by J. M. Maurer
“Charlie’s supposed to get back after New Year’s.” He sets his fork down and turns to me. “One of our housemates’ parents own a beachfront condo in Siesta Key, Florida. I’m sure I won’t hear from Charlie until shortly before school starts back up. Why do you ask? You trying to get rid of me already?” He winks.
“Yesterday you seemed upset about your mom. I just want you to have a wonderful Christmas, that’s all.”
“My family isn’t like your mom and dad.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “Mom was born into money, but her parents aren’t like yours. No. Yours didn’t look at me as not a doctor or the next big CEO. Your parents accepted me knowing all I want is to be part of giving a TV audience the best sporting show possible. My grandparents didn’t have vision like that. There was no acceptance for anything outside of their norm. They pretty much disowned my mom the instant they found out I was growing inside her. Because of that, it’s really been hard on her. Christmas for us isn’t the same as it is for you and your family.”
“What about Charlie? You rarely mention him.”
“He’s a prodigy at CIM.” He shrugs, and I furrow my brows. “Cleveland Institute of Music. Charlie plays the viola and makes a decent salary subbing for the Cleveland Orchestra. His best bud is also at CIM. It’s his parents who own the house. I live there because it’s free, which helps me pay down school loans that amount to a home I can’t actually live in.”
Given his situation, I wonder why Eli doesn’t live with his mom. I hope it’s because he chooses not to live with her rather than the possibility that she pushed him out. Out of fear it’s not something he wants to talk about, I simply don’t ask.
“I guess that explains why you haven’t taken me back to your place.”
“No. You definitely do not want to step foot inside that house. I can crash at Mom’s place if I need to, like when I know they’re throwing a rager at our place. But Mom’s rundown bungalow is out in the burbs, tucked right in the middle of a not-so-nice neighborhood I’d prefer for the most part to forget about.”
My heart swells a little knowing Eli isn’t still into a party scene, which is typically overflowing with boobs and a near one hundred percent chance for meaningless sex. On the flip side, his comment about his mom’s home didn’t go unnoticed by me, and now I’m not so sure her reason for ditching out on Christmas didn’t have everything to do with who I am.
“The quiet gets lonely sometimes,” Eli admits.
I set my napkin down and look up at soft brown eyes, a face I see in my dreams each night, and a man who completely owns my heart. “You’re more than welcome to stay here if you’d like.” I really hope he says yes.
“You just want me to keep making you breakfast.”
“I want you naked making me breakfast. Yes.”
“I want you naked and beneath me.”
I straddle his lap. “What if I want to be up on top?”
He scoots me closer, settling me in against the firmness inside his boxers. “Then I think I’m gonna have to move in and let you take a ride.”
“When?”
“What’s wrong with right now?” He taps my lips with his.
“You want to go now and get all your things?”
He pouts. “I thought you were talking sex.”
“Why would I talk sex?” I wink and bite his lower lip, making certain to kiss it until he lifts it back into a grin. “Moving day. I’m talking about moving day.”
“Of course you are.” He chuckles softly. “I promised the guys I’d babysit the house until they got back.”
“How long is that?”
“A couple weeks maybe. Before then, if you’re good.”
“I’m always good. And,” I flick my gaze to the multi-colored glow of lights on our tree and waggle my brows, “it looks like Santa came while we were sleeping. Don’t you want to see what he brought you?”
Eli stands, scoops me up into his arms, and carries me over to the tree. Once my feet hit the floor, he sets some tunes to play on his phone while I snatch both gifts from under the tree and take a seat on the couch.
Eli sits facing me, mirroring my pose. “How do you know that’s for you?”
“It’s got my name on it.” I show him the snowflake tag. “Right there. See?”
Smiling, he lifts his chin. “You first.”
I waste no time slipping my fingers between the paper and the medium-size box that looks the right size to hold a sweater, but feels too heavy, so I know it has to be something else. The instant I see a hardcover book inside the box, I’m blown away. It’s not just any book, but one I immediately recognize as special.
