The Naughty List: A Christmas Romance

by Hazel Kelly

  “Come for me, Holly,” he whispers, rocking his hips.

  I wish I could make the feeling last but it’s too intense. My orgasm shatters through me until I cry out and the tips of my fingers are shaking as he thrusts inside me, the weight of his load filling my belly and coating his dick.

  I’m about to faint when he finally turns the vibrator off, and I collapse against his chest in a panting heap of sequined pleasure.

  I push some hair from my burning forehead and drag a finger along his bottom lip. “I don’t know if this is going to work out,” I whisper.

  “What?” He cranes his neck back and looks at me, the flush on his cheeks like two painted brushstrokes.

  “I don’t know if I’m secure enough to be with someone who’s right all the time.”

  He laughs. “I’m not right all the time.”

  “You were certainly right about that.”

  He smiles. “You’re welcome.”

  I hold his face gently and kiss him. “Can I confess something to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is my first office Christmas party, and the bar has been set very high.”

  He drags a finger along the edge of my scoop neck gown. “You look beautiful in the dress by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I hope you don’t feel that it was presumptuous of me to pick it out for you.”

  “It was,” I say, “But it fits perfectly so you got away with it.”

  “Good, because it just didn’t seem right to only send over the thong.”

  My eyes grow wide. “That would’ve been even more presumptuous somehow.”

  “I’m glad I got away with it,” he says. “Since I’m on a roll, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Spend Christmas with me.”

  My heart sinks. “I can’t. I always spend Christmas with my family.”

  “Christmas Eve then.”

  I shake my head. “I’m working.”

  “Can’t someone cover for you?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s time and a half, and I already had someone cover for me so I could come to this.”

  He sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Nothing on Christmas, I’m afraid.”

  “So what then? We have to hold out for a Christmas miracle?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “But I’m all yours tonight.”

  He smiles. “In that case, I’m dying to know how that dress looks on the floor.”

  T W E L V E

  I don’t care what anyone says, there is nothing sadder than working on Christmas Eve.

  No matter how much cheer I force on my customers, I can’t do anything to change the fact that no one wants to be here, myself included. My only saving grace is that I’m getting paid for it, and I’ll enjoy Christmas more tomorrow knowing I didn’t take the easy way out… though I know it would feel like the hard way when my next rent bill comes.

  I sigh and refill syrup. I force smiles and wipe countertops. I sneak the loneliest people in New York slices of pie that I know will come out of my paycheck, but I don’t care. Because for all I know, that slice of pie is the only thing they’re going to get from anyone this year, and it breaks my heart.

  I’m all too aware that loneliness is part of the human condition, but there is no time when it feels more unjust than Christmas, and my heart aches not for the people who chose to spend it alone, but for those who don’t have a choice.

  “Care for a fresh cup?” I ask an old man who’s been staring at the same half-finished crossword for the last hour.

  “Please,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

  I know better than to ask if he has any special plans this Christmas. He doesn’t or he wouldn’t be here doing a crossword puzzle whose answer came out a week ago.

  Last week the Christmas lights along the counter, the fake snowflakes in the windows, and the Christmas jingle mix I’ve memorized from start to finish seemed festive and cheery, but tonight I want to take it all down and let these customers forget that they’re alone on Christmas, which I can only imagine is what they want to do more than anything.

  Instead, I let them be alone together, along with me. All of us in our own way, keeping our disingenuous merriment to ourselves and keeping things polite.

  Fortunately, we aren’t very busy. So when I drop a bag of powdered sugar refilling a small tray for some kids whose big Christmas surprise seems to be pancakes, I have plenty of time to clean up.

  When I turn my attention from the floor to myself, I’m amused that the powdered sugar has made its way into my eyebrows and eyelashes. For a second I think I look kind of romantic, but I’m not sure I’ll feel that way if my eyes stick shut.

  After I dust myself off, I go check on my customers and notice there’s someone new in the corner in a dark jacket. I walk up behind him and take out my notepad. “Merry Christmas, handsome, what can I get-” My mouth falls open when I see who it is.

  “Do you call all the customer’s handsome or is that just special for me?” Anthony asks, laying his leather gloves on the table.

  “Everyone gets it on Christmas whether they like it or not.”

  He smiles.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Can’t a guy come in for some coffee and pie on Christmas Eve?”

  I slip my pad in my apron and fold my arms, praying I got all the powdered sugar out of my ears. “A guy certainly can assuming he has no ulterior motives.”

  “Ulterior motives?”

  “Yeah, like distracting the servers when they’re working.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that,” he says. “You must have me confused with someone on the naughty list.”

  I squint at him. “You really expect me to believe you’re here because you had a craving for coffee and pie?”

  “Look, I was under the impression this place would be cozier than Starbucks, but you’re giving me such a hard time I’m second guessing myself.”

