Once Upon a Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  Yet suddenly, for some reason, it seemed very important that she choose well. Important to maintain the new spirit of togetherness between her and Dylan, important to validate the good luck they’d enjoyed so far…important just for the fun of winning.

  “I don’t know,” she said, turning to Dylan. “You pick.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not picking. If I wind up choosing a bum machine, somehow you’ll make it sound as if I did it on purpose, just to wreck your honeymoon charade.”

  Did she really seem that eager to place the responsibility for the success or failure of the honeymoon charade on his shoulders? So far, most of it had been thrust in their laps, readymade in the form of the honeymoon surprises and their stay in the suite. It wasn’t as though Dylan had anything to do with that. After all, they’d both volunteered to help Richard and Janie.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Stacey protested.

  “It’s your idea. You pick.”

  “Really. I don’t mind if you pick.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She crossed her arms, feeling frustrated. “How about if I close my eyes and hold out my hand, and you steer me toward one of the slot machines? That way, technically I’m choosing, but—”

  “Uh-uh.” Behind his sunglasses, Dylan looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Will you just make a decision already?”

  “Fine.” Trying to look determined, Stacey strode to the nearest row of slot machines and examined them. Maybe one of them would seem luckier than the rest.

  After a few minutes, Dylan said, “It’s just a dollar. Go ahead and pick one. I thought you felt lucky.”

  “I do.” But she wanted a lucky slot machine, too. Unfortunately, no hunches were hitting her the way they did to people in the movies. The machines all felt exactly the same.

  Dylan touched her shoulder. “The luck isn’t in one of these machines. It’s inside you. Go ahead. You can’t lose.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Stacey examined the machines again. She pointed to the one nearest her. “Okay. Eeny, meeney, miney, mo—”

  “Arrgh!” Dylan slapped his forehead, knocking his Diamondbacks cap askew. “I can’t believe it’s this hard for you to make a decision.”

  Defensively, she frowned at him. He was too busy wiping off the blue zinc oxide smear on the heel of his hand to notice. “The rate of inflation will rise before you manage to spend that silver dollar,” he said, talking over her rhyme. “Our winnings will be worth ninety-nine percent less by the time we get them.”

  “…told me to pick the very best one,” Stacey went on chanting at the glittering faces of the four machines in front of her. “And you are not it!” There. One down. She started again, more quietly this time.

  “Done!” she announced a minute later. She slapped her hand on the winning slot machine and shot Dylan a triumphant look.

  Finally his answering expression said. Stacey didn’t care. Adopting her best gambler’s voice, she held out her hand, palm facing. “Hit me.”

  “Like, with a ruler?” he asked, grinning. “The nuns at parochial school used to do that, but I don’t think you’ve—”

  “Give me the money, you goofball.”

  He pressed the silver dollar in her palm. Hefting it, Stacey hesitated before dropping it in the slot machine. It felt heavy and important, its weight a talisman of impending good fortune.

  “Wait.” Looking suddenly serious, Dylan wrapped his hand around hers, cradling the coin within their united grasp. Heat crept from his fingers to hers, turning the silver warm in her palm. “First, a kiss for good luck.”

  He bent his head. Stacey’s heart pounded. He should have looked ridiculous, still decked out as the ultimate tourist. She should have felt silly, standing in the middle of a crowded casino looking the way she did, with her hair all bunched up beneath her crumpled Gilligan hat and her blue zinc oxide nose and her movie-star-incognito sunglasses.

  But all she felt was beautiful.

  Because of Dylan. Because of the way he touched her and because of the caring in his voice. Tenderly, he raised one hand to the back of her neck, and all at once time stood still.

  The frenzy of the casino receded, leaving her aware of nothing but the anticipation between them. Stacey leaned forward, mesmerized by the gentle feel of his touch. Kiss me.

  She pressed her palm to his chest and discovered his heart beating as wildly as her own. Smiling, she raised her head. At the same moment Dylan’s mouth met hers. His kiss felt hard and demanding, warm and giving, all at the same time. It swept her mind clean of everything but this moment. This man.

