Full Contact Decorating

by Robin Weaver

  At least one thing in her life was finally going right. She’d hoped two things might be going right after tonight’s dinner—she wouldn’t jinx her already bad luck by calling it a date. Not yet. Only if that butcher didn’t get back soon, her evening had run-over-by-a-reindeer written all over it.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Snodgrass.”

  Katarina blinked, wondering if she’d willed the butcher into being. With his while hat and twinkly eyes, he looked like a ghost of Christmas Past. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re all out of duck. Can I get you something else?”

  No, no, no. That couldn’t be right. Tripp would think the duck was only a ruse.

  She tried to smile, even though she wanted to howl. The new and improved Katarina didn’t bark at butchers.

  And made the best of things. She didn’t really have time to make her specialty anyway She needed to plan another menu fast. Something quick, yet sensuous to a man’s taste buds.

  She looked at the butcher, still waiting for an answer. “If someone was making you a special dinner, what would you want?”

  The man smiled, his big hat wobbling. “Steak, of course.”

  “Oh.” Too bad she didn’t eat red meat. The sight of all that blood and fat. Just because she didn’t eat beef didn’t mean she couldn’t cook it. “What kind of steak do you have?”

  “Got a really nice filet mignon.”

  Perfect. Only she couldn’t afford that. “How about strip?” she asked. She couldn’t afford that either, but a girl couldn’t seduce a man with round steak.

  “Coming right up.”

  When the butcher finally handed her the paper-wrapped meat, she hurried to the produce department. Only what could she buy? All the chopping and dicing required for a good salad would take forever. Grimacing, she went to the deli and purchased a pre-made Caesar. Maybe if she put it in a nice bowl, she could get away with it.

  After she located the merlot Tripp preferred, she hurried to the checkout, trying not to wince at the eighteen-dollar price tag on the wine. By the time she reached her condo, the time flashed 6:30 p.m.

  “Crap.” She should cancel.

  No, she was Katarina Snodgrass. She could manage a formal dinner party on a deserted island with only a bit of driftwood and some jellyfish. She could certainly manage Tripp Anthony.

  She set the steaks down on the burner top. She’d cook the filet after Tripp arrived, but everything else needed to be ready. No time to bake potatoes, they’d have to go into the microwave. She pierced them with a fork, doing well until she’d almost finished the second one. The folk slipped and gouged into her hand.

  She yelped, and then used words the new-and-improved Katarina shouldn’t utter. But hell, her hand hurt. She gave her fingers a little shake, and then grabbed a paper towel to dab at the blood.

  As she reached across the counter, her elbow hit the bag containing the Caesar salad. The brown bag wobbled slightly, and then fell onto its side. The plastic container filled with lettuce and dressing tumbled out and catapulted toward the tile floor.

  Katarina grabbed at the falling salad, only she missed. Romaine lettuce covered the floor.

  Resigned, Katarina bent over and started picking up the leaves. She didn’t know why, because in a Caesar emergency, the five-second rule definitely did not apply.

  No salad for dinner and no time to clean. Katarina closed her eyes, determined to not scream. What the figgie pudding?

  She leaned her back against the counter. Two more deep breaths and she’d get moving, but she needed a minute. Okay, so they’d just have steak and potatoes. No biggie. Get the wine in the chiller and change clothes.

  Katarina grabbed the bottle and raced toward the opposite side of the kitchen. Her foot collided with a pile of oily romaine, sending her face forward toward the floor. Her entire life seemed to flash before her—at least her social life.

  She landed with a thud, holding one hand over her face and lifting the wine bottle up to avoid impact. The arm covering her head banged into the opposite counter and her body came to a screeching—literally—halt.

  “Ow! Ow.”

  She didn’t move for several seconds, waiting for the shooting pain. Nothing hurt. Much. Her arm throbbed a little and her knee probably had a scrape, but maybe she’d finally gotten lucky. She wiggled one set of toes, and then the other. So far, so good.

  Katarina sat up. The wine bottle hadn’t broken. She was bruised, but not broken. Dinner would be late, but okay.