I run my fingers along the smooth surface of the glossy front cover where my professional photo blends in above a lakefront portrait of downtown Cleveland, then level my gaze up to meet Eli’s. “This is amazing. Did you make this?”
A proud smile curls his lips. “I did.”
I almost can’t believe it, not because Eli isn’t capable of producing such a gift—I know he is—but because this is straight from the heart, a meaningful gesture that took time and forethought in order to become the most perfect gift for his girl. Plus, it’s not something I ever thought I’d receive.
He’s taken photo footage from my first live shot at the scene of the accident and started a memory album, filling in pages with block text, using excerpts of actual things I said while reporting.
I love it. More than love it. It’s a personal gift I’ll cherish forever.
“I’ve been working on it for a while. There are some extra pages so you can keep adding memories as you make them. I’ve already asked Ed to move me back to be with you. He said he’d think about it and let me know.” He fingers through the pages to the back of the book and nods to a small plastic pouch holding a USB flash drive. “I started a high-def video log of your TV shots. You’ll also be able to use it for a film portfolio. I’ve got the original stored on my computer. We’ll easily be able to add to it.”
I lunge into his lap and hug him like there’s no tomorrow, letting the book rest between our chests as tears dampen my cheeks. Thinking about how different our presents are, I clamp an even tighter hold onto Eli. It will take everything I have in me to let go.
My heart practically bursts with love as I brush my lips across his. I had a feeling deep down that his family valued gifts from the heart, while my family spent their time purchasing gifts from a store because we knew no hardships.
After a few moments I scoot back and grab a tissue to dry my cheeks. “This is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me, and I love it. Thank you, Eli.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. But film portfolio?” I quirk a brow. “You trying to get rid of me?” I tease.
He laughs, then a serious expression washes over his face. “No. But it’s always a good idea to be prepared for anything.” He shakes his present as if using it to move past the topic of our conversation, and listens carefully while the contents inside the box jangle. “My turn, and to tell you the truth, I’ve been eying this box since you snuck it under there last night when you pretended to hit the bathroom.”
“I did go to the bathroom, in my bedroom, which is where Santa was hiding your gift.”
“Well, I think Mrs. Claus needs to stop hiding gifts in the bathroom for Santa.” He winks, tears into the box, and peers inside. A wry smile curls over his lips as he lifts a pair of sweatpants into view.
I can’t help but laugh as he immediately slips them on, and then strolls up and down my hall, swinging his hips and pushing his shoulders back like a model on a catwalk. With a straight face, he struts his sexy body so much better than any seven-figure male model would do in Paris or Milan.
I can’t stop laughing; he’s working my carpet runway far too well. Eventually, I wave him over and point to the box. “I know you love those geeky sweatpants with lightning bolts, but come back here. There’s something else for you inside the box.”
&nb
sp; His tight white shirt inches up his abs as he pumps one fist then the other into the air. He’s dancing his way back to me from the hall, pumping his hips to the tune of “Merry Christmas Baby” by Hanson.
“First, you give me a hat and now these University of Oklahoma sweatpants. Angel, if you hadn’t told me how important it is to you to make it on your own, I’d think you were trying to get me to forget about my longstanding love for all things Ohio State, switch allegiance to your alma mater, and maybe, just maybe one day move back with you to Oklahoma.”
I wish.
I toss him a grin, not saying one way or the other, and watch as he crashes back down on the couch. “To be honest, I’ve been dying to see how they look on a super-sexy jock. And now that I’ve had my own private viewing, I’d have to say they look pretty hot. But I’m sure any bit of fabric you slip over that tight tush of yours is going to look amazing.”
“Well, I hope I’m the only super-sexy jock you ever want to see wearing your geeky pants. Actually…” He trails off as he fiddles with the dark gray material, the expression on his face moving from upbeat to one of surprise. “They’re really comfortable.”
“It’s bamboo,” I say, confident he’s wondering why his new sweatpants feel so soft.
“Bamboo?” He doesn’t seem to believe me, so I nod. “Well, I knew they were soft, but I seriously thought that was just because they were on you.”