  Their sunglasses clinked together and slid. His hat brim jabbed at her forehead. Stacey didn’t care. She wanted more of his kiss, his teasing tongue, his smooth nipping teeth that set her lips tingling with pleasure. She returned his kiss with a passion that curled her toes—and, she hoped, his. Her fingers tightened on his shirt, seeking support in a world turned unpredictable and anchorless.

  It was as though they’d never separated. Being in Dylan’s arms felt familiar and bittersweet, flavored with the memories they’d shared months before. His mouth opened over hers again, his tongue stroked over hers again, and Stacey welcomed him with a fierceness that surprised her. She wanted him.

  Now. Later. Both, she didn’t care. She wanted Dylan and only him…no matter what his loving cost her.

  He ended the kiss. Awareness crashed back to her. The music, the casino lights, and the murmur of voices all flooded her senses. Trembling, Stacey withdrew her hand from his chest.

  Dylan caught her wrist midway. Over the rims of his sunglasses, his gaze pierced straight through her own smoky lenses. Suddenly, she felt grateful for their partially concealing protection. Otherwise he’d certainly see her emotions, too new and exposed to hide, reflected in her eyes.

  Holy cow. She wanted Dylan. Even after all this time.

  “Did you…?” His voice sounded rough. “Did you just…? No.” He shook his head. “No. Never mind.”

  “What?”

  The steel in his grip and the heated rasp of his voice intrigued her—made her almost unbearably curious. Had he felt the same things she had? The closeness, the familiarity, the attraction?

  Apparently not, she decided when Dylan released her wrist. He shoved his sunglasses back where they belonged, heedless of the smear of blue that doing so added to his eyebrow, and tried a crooked smile.

  “It’s nothing.” He opened his hand over hers and unfolded her fingers to reveal the silver dollar within. Dylan nodded to the slot machine behind her. “If that kiss didn’t bring us good luck, I don’t know what will.”

  He wasn’t going to tell her. Of course, that didn’t really matter, Stacey told herself. After the honeymoon weekend was over with, they’d go their separate ways just like they had before. Wouldn’t they?

  “Me neither.” She attempted to push down the disappointment she felt with a smile of her own. Two could play at this game. She raised the coin to the slot. “Ready?”

  Dylan held up both hands with fingers crossed. “Ready. If we win, I get to sleep in the bed tonight. Another night on that loveseat and my knees will be permanently crooked.”

  Stacey smiled. What were the chances of their winning with a single coin? That was a goodwill gesture she could afford to make.

  “Okay.” She pinched the coin between her fingertips. “It’s a deal.”

  Closing her eyes, she wished for good luck and dropped in the money. Dylan reached around her and pulled the slot machine handle.

  “Here goes.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, then propped his chin on her shoulder. Together, they watched the mechanism spin.

  A bunch of cherries locked in place on the center line. Another bunch of cherries locked in place beside it. Two matches! Stacey held her breath. She felt Dylan’s chest expand against her shoulder blades with an indrawn breath of his own.

  The mechanism spun. A third bunch of cherries spun onto the line.
Stacey blinked. They’d won?

  They’d won.

  Won big, judging by the high-pitched jangling of the slot machine bells. Coins clanked into the bin and just kept coming, pouring in a shower of silver. Numbly, Stacey stared at it for a second before reality kicked in.

  They’d won!

  She shrieked and grabbed Dylan. He looked as shocked as she did. “We won! We won!” she yelled, shaking him—probably shaking him silly, but too excited to stop. “We won!”

  “I get to sleep in the bed.” As he gaped at the outpouring of coins, a huge grin spread over his face. “We won!”

  Money kept on clanging into the slot machine bin. Other casino patrons gathered around, pointing and talking and smiling. Somebody shoved a plastic cup in Stacey’s hand, and she held it beneath the stream of money. Another cup for her and two cups for Dylan weren’t enough to contain the overflow.

