Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Why? I’m not harming Gabby.”

  Or me, I want to say. He looks absolutely edible in jeans and a dark blue shirt, untucked, unbuttoned to his breastbone.

  “No, you’re not. In fact, she seems to like you a lot. I’m worried about her getting attached.”

  “I don’t have a train to catch.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay . . .” He draws the word out with a raised eyebrow.

  After a brief pause, the subject ends up being tabled. We move back to safer territory, laughing about Lumberjax and my absolute lack of ax-throwing prowess.

  The food comes and we share it. Still laughing, we order a second round of drinks. I forget my phone is even sitting on the bar, not worried about Gabby for the first time in ever.

  “How about you?” he asks. “You looking forward to the holiday? I imagine it’s hectic with Gabby and presents and Santa.”

  “We went to the mall, and she handed him a two-page list. If I worked overtime all year, I couldn’t afford everything on her list.”

  “I need to get her something.”

  “See, this is what I mean. You can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

  His hand covers mine, and my body melts like a popsicle sitting next to a pool in August. “I can and I will. Plus, we’re going to Lizzie’s. Remember?”

  I nod, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, he chooses that moment to kiss me. We finish our drinks and skedaddle to my place for a quick twist in the sheets.

  Which leads to the panic attack I have a week later . . .

  Christmas Eve is finally here, and I’m not going to lie . . . it needs to end fast.

  Delia and James are en route, and the word clusterfuck keeps flashing in my brain. Not because of their holy terrors in tow, but Reid. Yes, Reid, the blogger my brother-in-law and I are both equally infatuated with. Okay, maybe me a bit more.

  Last week, in some post-coital glow, I asked Reid to join us tonight. I blame the wine or the way he held my hand. Later, after we did the deed, he said he’d love to meet my twin. It was pillow talk, but I fell for it. I blame some post-orgasmic haze, or whatever thing he did with his tongue.

  I text my sister, amending my swear words like we usually do in case one of our kids sees our conversation.

  ANDI: Ducking Reid.

  DELIA: What are you talking about?

  She texts me back, hopefully keeping her phone away from the eyes of babes.

  ANDI: Because he ducking pushed his way into tonight.

  DELIA: I thought it was sweet. He wants to bring dessert and meet me. You said so yourself.

  Leave it to Delia, always the needier one. When she needs me to commiserate, I’m there for her.

  ANDI: It was, it is. BUT JAMES.

  Yes, I shouty-cap scream the last part. James could be a big problem when it comes to Reid stopping over.

  Yes, I told Reid my brother-in-law likes his blog.

  No, I didn’t tell him I’m Andrea of UAB, and all of the above.

  Yes, Delia reminded James not to mention my profession, but she couldn’t tell him I knew about his reading the blog. We’d already spent way too much time on the phone dissecting the James–Reid–Andi love triangle.

  No, I didn’t tell Reid I’m not supposed to know James reads his blog, so perhaps keep that tidbit under wraps. Maybe he forgot I said it?

  You see the dilemma, don’t you? It’s a disaster in the making.

  DELIA: James doesn’t know it’s Reid-Reid. He’ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t take his shirt off. JK. It will be a BIG surprise for James and make his day.

  I slam my phone on the counter and decide not to answer her.

  Duck Delia and James. Couldn’t they stay in Ohio?

  Next, I hear an awful clanking in the kitchen, and turn to see the top blown off the pot of water I set to boil. “Fuck,” I mutter.

  Gabby is busy coloring place mats in her room, a baggie of Hanukkah coins keeping her company. Right—we always do both holidays. Traditional Italian seafood and pasta for Christmas Eve, with a side of potato pancakes and menorah lighting, no matter what date Hanukkah falls that particular year.

  Noticing it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, I count how many minutes I have until Delia and her family invade my small place. Forty-eight, if I’m correct.

  Taking seven deep breaths, I tell myself we’ll eat at about four, open gifts, let the kids play, light the menorah, eat dessert, and they’ll be back on their way to Ohio. Five or six hours maximum is all I have to survive.

