by Melody Grace
Unexpectedly Yours
A Holiday Story
BY
Melody Grace
Copyright © 2014 by Melody Grace
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
Christmas Eve
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Christmas Day
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
New Year’s Eve
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
10 minutes earlier…
Christmas Eve
1.
Sophie
Christmas in New York…
Ever since I was a girl, snuggling in to watch holiday movies, I’ve dreamed about the day I would experience it for myself. The lights, the store windows, ice skating at Rockefeller Center, the sleigh ride through Central Park… Growing up in LA, with fake confetti snowfall and balmy 75-degree weather, I couldn’t wait to wrap up warmly in mittens and walk hand-in-hand through the softly-falling snow with the man of my dreams—
“Watch it, red!”
A stressed-looking man shoves past me to the baggage carousel. I leap back, right into the path of the other three hundred people all charging to get their luggage.
“Sorry… Sorry…wait!” I try to duck out of the stampede, but there’s no escape. The afternoon before Christmas, and the airport is madness: kids screaming, businessmen wielding their laptop cases like shields, hoards of tourists squinting at their phones. Last year, a friend of mine dragged me to a sample sale at a wedding dress warehouse. You haven’t seen chaos until you’ve watched five hundred wild-eyed brides-to-be fighting over the same 70% off Vera Wang strapless sheath. They had to call in riot police, and the whole thing wound up on the evening news.
But this? This is a whole other level of insanity.
I grip my suitcase tighter and fight my way to the exit. The doors slide open, and I step outside into a blast of icy frigid air and the sound of horns blaring in traffic.
Holy crap, that’s cold!
I bite back a gasp of shock. Just remember, you can’t have moonlit walks in the snow without actual snow, I remind myself, wrapping my vintage red wool coat tighter. I look around, but the sidewalk is packed with people.
“Excuse me,” I flag a passing security guy. “Where’s the taxi stand?”
“You’re looking at it.” He hurries on, rushing to separate two guys about to throw punches over the next cab in line. Behind them, the impatient crowd stretches around the block.
Plan B, then.
The Departures level is right upstairs, so I drag my suitcase into the elevator and head upstairs, hoping to snag a cab from someone just arriving to fly out. As the elevator fills, I slide my phone from my pocket and check to see if Matt has arrived. I wanted us to travel together, get the full romantic getaway experience from the minute we left LA, but he had a medical conference scheduled this week, so we had to fly out separately. Three romantic, snowy days in New York for Christmas, then on to Connecticut to meet his parents for the first time.
I can’t wait. My suitcase is heavier than an anvil, bouncing along behind me, packed full of “seduce me” slinky dresses for my candlelit dinners with Matt, and demure, “love me” dresses to wow my future in-laws. I shopped for weeks at my favorite vintage and thrift stores in LA, and since I’m a stress packer, I couldn’t leave anything behind. I want this trip to be perfect. I’ve planned every minute of our New York adventure: all the sights I’ve been daydreaming about ever since my babysitter slid Serendipity into the old VCR and I fell in love with the city for the first time.
“Hey babe, just checking in.” There’s no new messages, so I leave him a voicemail. “My flight landed fine, so I’ll see you at the hotel.”
I duck out of the elevator and head outside again, but this time, the sidewalk is blissfully empty. Everyone is rushing straight inside to catch their flight, leaving their cabs free. I spot one just about to pull away from the curb and wave.
“Wait up!”
The driver sees me and pauses, popping open the trunk. But I’m just dragging my suitcase over when someone hurries past. It’s a sandy-haired guy wearing a dark wool jacket and a pair of cowboy boots. His bag catches my shoulder hard, knocking me off balance.
“Hey!” I stumble, slipping on the icy ground. The world tilts as I flail for dear life, but gravity wins.
I go crashing to the ground, ass-first, feet in the air.
“Oww!”
The guy doesn’t even hear me. He opens the door of the cab—my cab!—and slides inside. The driver sends me a sympathetic look, but he doesn’t stop to help. They drive away, leaving me in a heap on the ground with my belongings scattered all around me and muddy ice slush soaking into my pants.
Welcome to New York City.
By the time I’ve managed to find another cab and haul my shivering, wet body into the car, the glow is definitely off my holiday spirit. Matt still hasn’t called, and his flight was supposed to arrive a couple of hours ago. I leave him another message, and cross my fingers that he hasn’t been delayed by snow somewhere.
“Here for the holidays?” My elderly driver makes small talk from up front as we speed away from the airport. There’s a fake holly branch swinging from the rear-view mirror, and he’s got the radio tuned to a golden oldies station, Elvis crooning about it being a blue Christmas without you.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to squeeze the ice water out of my jeans.