  I roll my eyes. “What kind of pie do you want?”

  “What do you recommend?” he asks. “I trust you’ve tried them all.”

  I sigh. “The pecan is very good if you like a savory pie, but the new strawberry trifle pie has been really popular with those who like something sweeter.”

  “I see,” he says. “I suppose I’ll try a slice of each then. I’d also like a triple decker club sandwich with fries in a to-go box.”

  “A to-go box?”

  He nods. “The sandwich isn’t for me. I just came for pie. Like I said.”

  “Coming right up,” I say, going to place the order in the kitchen before returning to Anthony’s table with the coffee pot.

  “Come here often?” he asks while I’m pouring.

  “Only on Christmas Eve when the place is really jumping,” I say. Part of me wants to ask him why the hell he’s come in. Is it just to flaunt the fact that he gets to do what he wants tonight? Or is he checking up on me to make sure I was telling the truth?

  Whatever his motive, I wish he weren’t here. I liked the fact that he didn’t know what I looked like with food on my face in my science teacher tennis shoes. Why couldn’t he just stay home and think of me in that red dress with my hair done and my lips on his-

  A customer on the other side of the room calls my name- or rather- calls “hey miss,” and I discontinue my train of thought to go confirm that yes, in fact, he was supposed to receive another slice of toast.

  Despite wanting to drop everything and chat with Anthony, I don’t. It’s not fair to the other customers, and a family of seven has just come in and asked for three highchairs and two booster seats. On the plus side, time should start speeding up right about now.

  After Anthony has had a chance to try his pies, I go over to check that they’re to his liking. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “The pecan is the clear winner,�
� he says. “But I think this other one would probably taste a lot better if I were licking it off your body.”

  “I appreciate your feedback,” I say, glancing around to make sure no one heard him.

  “Then again, what wouldn’t taste better that way?”

  I cock my hip. “Surely you have somewhere to be.”

  “I do,” he says. “Tucked up in front of my fireplace with you.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “How soon do you get off?”

  I glance at the clock. It’s not even ten. “I’m supposed to work until midnight.”

  “Midnight?!”

  I shrug, reminding myself that’s two and a half more hours of time and a half, money I definitely need if I’m going to keep seeing a man whose driving gloves are worth more than my best handbag.

  “I’ll take the check when you’re ready,” he says, handing me his credit card.

  I feel bittersweet about him leaving so soon, but I couldn’t exactly expect him to wait around and stare at the menu… though it would probably take two hours to read the whole thing. I put his sandwich order in a carryout box, print his check, and return to his table. “Here’s your sandwich,” I say, laying it down. “Once you sign your receipt, you’re good to go.”

  “I just texted you my address,” he says. “I want you to come by when you get off work.”

  “I’ll be wrecked and greasy,” I say. “And probably not much fun.”

  “It’s not like you have to abseil down the chimney,” he says. “Just ring the buzzer, and I’ll whisk you upstairs.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, knowing I have an exhausting family day ahead of me tomorrow.

  “Please, Holly. You’re all I want for Christmas.”

  I groan on the outside but inside I do cartwheels. “Thanks for coming by.”

  “Was that a see you later?”

  “That was a maybe.”

  “There’s a stocking with your name on it,” he says, pulling his coat on.

  I raise my eyebrows. “You got me a stocking?”

  He nods. “Of course. You think I’d ask you to spend Christmas Eve with me and not make sure I had Christmas jammies and a stocking for you?”

  “You didn’t get me Christmas jammies.”

  “I most certainly did.”

  “You’ve peaked my curiosity.”

  “And you’ve given me hope,” he says. “Thanks. And for the coffee, too.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, trying not to skip back to the kitchen as I imagine the Christmas jammies he probably got me. If I were a betting woman, I’d guess silk and skimpy. He’s done nothing up to this point to make me think he’d tuck me up in thick footie pajamas.

  I take a few sips of my own coffee and head back to his table. He’s taken the sandwich and obviously plunked his leftover pie right in his carryout container. I stack his plates, drop them off at the kitchen window, and go to process his bill.

  It’s only when I’m keying in the numbers that I realize he’s left me a tip. A ten thousand dollar tip. My eyes go cross-eyed more than once as I try to focus on what I’m seeing. When I’m absolutely sure I haven’t imagined it, I set the bill down and race out the front door.

  There’s no sign of him anywhere… except the homeless guy who always hangs out in our alley is sitting against our brick façade with a takeout container in one hand and a triple decker club in the other. I smile at him, and he tips his sandwich in my direction.

  Fuck.

  I step back inside and notice right away that my manager is standing at the register. I swallow as I walk up to him.

  “What the hell is this?” he asks.

  “The bill for table seventeen.”

  “And I suppose that’s supposed to be your tip, is it?”

  I shrug. “I’m as surprised as you are.”

  He shakes his head. “Just get out of here, Holly.”