  It may work. Probably not, but too late to worry.

  I boil my ravioli and defrost the shrimp, checking on the crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms in the oven, and spend all of six minutes freshening up and changing clothes.

  “Merry everything!” James calls when I open my door.

  “Happy holidays,” I say halfheartedly.

  “Aunt Andi,” their munchkins call out in greeting.

  “Come in. Gabby’s waiting,” I say.

  “Celia, Robbie, yay, you’re here!” Gabby barrels toward the door.

  “Hey.” Delia pulls me in for a hug. “Good to see you, honey.”

  I nod in agreement, swallowing a barrage of emotions. “I didn’t realize how much I missed you until this moment.”

  She kisses my cheek, and my emotions settle for the first time all day.

  “Come on, give me your coats,” I tell James and Delia, the kids’ garments thrown on the floor on their way to play.

  “Smells good,” Delia says, wandering toward the kitchen. “Where can I put this?” She grabs the casserole dish James has been holding.

  “Slide it in the oven on the bottom rack.” As she does what I ask, I pour her a wine and glance at her husband. “James? Something to drink?”

  “One beer, because I have the drive back later.”

  We make small talk, remembering Mom and Dad.

  “They never should have gone on that car trip,” Delia says, and I nod.

  They made up their mind to drive to Florida and were hit by a semi. At least they were happy and in love, I’m thinking when the doorbell rings.

  “Ooh.” Delia can’t help herself.

  “Hi,” I mumble to Reid when I open the door.

  He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, you.”

  I glance down at what he’s holding. “What is it?”

  He winks. “S’mores bars. I found it on some mom blog. I know it’s not fancy, but Gabby will love it.”

  “Of course, she rules your world. I warned you . . . it’s not a good idea.”

  “Not only her, someone else rules my world too.” His words are soft and meant only for me. He conveniently ignores my warning about Gabby.

  A tingle runs down my spine, and I resolve to make today work.

  “Reid, this is my sister, Delia, and her husband, James.” When I make the introductions, Delia stands and gives Reid a hug, and James extends his hand.

  “Holy shite.” James goes right to it in his British accent. “You’re Reid from Grill and Groom!”

  Reid smiles and simply says, “I am.”

  “I read your blog.”

  My body feels as if it’s going to combust at any second.

  When I shoot Delia a dirty look, she pipes up and says, “Do you now?”

  James nods, unable to take his eyes off Reid.

  I know the feeling, buddy. Believe me.

  “Thanks,” Reid says. “Without readers, I couldn’t do it, but today’s the holiday and Andi’s turn to poison us with her cooking.”

  And that’s all, folks. No more blog talk. No more nerves. All thanks to Reid. Duh.

  I’m not able to relax entirely, but I do enjoy a glass of wine while Delia gets to know Reid. She repeats little tidbits back to him in what I can only imagine is some sort of memorization technique. “Stats professor, nice.” “Tenure track, but the blog takes up time. Hmm, I see.” “Alone for the holidays. So great you found Andi.”

  I watch
them, my head swinging back and forth like I’m engrossed in a live tennis match.

  My sister and my lover (of five minutes) are talking like I’m not here. My kid is playing in the other room with her cousins. James is fangirling in the corner.

  This is not my life, but evidently it is.

  “I’m not much of a griller, but I can see how you would make it better,” my sister purrs. Purrs!

  Is she flirting with my guy? And is she talking about his blog?

  “I think we should eat,” I announce out of nowhere, my wineglass empty.

  As soon as I hit the kitchen, I refill the sucker and start pulling pans from the oven, then ladle food into the serving dishes. “James, will you tell the kids it’s time to eat?”

  Reid excuses himself to use the bathroom, and I manage to give Delia seven dirty looks in the time both he and James are gone. #winnerwinnerchickendinner

  “Sit next to me, Reid,” I hear Gabby say in the hallway.

  “Who else would I sit next to?”