“Just you?” he frowns.
“No, my boyfriend is coming,” I say quickly.
He relaxes into a smile again. “Good, good. Can’t have a pretty girl like you alone on the holidays. You need someone to kiss on New Year’s Eve!”
I smile, and quickly check my phone to see if Matt’s flight was on time. It’s listed as arriving on schedule. I feel a surge of relief, finally relaxing back into the seat. Matt’s probably already checked us in and is relaxing in the tub. Or, more likely, he’s sprawled out doing what every sleep-deprived doctor loves most in the world. Sleeping.
He’s been under so much pressure recently, I’ve hardly seen him at all. He warned me when we started dating five months ago that his surgical residency at one of the top hospitals in LA didn’t leave him any free time. I didn’t mind: I’m still in school, too; I just started a master’s degree in psychology, and sometimes I lose sleep over my reading lists and deadlines, not to me
ntion the days I volunteer at a crisis hotline as part of my research. I understood that his career and my school work wouldn’t leave much time to be together, but we had such a great connection, we both swore we’d make it work.
The first few months went by in a whirl, stealing moments together: a breakfast here, a late-night movie there. It was fun, snatching whatever time together our crazy schedules allowed. I would drop by the hospital to grab lunch with Matt in the cafeteria, and he would deliver triple-shot coffees when I was pulling all-nighters in the library. One night, he even showed up at my apartment just to kiss me before turning right back around and heading to the hospital for another twelve-hour shift.
It was romantic and thrilling to begin with, but I have to admit, the novelty is wearing off fast. I want something more than fleeting kisses and trading texts. I want something real. I told my friend Tegan that it feels like we’re in a long-distance relationship, even though we live a couple of miles apart. And more and more, whenever I make time for us and plan a special dinner or date, he gets called back in on some emergency and I’m stuck alone at a table set for two.
I’ve tried to be understanding, but still, I wonder how much longer we can keep this up. I’ve been hinting at moving in together so we can take the next step, and I’m hoping that having this time together over the holidays will give him that spark to make a change.
Can’t wait to see you, I type out a quick text. I have a special night planned!
I look up just as we approach the Brooklyn Bridge. My heart catches. The Manhattan skyline is sparkling under the grey, cloudy skies. Towering buildings and glittering lights, already shining in the darkening afternoon.
It’s perfect.
As the cab drives closer, I hug my arms around myself and smile. This is going to be the trip of a lifetime, I can just feel it. Matt will finally relax, and then everything will be OK. I’ll finally have the Christmas I’ve been dreaming about.
And maybe it will even snow.
2.
Austin
I’ve never been filled with the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’m officially done with the holidays.
Keep your merry reindeer. Tell Santa where he can shove it. What I need is a soft bed, a stiff drink, and a willing playmate—and not necessarily in that order.
“Are you sure you can’t make it?” My mom’s face fills my cellphone screen, messaging all the way from London. The room behind her is filled with antique furniture and a towering Christmas tree, and I can barely see her for holly wreaths.
“I’m sorry. I was stuck at the airport all morning, but they cancelled my flight and every plane crossing the Atlantic is booked solid.” I explain. “You guys will just have to celebrate without me.”
“But the holiday vacation was your gift to us, a family trip to England…” she looks upset, so I reassure her with a grin.
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. You guys just have fun.”
I hang up, sending thanks to whatever higher power sent freak ice-storms raging over London. I’m sorry not to spend time with my folks, but I can see them all the time back home in Texas. No, this was a lucky break. Instead of sitting through a week of jet lag and forced holiday cheer, I have nothing but time. No carol concerts, no Christmas dinner, and no watching schmaltzy movies for the hundredth time. Just a perfect, no-stress, zero-bullshit Christmas in New York: me, a bottle of bourbon, takeout pizza and ESPN.
What more could a guy ask for?
Back at the hotel, the woman at the front desk, Patrice, lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Kelly,” she beams. “I thought you were all checked out.”
“Change of plans.” I drop my bag and flash her my best charming grin. “Any chance you can squeeze me in to my old room? Turns out I’ll be staying a couple of days longer.”
“Let me just take a look…” Patrice clicks at her computer a moment. “Actually, there’s someone scheduled to check in tonight.” She pauses, looking around. There’s nobody but us in the lobby, so she gives me a wink. “But we just had a cancellation and our executive penthouse suite is free.”
“Darlin’, as long as there’s four walls and nobody around to hear me snore, I’m all set.”
She giggles. “The penthouse it is. And, I didn’t want to ask before, but…” She trails off, biting her lip with an anxious expression.