  Being careful of her footing, she slammed the wine in the chiller, Once she cleared the kitchen, she kicked off her shoes and raced up the stairs. The sight that greeted her in the full length mirror in her bedroom scared the holiday spirit right out of her. She had salad in her hair. And Caesar dressing.

  Feeling like the roadrunner, she did a quick wash on her hair and pulled her long strands into a chignon, knowing her hair would be completely unmanageable when it dried. Tripp had always liked her hair down, but blow-drying would take twenty minutes.

  She glanced in the mirror, thanking the baby Jesus she didn’t need a lot of makeup. Flushed as she was, the hint of blush she normally applied wouldn’t be needed tonight.

  Oh, crap. She had to preheat the grill.

  She dabbed some gloss on her lips and rushed to the kitchen. She stared at the steaks on the counter, trying to remember what she meant to do. The doorbell sounded, further distracting her fractured thoughts. The little jingle-jingle sound normally made her smile, but the bell failed to put a dint in her bah-humbug mood.

  She turned on the grill and rushed to the front door. She paused to smooth imaginary wrinkles on her vintage Halston dress. She’d bought the garment on a discount rack last year when she still had some disposable income. Another breath and she yanked the door open.

  “Tripp,” Katarina said, hoping her voice sounded Marilyn Monroe-breathless instead of North Pole elf-squeaky. “You’re early.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s 7:05.”

  She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile. The old Katarina had never needed fake confidence. “My bad. Long day at work.”

  “We can do this another time.” Tripp took a backward step.

  “Don’t be silly. We just have a tiny change in menu.”

  “No problem. Here.” He handed her a brown bag with a Holiday Spirits label.

  She took the bag. Wine? Great. Maybe she could return the eighteen-dollar bottle. “Thanks. I’ll just get this chilled.”

  Tripp reached for her arm. “It’s cabernet sauvignon. Room temperature is better.”

  She blinked. She knew that, only when did he switch to the sauvignon? “Uh… Would you like a glass?”

  “Sure.” Tripp followed her into the living room. “Do you need me to open it?”

  She handed him the bottle and headed for the kitchen. Tripp followed on her boot heels.

  She stopped, causing Tripp to almost bang into her. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just remembered the corkscrew is in my dining room china cabinet.” Thank St. Nick she kept one there. She would have died if Tripp followed her into her sleigh-wreck of a kitchen.

  Wine opened and poured, they sat down on the sofa. She flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile, although she was feeling neither friendly nor hopeful.

  Tripp frowned. Great. He didn’t like the wine? She’d have to open the eighteen-dollar bottle after all.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked, already knowing the answer. His frown lines had deepened.

  “Do you smell that?”

  “Smell what?” Smoke.

  Her fire alarm sounded.

  Katarina raced to her kitchen. When she pushed open the swinging door, fire blazed from her cooktop.

  Great Marley’s ghost. She’d turned on the burner instead of the grill.

  And the paper-wrapped filet mignon had been sitting on the burner.

  Tripp rushed into action. “Fire extinguisher?” he yelled.

  She jerked open the cabinet
. Tripp grabbed the extinguisher before she could reach for it. A second later, the fire was out.

  Only the steaks were ruined. Dinner was ruined. Was her life far behind?

  Katarina leaned against the counter for a second time in less than an hour. Where was a paper bag when a girl needed one?

  “Sit down, Kat. It’s okay.” Tripp led her to the little bistro table in her kitchen and pulled out the chair. “You’re okay, right?”

  She wasn’t. Tonight was just another example of how her life had become one great big lump of coal. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how optimistic she remained, she couldn’t seem to catch a break. “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “How about this?” Tripp paused to flash his movie-star smile. “Let me take you out to eat. Least I could do after all the trouble you went to.”

  She touched her hair, wishing she weren’t the vain Katarina from before, but old habits died hard. “I’m a bit of a mess.”

  “You look great,” Tripp said. “Besides, we’ll just grab a sandwich at the Hungry Elf. You don’t even have to change.”

  “Actually, that’s a great idea.”

  Maybe she could catch a break.