  By the time the casino management arrived to congratulate them, the money had slowed to a steady ping-ping into the pile Dylan had started collecting in his shirt. He held his shirt hem beneath the flow of coins like a farm wife collecting eggs from the golden goose, grinning at least as happily as Stacey was.

  They were celebrities in an instant. Passersby offered their congratulations, then raced to their own slot machines with renewed faith. Winning could and did happen.

  “Congratulations!” boomed the uniformed casino employee who arrived, partner in tow.

  He looked like a ringer for a professional basketball player, tall and lean and with hair shaved to within an eighth of an inch all over his head. His partner, a petite brunette with a digital camera hanging from a strap around her neck, stepped forward, smiling too. They both seemed thrilled that Stacey and Dylan had won in their casino.

  The brunette put her hand forward and clasped both of theirs in turn, patient enough to allow Dylan to juggle his shirtful of coins before shaking his hand.

  “Congratulations!” she echoed. “What are your names?”

  Names, names. For a second, Stacey felt too bedazzled to say. During the handshaking, the basketball player lookalike had somehow guided her and Dylan into a standing position beside their winning slot machine. Between that and the unreality of having actually won, she could barely think straight. Beside her, Dylan seemed in a similar state, cradling his shirtful of coins with a beaming smile.

  “Dylan Davis,” he said.

  “Stacey Ames,” she said at the same time. Wow, this was sooo neat! It had to be a good omen, a positive sign for their honeymoon suite collaboration.

  “Fine, fine.” The brunette made a note of it, then raised her camera. She edged closer as Mr. Basketball explained how to cash in their coins with the casino.

  “You’re our fourth big winner of the day,” he said, speaking with at least as much blatant cheeriness as the hotel desk clerk brought to her job. Maybe chipper behavior was a hiring prerequisite for the hotel.

  “Stand a little closer to each other,” the brunette instructed. “Okay. Now raise your cups—sir, your shirt will do nicely, thanks—and say, ‘We won!’”

  Obediently, Stacey and Dylan shuffled together. “We won!” they shouted in unison.

  It wasn’t until the brunette’s camera flashed in their faces and blinded Stacey that she realized what they’d done less than a minute earlier.

  They’d given out their names.

  Their real names.

  Whoops.

  Chapter Seven

  “I still don’t see what the problem is.” Dylan swiped his hotel key card through the reader at the honeymoon suite door.

  Stacey stared at him. He had to be kidding. They’d given away their real identities, had pictures taken to prove it, and made possibly the most public spectacle of themselves with winning. How could he not see the problem?

  “We told them our real names!” Miserably, she followed him through the unlocked suite door. “That’s the problem.”

  Ginger danced at her feet, shimmying with joy at their return. Stacey gave her a pat, then dragged herself to the sitting area and brushed off the remnants of what looked like chewed-up hotel stationery—Ginger’s latest doggie entertainment, she guessed—so she could plop on the loveseat.

  Their absences weren’t fair to Ginger. Maybe they ought to spend the rest of the night in the honeymoon suite, to avert another doggie meltdown.

  Behind her Stacey heard Dylan crooning to Ginger, saying something about chewing up his shoes instead of the curtains. A minute later he landed on the loveseat beside her, forcing her to tug her purse out of his way and onto her lap.

  She hugged it. If only money really did buy happiness, then maybe she could find some way out of this mess. Her half of their slot machine winnings had to be good for something, didn’t it?

  Dylan leaned over, looking exaggeratedly patient. It was the same expression he’d worn since she’d whispered her revelation about their name slipup to him at the hotel cashier’s office.

  “I’m telling you. You’re worrying too much about this.”

  Grrr. If there was anything Stacey hated, it was being told her worries were insignificant. She tried buying time to respond with a little patience by taking off her sunglasses, folding them, and stowing them along with her Gilligan hat inside her purse. It didn’t work.

  She still wanted to scream at him.