  My heart does cartwheels, and I have to consciously stop myself from dancing in the kitchen. The way I feel isn’t normal. It’s some sort of Stockholm syndrome with Reid. Yeah, I know I’m not stuck with him, but he’s the first guy to stick with us. I’m crazy for him because he’s here.

  The gang gathers around the dining room table, carefully decorated by Gabby, and Delia comes to help me.

  “I love him,” she barely whispers.

  “Shhh,” I tell her, pretending to be offended by her overt affection. Really, I don’t need any reminders of how much there is to love when it comes to Reidville.

  Delia leads us in a round of thanks and gratitude, and then we light the Hanukkah candles earlier than usual, which gives me hope the evening will end earlier than expected.

  With Robbie shouting the prayers, I look around our crazy crew. Our kids must be so confused with the Italian food spread in front of them, Jewish prayers they’ve barely heard more than once a year ringing in the air, and a Brit and a hot geek at the table, to boot.

  Finally, everyone digs in. Wine flows, and laughter fills the room. Reid compliments my cooking, taking seconds of my potato pancakes. I don’t bother to mention they’re store bought. I can’t think of a better Christmas until . . .

  James sticks not one, but both feet in his mouth. “What’s on the blog for Christmas tomorrow, Reid?”

  “Actually, I’m not doing any grilling this year. I’m doing a post on beard grooming and running a campaign asking for donations to several men’s shelters this holiday season.”

  Leaning back in his chair, James knows he’s looking dapper in his cashmere sweater and slacks. “Fabulous,” he says in his dumb-twat accent that makes me want to punch him. “You know, Andi blogs—”

  “Blogged,” I say quickly.

  James sits forward and looks incredulous, like he’s been reprimanded six ways from Sunday. These damn Brits; they’re so sensitive.

  “Blogged,” I repeat, this time more firmly.

  “Really?” Reid slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose and eyes me like an old-school librarian. It’s kind of sexy, but I can’t focus on that right now because my heart is in my left foot.

  I notice Delia kicking James under the table, and scowl at her obtrusive actions.

  “Used to. Mom blogger, guilty as charged.” I raise my hand in the air.

  “And?” Reid prompts me to go on.

  “It never really took off . . . it was kind of pathetic. The whole thing.”

  First, James interrupts. “But . . .”

  And then Robbie is a super-duper interrupter when he proceeds to stand up and barf all over the table.

  “Shite.” James hops up and grabs a green Robbie, carrying him under his armpits to the bathroom.

  “Ugh, Andi. I’m so sorry.” Delia runs to the kitchen and starts grabbing paper towels, her ass in the air as she rummages under my sink. The whole ordeal is like a dream sequence.

  “Gabby, why don’t you and Celia go watch TV on my bed.” I handle the easiest of tasks. I don’t have to twist their arms to leave the putrid smell and watch unsupervised TV.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to Reid. He’s still sitting in the dining room chair in a daze, his eyes glued on the Hanukkah candles.

  “Did that just happen?” he mumbles, not looking at me.

  “Yeah, it did. Kids. It’s an occupational hazard. You cook, and eight times out of ten, they’re likely to puke it up, either from running in circles or some nasty virus.”

  He’s looking a little greenish, but he offers, “Can I help?”

  Just then, violent barfing echoes from the bathroom.

  “Um, no. Why don’t you go home, take a hot shower, and sit down with a good Scotch?”

  A fine sheen of sweat lines his brow. I want to comfort him, but I can’t.

  In a split second, all hell breaks loose.

  James runs out into the living area, looking for washcloths. Gabby slams my bedroom door shut. And Delia is running her mouth.

  “Oh shit,” Reid says.

  What now?

  He lunges toward the Hanukkah menorah and catches a candle as it leans and then topples in midair. In about two seconds, my place would have gone up in flames, but thanks to Reid, it’s in one piece.

  “Wow, thanks.”

  I feel so terrible for Reid. He looks downright miserable with hot wax stuck on his hand, and Robbie retching it in the background. We’re like a reality show in progress.