  Chapter Seven

  We Three Kings—Are a Crowd

  Hunter stared at the ceiling, wondering why he’d ever agreed to Suzette’s crazy scheme. Sure, Katarina had some good ideas—great ones, actually—but he didn’t think the company was ready for a marketing plan. He certainly hadn’t been prepared for Katarina. Damn woman was like an arctic blast, straight from the North Pole.

  The Mistress Big-Head would never make Santa’s nice list—or anyone’s, for that matter—but she did have some good points. And she certainly wasn’t boring.

  Hunter hated boring, and at present, he was bored out of his mind. He’d grab a bite and head back to the florist shop. Katarina had said the place had Wi-Fi. He might not be able to work on the HollyGrams for her tree, but he could get a start on the website she’d outlined for his new company.

  He showered and changed, and after getting a recommendation from the hotel clerk, he headed toward the Hungry Elf. The small restaurant was over-the-top holiday, but the aroma was heavenly and most of the patrons were in jeans.

  Then he saw her. Katarina.

  Of all the Christmas joints in Tinsel Town, he had to walk into hers. He could only see the woman’s profile, but something about her shoulders made him think she wasn’t having a good time. Was the mighty tree decorating fiend nervous?

  Hard to believe. He couldn’t image anything would make Katarina Snodgrass nervous. Curiosity overruled his seasonal sense. He walked toward her table, just to say hello, of course.

  Katarina looked up. Her expression conveyed what he already knew: he’d made a mistake. Why hadn’t he just found another place to eat?

  He couldn’t exactly retreat now. Her date gave him the evil eye. Maybe Hunter only imagined that because the blond man flashed a downright friendly smile.

  Mr. Blond shot out his hand. “Hello.” Another smile. “Do you have a pen?”

  Hunter caught himself midway to scratching his head. He lowered his arm to shake hands with Katarina’s date, feeling like he’d fallen into one of his HollyGrams. “A pen?” he asked.

  “I…” The man blinked, his glossy exterior looking confused for a second. Then the smiley face returned. “Don’t you want an autograph?”

  Hunter frowned. What was the guy? One of those underwear models or something? Oh dear Lord, surely the man didn’t think he was gay?

  He needed to figure out a retreat. Fast.

  Katarina reached across the table to touch the model’s arm. “I think he’s saying hello to me, Tripp. He’s working with me on my tree design.”

  Working with me? Hell, no. She was working with him. On the best invention since tinsel.

  “Uh, yeah,” he replied, at a loss for what to say next. Small talk wasn’t his thing. He could do the social thing, when he absolutely had to, but he’d rather discuss an operating system any day.

  He glanced at Katarina, cursing his lapse in judgment—he should never have come over. “Eh, sorry to intrude. Seemed rude not to say hello.”

  “Nonsense,” the pretty boy replied. “I’m Tripp. Nice to meet you. You here alone?”

  Hunter nodded, feeling like a golf ball on a Christmas tree. “Just in town for business.”

  “Then join us.” The man turned toward Katarina. “You don’t mind, do you, pumpkin?”

  He glanced at Katarina, amazed the Amazon would allow anyone to call her pumpkin. Even so, she clearly didn’t relish the idea of him at their cozy little table.

  “Thanks so much,” he replied, “but I don’t want to horn in on your date.”

  “You’re not horning and this isn’t a date.” Tripp smiled, a genuine, friendly smile.

  A smile; something Hunter had never gotten from Katarina. He regretted thinking of the man as pretty boy. Maybe he would join them. “Sure you don’t mind?” he said, looking directly at Katarina.

  She shook her head, smiling, but looked like she wanted to throw a house on him. Apparently the not-a-date was news to her.

  Hunter knew he should decline, but getting under the redhead’s skin would be a better way to spend the evening than eating alone and then going back to the smelly florist shop to work. “Sure you don’t mind?”

  Tripp was already waving for the waiter.

  The meal passed in a blur. Hunter couldn’t believe he’d actually enjoyed himself. He probably should feel bad. Katarina clearly hadn’t had any fun, but watching her fume had given him far too much pleasure. Still, he would get out of her sexy hair before he completely ruined her night. “I should go.”