  “Oh?” Adopting an expression of polite surprise, she combed her fingers through her stringy hair. Fear of hat head had prevented her from trying to deal with it until now. A shower was definitely in order.

  “Is that right?” she asked. “Exactly what makes you think I’m worrying too much?”

  “All they asked for were our names. All they did was take our picture and hand us some money. As far as they’re concerned, we’re not even guests of this hotel. They didn’t ask us where we were staying, you know.”

  He was right. They hadn’t. “Probably because they already knew. We are supposed to be the honeymoon couple, you know.”

  “In this town, honeymoon couples are a dime a dozen,” Dylan pointed out. “On The Strip alone there must be fifty wedding chapels. Maybe more. Do you think we’re the only ‘honeymoon’ couple around?”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Nothing’s gone wrong. Aunt Geraldine will never catch word of this. Not unless you tell her yourself.” He whipped off his aviators and ball cap and handed them both to her, then raked his fingers through his hair. It stood on end like short brown spikes. “Are you going to tell her?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Because the way you’re going on about this, a person could get the idea you’re trying to sabotage the honeymoon charade. If you are, you might as well cut to the chase. Just call her up and spill the beans right now. It would sure free up the rest of my weekend.”

  “How dare you!” Stacey stuffed the sunglasses and cap in her purse with enough force to make Dylan wince. Good. At least that meant he was paying attention. “Of course I’m not trying to sabotage the honeymoon charade. What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  Throwing her purse on the loveseat—wishing she could throw it at him for making such an outrageous suggestion—she stomped to the bathroom. Scowling, she picked up a comb and looked in the vanity mirror.

  Her face stared back at her, flushed pink beneath a thick coating of baby blue zinc oxide war paint. Those were the only words for it. War paint. Three stripes streaked across each of her cheeks. Thumbprint-sized dots marched across her forehead and chin. Her nose was a blue blob.

  “Ahhh!”

  Thumping footfalls sounded outside the bathroom. Dylan poked his head around the corner, his face filled with concern. His gaze whipped over her, just as though it wasn’t completely obvious what was the matter.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Okay? Am I okay?” Stacey shook her head at her mirror image. “No, I’m not okay! On top of everything else, somehow you”—she poked her finger at his chest—“managed to make me look like a cra
zed lifeguard! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

  Stacey gripped the pink marble vanity and looked again at her mirror image. She’d actually appeared in public like this? Actually had her picture taken like this?

  “What have you done to me?” she wailed. Her fingers tingled on their way to going completely numb, but that was the least of her concerns. Her greatest concern was…strangling Dylan.

  Or at least giving him a coat of war paint to match.

  He took one look at her and backed up, turning his head left and right like a fugitive searching for a hiding place.

  “At least now you’re not so worried about the honeymoon charade,” he said. “Ha, ha.”

  Wisely, he retreated. She circled him through the sitting area, around the loveseat, and past the plate of Christmas cookies. Ginger yapped at her heels, wanting in on the game.

  “Not now, girl,” Stacey told her. “This time he’s all mine.”

  Her gaze searched the room, landed on her purse, and an idea struck her. A devious idea. But Dylan deserved it. She picked up her purse.

  “You told me to hurry up.” Doubtless wondering what she was up to, he glanced at her purse. “I was just going for even coverage.”

  “Even coverage, huh?” Opening her purse, Stacey pulled out a tube of pomegranate-colored lipstick and a midnight blue-colored eyeliner pencil. She held up the lipstick to the sunlight streaming through the honeymoon suite window and squinted at it. Yes, it would do nicely.

  He thought war paint was funny? She’d show him war paint.

  “Even coverage, huh?” She felt a devilish smile lift her lips. “Funny you should mention that.”

  Dylan backed up, skirted the edge of the bed, and stopped on the other side. “If this is about the honeymoon charade,” he said rapidly, “it’s really no problem. The hotel’s not going to call Aunt Geraldine.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No.” His gaze zipped to the lipstick, then to the eyeliner pencil. He smiled too, but his grin looked a little wobblier than hers felt.