  “It’s okay. Go, go. Get out while you can,” I tell him, and he doesn’t argue.

  It could have been worse. The chaos successfully stops any more blog talk . . . and prevents Gabby from getting further attached to Reid.

  Except, when they both wake up with the stomach bug on Christmas Day and we can’t go to Lizzie’s like we’d planned, they’re forever bonded.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Leona knocks on the door and calls to me.

  “Shit.” I stand up from my computer and plod to the door. “Hey, Lee, don’t get too close. My nephew gave us all a present for Hanukkah and Christmas . . . the stomach bug.”

  “Oh, nonsense, my immune system is the best thing about me. All those years as a secretary, everyone sneezing and hacking on my desk, I don’t get sick. You know that.” She ignores my smelly, bulky robe and shabby appearance and walks right in.

  I notice an animal carrier under her arm. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, a gift for Gabby.” She sets it on the floor, her ass in the air, bright orange velour pants stretched over her goods.

  “A what?”

  Then I hear it . . . a meow.

  “Leona, I’m not in the mood for this . . . a KITTEN!”

  Yes, I shout, and of course, the bile rises in my throat.

  “Shoot.” Holding a hand over my mouth, I make a beeline for the bathroom.

  While hunched over the porcelain god, I hear Leona calling to Gabby. Seconds later, her footsteps scurry past the bathroom.

  Quickly, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, flush, gargle with mouthwash, and wash my hands. As I rush out of the bathroom toward the living area, I catch a glance of the Hello Kitty shower curtain—and try not to think of Reid.

  “Mom!” Gabby holds an orange kitten. She’s already smitten, looking like me when I think about my very own catnip, Reid.

  “Leona, I love her.” She’s snuggling the poor kitten to death.

  “How do you feel, honey?” I ask, ignoring the fact we have another mouth to feed.

  “So much better.”

  “Good. Why don’t you put the kitten away and you can take a bath?”

  “I’m going to make you some soup, Gabbs. You need strength,” Leona says, inviting herself to stay and care for us.

  I try hard not to sigh, but I do.

  “Oh, keep your sighs to yourself, Andi. You don’t have to be Super Woman. By the way, where’s Reid?”

  “Sick.”

  Gabby continues to nuzzle the k
itten and shouts, “I’m naming her Reese’s Cup because she’s orange like the wrapper, and also for Reid, but she’s a girl.”

  “Lord, what is happening to my life,” I say aloud.

  “Mom, what did I do?”

  “Nothing, sweetie.” I collect myself. “Reese’s is a cute name, but put her away and let’s take a bath. Leona, do you happen to have a litter box?”

  “Of course. My son told me everything to get and it’s at my place. After I put some soup on, I’ll get it.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Nonsense. You’re sick.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Right then, my cell phone buzzes in my robe pocket. I look at the screen and smile as I answer the call. “Hey.”

  “Hey, how ya doing?” Reid asks.

  “I’ve been better. I’m so sorry we got you sick.”

  I look at Leona, who ushers Gabby to the bathroom and tells her she’ll give her a bath. Reese’s is tucked inside the carrier, meowing as they carry her to the bathroom with them.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry, Reid.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Well, it probably needs to be said eighteen million times. Bet you think the whole dating-a-single-mom thing isn’t as much fun as it’s chalked up to be. Or you will soon.”

  “I didn’t say that. I feel bad I rushed out and left you with a mess to clean up.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Toast is fine.”

  I plop down on Gabby’s bed. “You know that expression?” He doesn’t know that expression is my personal motto. My heart stumbles, and I command it to quit.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Anyway, I still need to give Gabby her gift. I’m feeling much better, so I thought maybe tomorrow, I could swing by.”

  “I’m not at my best right now.”

  “So . . . let me decide.”

  I don’t respond.

  “How’s three-ish?”

  “Okay.”

  “And Andi? What about New Year’s Eve?”

  “I don’t have a sitter for New Year’s, and I’m pretty sure we’ve taken Gabby on her quota of dates.”