I’ve seen that look on a thousand faces, I know exactly what’s coming next. You don’t spend five years as the lead guitarist in a major rock band without recognizing when a fan’s got a favor to ask.
“Let me guess, you want an autograph?” I smile, putting her out of her nervous misery.
She blushes. “It’s just, my daughter is a huge fan.”
“Not you?” I tease.
She looks stricken. “Oh no, I am too. But I got her your CD for a gift, and if it was signed, she would think I was the best mom ever.”
I laugh. “No problem. Just bring it in tomorrow and I’ll swing by to sign.”
“Thank you,” she breathes. “Oh my gosh, you’ve just made her Christmas!”
“Happy holidays,” I wink, taking the room key she slides across the desk.
Instead of going straight upstairs, I head to the bar instead. It’s still afternoon, so the place is almost empty. I pick a booth near the back, and settle in, ordering a double shot of whiskey to get me started.
I take a long drink, and feel the tension ease out of me. This last six months has been nonstop: an epic world tour with the band, and working on my solo stuff, too. For the last three weeks I’ve been holed up at a recording studio across town, laying down tracks for my first album. After spending so long with my bandmates, it’s scary and exhilarating to go it alone. There’s nobody to bounce ideas off the same way—and no one to call me out when I wind up obsessing over a single lyric or rhythm track.
Still, I’m happy to be taking that step. The Reckless will always be a part of my life, but it’s fun to challenge myself and try out new material, too. I’ve been drawn to quieter, more acoustic material for a while now. The band’s music is rock—driving, melodic, but hard. On my own, I get to dial it down and go back to my roots. Once a country boy, always a country boy.
I take another drink and scroll through my phone. With time on my hands now, I need someone to help pass it. “Anika, darlin’,” I call my on-again/off-again girlfriend, an Estonian model who I met on the set of one of our music videos. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Having dinner,” she replies cooly. “In Miami. Where I told you I’d be going.”
Shit.
“Call it wishful thinking,” I answer smoothly. “Sure you don’t want to hop a flight?”
She snorts. “I thought you said we have nothing in common.”
“Nothing but chemistry. C’mon, baby,” I cajole. “It’s Christmas. Do you want to be naughty or nice…?”
She giggles, her voice softening. “Sorry, baby, I’m all booked up. But I’ll be back for New Year’s. Call me!”
I hang up. It’s probably for the best: Anika can be a high-strung diva when her blood sugar gets low, and since this is the holidays, she’ll be waging a constant battle against carbs.
I start scrolling through my address book. Becky. Brita. Caitlin, Carolina…
I smile at the memories. You can’t blame me: I’m a red-blooded male who’s hit a hundred different cities over the past five years. Yeah, we had some good times, the band and me. But lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m too old for the same playboy bullshit. Sure, it’s tough to keep up a real relationship on the road, but the truth is, I quit trying. After my first serious girlfriend and I flamed out over long-distance troubles and her jealous streak, I decided to give dating a wide berth. I was too busy rehearsing all day, and partying all night to care about anything real, but now, that party scene feels hollow and surface. I’m not twenty-two anymore. And seeing my best friend Dex settle down with the love of his life has reminded me that I haven’t m
et mine yet.
That’s irony for you: my new album is packed with love songs, but the lyrics I write are all for a girl I’ve never even met.
It’s why I’ve hung on with Anika for so long. Deep down, I know that we’re not right for each other, but it’s still nice to see the same face over the breakfast table in the morning, and have someone to call up to make plans for dinner the same night.
Even if she won’t eat a damn thing.
The empty seat beside me in the booth feels like it’s taunting me, so I find myself scrolling through the list and making calls. But every girl I talk to is way ahead of me: they’re either out of town with family or off the market for good.
“Sorry, babe. I’m at my parent’s place in Arizona.”
“I would be there in a heartbeat, but I’m at a yoga retreat in Peru.”
“You’re two months too late, Austin. I’m engaged.”
I finally quit around the Ks. This is crazy. Is everyone in the world except me spending this weekend with their nearest and dearest?
Maybe this is a sign to get your shit together.
I sit back and take a look around the room. There are a couple more people here now. Some middle-aged tourists poring over maps in the corner, and—
Her.
I stop. She’s perched on a stool by the bar, chatting to the bartender as he fixes her a drink. She’s dressed in a slinky navy dress that hugs her curves, her auburn hair gleaming under the lights. Every few seconds, she glances back at her phone, like she’s waiting for someone.
Whoever he is, he’s too late. I’m already here.
I slide out of the booth and head over. Up close, she’s even more beautiful: expressive hazel eyes and a sweet, glossy mouth curled in an excited smile. The bartender passes her a martini and she takes a sip, her pink tongue darting out to lick the moisture from her lips.