“I might be sexy-geek, but even I can’t turn fabric into something that feels like cashmere. But that was really sweet.” I tap the box again, drawing his attention back to the present he hasn’t yet discovered.
He peeks back in and lifts out the black sweatshirt that has a picture of a video camera and the words “I SHOOT PEOPLE.”
I grin as Eli holds the sweatshirt in the air and takes a closer look. “It gets awfully cold here in Cleveland, and no matter what, I have to keep my cameraman warm. Because in case you don’t remember, you, Eli Barringer,” I lovingly poke his chest, “are mine.”
He pulls me into an embrace with a slew of heartfelt thanks, then lets his lips take time out to dance across mine. When we break apart, he slips on his sweatshirt and checks out his reflection in the sliding glass door.
I squeeze in behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and catch his reflection as I peek around the side of his arm. “Now you have something to wear until we have to go back to work tomorrow.”
“Ah, oh. Are you locking me up in the tower?”
“As long as I’m in Cleveland, I think I’ll keep you here forever.” I flash him a sly grin, seeing his focus catch as he stares out through the frosted glass.
I know this look. It’s the expression he has every time he turns inward and goes deep in thought. His brows inch together and a mixture of emotions flashes across his face before sadness sets deep in his eyes. Though I can’t be certain what he’s thinking, something in my gut tells me it’s serious.
Instinctively, I squeeze him tight and press my cheek a little harder against the side of his arm. Standing quietly behind him, I wonder what he’s hiding, and wait out the moment until his solemn expression softens.
We don’t talk about his deep thoughts. And since we slept so late into Christmas morning, we don’t have time to get the slow cooker going. Instead, we order a ridiculous amount of Chinese food and play a bunch of games.
I kick his butt in Clue. Again. He kicks mine playing Jenga where he clearly possesses an advantage, since he’s a pro at holding a steady camera. We round out the evening the same way we did on Christmas Eve. Except this time, Eli’s comfortable enough to move our lovemaking into my bedroom.
The next day at work, Eli gives me a kiss at my desk. “Stay out of trouble,” he teases, then trudges off to his office.
I power on my screens and notice Mr. Tagarelli hasn’t arrived. Since he’s always at work before me, I wonder if something might be wrong. Not giving it much thought, I lean back in my chair and settle in for another long afternoon and evening. I get right to work recording and analyzing data from hundreds of sensors scattered throughout the region. But it’s the national radar that as usual proves most interesting. I could easily focus all my energy on the snowy pattern I see taking shape.
“Makayla!” Ed’s voice barrels through the air, surprising me as his black slacks come into view.
Like a child afraid of an authority figure, I quickly stand at attention, and watch as Ed deposits a medium-sized box onto my desk. He squares his shoulders, and I let my gaze trail over pallets of eye shadow, mascara, containers of foundation, and multiple tubes of lipstick, ending up on a small amount of fabric in differing colors draped across his arm.
Stepping aside, he places a dusty-purple semi-sheer strapless dress that might be suitable for a non-professional occasion over the back of my chair, and follows it with a forest green slip dress that’s laced at the hems and looks like it’s not meant to be worn anywhere but bed. After some fluffing of material, he lays a black leather sheath on top. It’s got a bright gold zipper that only goes halfway up the front. Puzzled as to where that tiny piece of fashion is to be worn, I barely notice Ed as he inches forward.
Too close, I think and take a step back, my retreat cut short the instant the edge of my desk hits my ass. “Mr. Richardson.”
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Your relationship with Eli.”
“Is there a problem regarding my relationship with him outside of work? Because you’re as aware as I am that Eli and I no longer work together. If there’s paperwork I need to—”
“Let me share a little secret with you, sweetheart.” Ed scoots in and straddles my legs, his inner thighs touching the cotton leggings covering mine. “Your audience is not Eli, it’s every man in this town. You literally need to get your priorities in order.”
