The restaurant comes into view. It’s cold out, but luckily it isn’t snowing like last night. I was drenched by the time I got on the subway to get home. And I hadn’t dried off by the time I got home, either.

Holly’s been quiet ever since I pulled my hand away.

What, was I supposed to let her keep holding onto me while I played out another visceral fantasy in my head of what I’d rather be doing to her?

I clear my throat, holding open the restaurant door for her to walk inside. She seems a bit surprised at this, glancing at me with a frown, and then pushes past with a twist of her lips.

Did I do something to upset her? She seems so stiff now, those bony shoulders held back and her chin up several defiant inches.

Probably just as well. I mean, who just grabs a complete stranger’s hand like that? Has she never heard of personal space? Did her father never—

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter.” It’s the usual guy — I think his name is Michael — that comes to greet us. “Good to see you again, Sir. Table for two?” the maître d’ asks, and then does a double take when he catches sight of Holly.

Yeah, I’m sure we make quite the odd pair, with my apparently funereal suit and Holly’s the peacock haired gypsy. Not to mention the obvious age difference of at least what, ten-twelve years? It’s impossible to tell, with her. At first, I’d thought she couldn’t be older than twenty, but when she was holding my hand and those dark eyes had flashed up to mine, I thought maybe she was closer to twenty-five? That would make us only—

“Hey, guy, he’s asking you a question.” Holly’s voice snaps me out of that line of thought.

God, I’ve been staring at her confounded hair again. “Uh, what?”

“We are fully booked tonight, sir.” This with another calculating glance at Holly. “Could I seat you at the bar until a table—?”

“They got nuts at the bar?” Holly cuts in.

The maître d’ gives her a faint nod, and she spins around to me. Her necklace — something pagan-looking — takes a second to settle around her swan neck.

“Good with you, Josh?”

Josh?

“Uh, sure. Though, how long—”

“Ugh, does it matter?”

She seems to have forgotten her earlier reservations about touching me. That dainty hand of hers darts out, snatches up my wrist, and tugs me along after her.

We have to detour when the maître d’ rushes out in front of us to lead the way.

The bar looms up ahead — it’s darkly lit, but with the amount of burnished gold decorating the counter and chairs it gleams like a golden ring catching firelight. Christmas lights glitter from the ceiling beams and along the edge of the bar. A massive Christmas tree sits in one corner, almost as bedazzling as the restaurant with its golden baubles and angel.

Holly comes to a stop. “Wow.”

I barrel into her, almost knocking her tiny frame over. On instinct, I grab her shoulders, tugging her up straight as I regain my balance. My briefcase falls to the floor, striking the dull yellow tiles just right and springing open. Papers, pens, and a packet of breath mints scatter over the floor.

“Fuck, sorry Josh.” She yanks her shoulders free — in my shock, I’d forgotten to let go of her — and falls to her knees, dragging my papers closer with a jangle of bracelets.

I go down beside her, our hands knocking against each other as we try to scoop together the breath mints.

She giggles, plucking her hands away and gathering up my pens instead. We look up, spot a pen that’s rolled under a nearby table, and knock heads turning to look at each other.

If this was a comedy show, there would have been canned laughter playing right. Maybe even some circus music.