boots that reach just below my knees, my hair held back in a high ponytail. My ponytail doesn’t manage to tame my curls, but at least it helps keep them off my face.
We’re at a posh New Year’s Eve party, the most decadent in the city. It’s being held in a five-star hotel. The ballroom is aglow with trickling champagne fountains and sparkly trays. Conversation is flowing as well as the alcohol.
Trent and I have mingled together all evening, but when he gets a phone call with bad news about one of his produce trucks being stolen during transport, he excuses himself to go talk outside.
Tahoe arrives very late. Tahoe’s girl is a strawberry-blonde with locks that fall all the way to her waist—the most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen. I feel a pang of envy as he leads her over, followed by Callan Carmichael and his date.
“Someone introduce me to this gorgeous lady,” Carmichael says in reference to me.
“Haha. Hi, Callan.”
Tahoe looks at me quietly. “He’s right, you look gorgeous tonight.”
His words make my pulse skip a little but I roll my eyes and look at the blonde hooked on his arm. “Gina,” I introduce myself.
“Stephanie.” She smiles tartly at me.
Tahoe tugs on my ponytail playfully and, as he leads his date away, whispers in my ear, “Don’t eat all the chocolates.”
“It’s my life’s purpose, no matter what you say!” I yell out with my hands on the sides of my mouth so that my voice carries to him as he walks away.
Later that night, I go in search of Trent. I’m worried about his stolen delivery truck, but aren’t all holidays a playground for thieves? I’m winding through the crowd when I spot Tahoe heading back toward the group with his date’s drink.
Our paths inevitably cross and our eyes latch when we try to pass each other. I go left and as we move accidentally in the same direction, we laugh.
He stops smiling, opening his mouth to say something, but what he’s saying is suddenly drowned out by the chorus of the crowd.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”
Claps and cheers erupt. I shake myself from my laughter and Tahoe trails off from whatever it is he was starting to tell me.
“I’m wasted,” I hear myself say. “Wait, is it twelve?! OMG, it’s twelve.”
Tahoe looks at the drink in his hand with a wry smile, tosses half back, and then extends it to me. I take it and toss the rest back, then set it on the nearest table.
We look at each other with the realization that we are going to kiss each other this New Year’s Eve.
The thought makes me nervous and excited and anticipatory—more than I ever would have expected. As people kiss left and right, time feels slow in the space where we stand. Flashes of color and movement appear in the corner of my eye but he is the only clear thing, the sounds muting until I only hear my heart as we both gravitate to one another and get closer.
I grip his hair and I do not want to let him go, ever. His hands open on my back and they’re so big they cover nearly all of it.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
He gives me a peck on the lips as a friendly New Year’s kiss. He eases back an inch and returns to give me another.
As his lips press onto mine, my toes cu
rl unexpectedly. My mind spins in a thousand directions. I replay things Rachel has said about him, which I have mulled over consistently in private.
That he called me succulent.
That he’s a lacrosse fan and would have gone pro if he hadn’t literally struck oil, big time, becoming a multimillionaire overnight—a billionaire within years.
That Saint respects him and has invested in helping him through the volatility of this market because he believes in Tahoe’s business sense.
The three friends’ public personas aren’t necessarily true. But what is true for Tahoe Roth? He is the embodiment of sex. He also has a gentleman ingrained in his bones due to his southern upbringing. You can tell a lot about a person by how well they treat others, and he is playful but honest, and always himself.
You can tell a lot about a man by how he kisses, and nobody has ever sparked me up the way his strong, firm lips do.
We ease back and stare at each other.
Tonight Tahoe is in jeans and a soft white V-neck sweater, and he looks delicious. His blue eyes are so achingly familiar on me they’re like a shot to the heart…as he reaches out and takes my hand, and kisses the back of it.
He doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t smile, he just kisses the back of my hand, all while looking into my eyes, his gaze possessive and raw.
“Happy New Year, babe!” Trent cries, pulling me to him. His mouth covers mine, and by the time I’m able to peel away, I glance frantically around the room.
At midnight, I was with Tahoe Roth. Is it true that’s where I should focus?
I then catch a glimpse of him crossing the room, leading the blonde he came to the party with out the door.
START WITH A BANG
I overslept. Or actually didn’t sleep. At the department store, we’re open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on New Year’s Day, and while I’m standing looking pretty and trying to be helpful behind the Chanel cosmetics counter, I replay it.
Yeah, not a good idea.
Every time I replay last night, Tahoe’s eyes seem a little darker and his gaze seems to trek over my face a little more slowly. His arms feel a little stronger and a little tighter around me. And his smell is a little fiercer and manlier.