  “Can we give you a ride?” Tripp asked. “I rented a pretty cool Mustang.”

  He was about to say, “no, thanks,” but Katarina’s sour expression made him reconsider. What was it about the woman that made riling her so enjoyable? “My hotel’s only a couple blocks from here, but if you’re sure it’s no problem…”

  “No problem at all.” The actor smiled. “If you don’t have any plans, Kat’s going to help me read some lines. Why don’t you come with us?” Tripp tapped him on the shoulder with his fist. “Probably too lame for a brain like you, but we have wine.”

  As much as he’d love to yank the Katarina Snodgrass chain, Hunter had gotten his fill of getting her back for the drugstore insult. Let her have her evening with the soap opera star. “Thanks, but I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  “Me neither,” Tripp said. “Tell you what—we’ll stop by the liquor store for some beer.”

  “When did you start drinking beer?” Katarina asked Tripp.

  Katarina clearly didn’t drink beer. Probably too many carbs or something. Whatever the woman did or didn’t do, it looked good on her. He might not like to listen to her, but looking at Katarina was pure joy.

  Tripp clearly didn’t appreciate her. The actor didn’t actually seem to notice her at all.

  Hunter felt a moment of sympathy for Katarina. Was Tripp blind or stupid? Maybe both. Sure, he didn’t like the she-devil, but had Katarina been sweet to him like she had Tripp, he might feel very different. He didn’t like her, she didn’t like him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate all that soft creamy skin and curves that practically demanded a man’s attention.

  Tripp’s non-interest was not his concern.

  “I should probably get home, too. How about we try again tomorrow night?” Tripp asked, ignoring Katarina’s question.

  And ticking Hunter off in the process. He glanced at Katarina, who looked decidedly dashed. Hell, if she wanted her evening with the actor, he’d do what he could to give it to her. Tonight clearly wasn’t going to happen without his participation.

  “Actually,” Tripp said, trying to look as if he had to think about his schedule. “Tonight’s better for me, but only if it’s okay with Kat.”

  He couldn’t read her expression, but he felt pretty
sure he’d pay tomorrow.

  Couldn’t she see he’d done her a favor?

  Chapter Eight

  The Wassail Song, Metrosexual-Style

  Katarina leaned against the kitchen door, grateful for a moment alone. She couldn’t believe Hunter had shown up at the Hungry Elf. Of course she shouldn’t have been surprised. Things were going well.

  Naturally I-Don’t-Want-to-Horn-In had jumped on Tripp’s invitation to come back to her place. How had her offer to read lines with Tripp ended up a holiday trifecta with Hunter playing third wheel? Not exactly the yummy one-on-one she’d anticipated.

  Who used words like horning in, anyway? Super geeks, that’s who. She slammed her cabinet door. Bad enough her evening was shot to the North Pole, now she’d get to play waitress all night. Oh goody.

  “Frig.” Katarina sidestepped a lump of wilted romaine. She’d completely forgotten about the Caesar salad strewn all over her kitchen floor. A bit like her life—wilted, scattered, and walked on. A bit like her love life, too, now that one Mr. Hunter Montgomery had decided he and Tripp should be BFFs.

  To be fair, Tripp had instigated the man love, but she was in no mood to be fair. She started to open the wine she’d purchased, but grabbed the bottle Tripp had bought instead. She fumed as she popped the cork, being careful where she stepped. Wouldn’t do to slip on Caesar dressing again.

  Using a paper towel, Katarina hurriedly wiped the floor, pushing the wilted lettuce into a pile close to the door. Now able to get to her sink, she rinsed off the wineglasses—clean, but they’d been in the cabinet for almost a year. Hard to believe she’d once hosted a dinner party every weekend.

  Her head throbbed. Whether from the tight chignon or from the constant man talk, she couldn’t say. Katrina set the glasses down and let cold water run over her hands, and then pressed fingers to her temples.

  “Need any help?” Hunter’s voice.

  Katarina jumped, turning just in time to see him step in the mound of fermenting Caesar salad.