I open my mouth to counter but Ed jerks his head. Then he shuts me up with that dark, don’t-even-think-about-arguing gaze of his.
“Again,” Ed sighs heavily and then deepens his tone, “this is an instance of ‘when I talk, you listen’! Got it?”
I nod reluctantly and Ed continues.
“Right now, our audience is watching the news on mute when you come on. No one is tuning into this station for your personality or for the latest update on the clouds. They want to see your tits and your ass in as tight a dress as they can. So from now on, when your face is in front of one of my cameras, I want to see perfect hair, red lips, sexy dresses, and five-inch heels.
“When you’re not working, I want pictures of you all over social media, your tits busting out of sports bras, your ass highlighted in yoga pants. I want to Google ‘Hot News’ and see you at the top of the list. I want ratings. I want tweets. I want every guy in this market to be talking about your face. But none of that is happening the way you’re carrying yourself now. It’s time you paint on some color, show off those plump and perky tits, and start dressing like the hot twenty-five-year-old woman we both know you are.”
Ed pauses, his eyes flinty as he scans my face, his fingers skimming up my flank until his palms lift and then cup my breasts. “Hmm. Very nice. So soft. And pliable.”
I stiffen in my silence as the contact makes me exceptionally uncomfortable and beyond irate.
“Think about your future, Makayla.” Ed steps back, slow to remove his hands from my breasts. “I can make or break your career. If you want to get anywhere in this business, I highly suggest you do everything I say.”
Shell shocked, I cling to the edge of my desk and refill my lungs with air. How the hell did I just let myself be violated like that by Ed? As he leaves my personal space and crosses the room, my thoughts scramble in every direction, desperate to understand.
Jutting his chin through a smirk, he pauses in front of the door. “I do hope you like your new dresses. I don’t usually reward noncompliance, but this once I think you’re worth an exception. It would behoove you not to prove me wrong on this, Makayla.”
My skin crawling from where he touched me, I slouch and stare unseeingly at the floor. Ed pulls on the knob and then saunters out the door.
Shortly after composing myself, I stow the dresses in a drawer and dash over to the café, hoping a dose of fresh air and a change of scenery will calm my shredded nerves. While Vinnie whips up a dish I’m certain he’s making just for me, I hang out at the bar in the back and listen in each time he shouts, “Anastasia, mangiamo!”
It took me a while to translate mangiamo from Italian to English, but when I did, I smiled as I heard Vinnie address the wait staff in that manner. Now, every time Eli pops in at my desk and says, “Makayla, let’s eat,” my thoughts immediately travel to my favorite spot across the street.
Vinnie owns the small establishment, and Stacie is his oldest daughter. He never calls her Stace or Stacie, like I’ve come to learn everyone else does. He only calls her Anastasia, and since the day she told him who I was, he’s made certain to leave the special window booth open, just for Eli and me. He’s seen me here numerous times, and often tosses me a sweet comment when he sees I’m tired from a long evening.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice I’m off and reeling from having just been groped and demoralized by my boss. I peek over at the empty booth to hide emotions I’m certain are still visible on my face and let memories of the first time Eli brought me to Café Mangiamo replace the ones swimming in my head.
On a good day, and if Eli were here, we’d be soaking up heat from the stone fireplace and enjoying each other’s stories. Since he’s not here, I don’t particularly want to stay, and ask Vinnie to box up my order so I can take it back to my office. Surely Mr. Tagarelli will be in by now, and I won’t be alone, mulling over how life can move so quickly from beautiful to bad.
Back at my desk, I dredge a warm slice of fresh-baked bread through sauce from Vinnie’s pasta ai quattro formaggi and catch myself constantly peeking over at the absurdly tall stack of meteorology books I’ve used to prop the door open. The instant Mr. Tagarelli sees them he’s bound to turn his head. I’ll make up some story about why I moved the two-foot tall glass Galileo thermometer from its spot on the counter to the top of the stack of books, and then tell him I needed the door open because the computers were overheating. Given their age, he won’t think twice, but Ed will if he so much as thinks about closing that door again.