  I crane my neck forward. “What?”

  “You’re fired.”

  “But-”

  “It was one thing that you wanted to be the free pie fairy all night,” he says. “And I was going to let that go since its Christmas and everythin-”

  “I was going to pay for those slices.”

  “Sure you were. With the money you just tried to scam out of that customer.”

  “But I didn’t write that! I wasn’t even expecting a tip!”

  “You starving actresses are all the same. Take your dramatic ass somewhere else. I have a diner to run.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Have some dignity and go hang up your apron in the supply closet.”

  I search his beady eyes and wonder how someone can act this way on Christmas Eve.

  And in case I haven’t heard him, he lifts Anthony’s check and rips it in half over and over until it’s too thick to tear anymore. Then he dumps it in the wastebasket.

  T H I R T E E N

  I’m ready to cry by the time I get to Anthony’s building, but the number of people I have to talk to in order to get to him forces me to collect myself. When I finally reach his floor, he opens the door before I can pound on it.

  “You’re early,” he says, opening the door with a glass of mulled wine in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

  I drag my fingers under my eyes. “I lost my fucking job thanks to you.”

  He furrows his brow and opens the door wider.

  I step inside, letting my eyes scan the open plan room. There’s a modern fireplace in the middle of the condo, and I can see the flames reflected in the floor to ceiling windows lining two of the four walls in the main room.

  “What do you mean you lost your job?” he asks.

  I drop my purse on the floor and turn to look at him. He’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling.

  “If anything I would’ve expected you to get a raise after such good service.”

  “What were you thinking leaving a tip like that?” I ask. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “It was supposed to cheer you up,” he says, extending his wine towards me. “Not upset you.”

  I wave the glass away. “Why would you think giving me a load of money I didn’t earn would cheer me up? That’s not what Christmas is about.”

  He rolls his dark eyes. “Not strictly, but it is about taking care of the people we love, and I was only trying to be supportive if you wanted an excuse to skip out early tonight.”

  “By tipping me ten thousand dollars?!”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what you get for time and a half.”

  I shake my head. “You are so out of touch.”

  “Look, Holly. I wasn’t trying to offend you, I swear. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to be there on Christmas Eve if you didn’t want to be.”

  “But I did have to be there,” I say. “It’s my job. That’s what a job is. A thing you do even when you don’t want to so you can afford to do things you do want to do.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  I reach for his wine and take a little sip because it’s too hot to slam and because I’m terrified of dripping on his fancy carpet. “I don’t want your money.”

  “I know,” he says, heading towards the kitchen. “That’s why I thought it might be fun to give it to you.”

  I follow after him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Of course it does. You’re the only woman I’ve ever gone out with that hasn’t looked for excuses to fleece me, and it’s so fucking refreshing I fear my generosity with you knows no bounds.” He pours some mulled wine from the pot on the stove into a fresh glass.

  “I’m not the kind of girl that takes advantage of people.”

  “You’re not the kind of girl that should be working in a shitty diner on Christmas Eve either.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with an honest day’s work.�
��

  “Unless you’re using it as an excuse not to do a more honest day’s work.”

  “What would be more honest?”

  “Going after what you really want.”

  “And what do I really want?”

  “A career in acting,” he says. “And me.”

  “I also want to eat food and have a place to live.”

  “Whatever,” he says. “You know what your problem is?”

  “The fact that I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing that sweater?”

  He looks down. “This is my favorite Christmas sweater.”

  I shake my head and do my best to ignore the tinsel woven through the sleeves. “I don’t expect you to understand how hard it is to make ends meet for someone who didn’t inherit the nation’s most beloved department store, but I’m doing my best.”

  “Your best can be better.”

  “How?”

  “Take that tip. Stretch it as far as it will go, and don’t stop going to auditions until you get a role you’re excited about.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I know it is,” he says. “But what isn’t easy is watching your talent get squandered on ungrateful kids when people should be lining up to see you seven nights a week.”

  “I’m glad you want to be supportive,” I say, sliding onto a leather barstool. “Really, I am, but your tip is in ten thousand pieces in the Lemmy’s dumpster, and I can’t exactly get on the right track overnight.”

  “I’m not sorry you got fired.”

  “See, that’s a fucked up thing to say.”

  “Now that I think of it,” he says. “I wish I’d fired you from elfing the day I met you.”

  “I think you underestimate how easy it is to find acting work in this city.”

  “If there’s one thing I don’t underestimate, it’s what it takes to make it in this city.”

  “Why are you meddling in my life?” I ask. “Why do even care what the heck I’m doing tonight? Shouldn’t you be with your own family?”

  He leans against the counter and watches me as he takes a sip of wine. “Yeah, I probably should be, but unlike most people who spend every Christmas wondering how they got stuck with the family they have, I spend every Christmas wishing I had the family I want.”