What a fucking zoo.

Standing at the gate, I run my hands over my beard, really wishing I had just told my mom that coming to her place for the holidays was too much.

The grand opening for my bar is New Year’s Eve and I have a shit-ton of work to do before then, but she insisted I could come for a day and be back in twenty-four hours.

She doesn’t realize I’m working twenty-four-seven to get this place off the ground. Sure, I can handle the interior, getting the place to look the right kind of lumberjack-cool to appeal to Seattle hipsters -- the issue is promoting the opening.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d forked over the cash to that PR firm months ago.

Of course, I thought I could do it all. Turns out, opening a bar and getting the buzz out about it are two very different beasts.

I just gotta get to my mom’s place. I may be a man, but I have a soft spot for my mother, especially on Christmas morning. She loves the holiday, and my brother is coming with his girlfriend, so I’d be an ass not to show.

But with the last flight canceled, and everyone at this gate hoping for standby, I know I am going to have to work my charm if I want that ticket.

I look at the flight attendant, her knee-length black skirt, the run in her pantyhose, her frazzled hair -- clearly she’s as done with this place as I am.

I sidle up to her and smile. “Hey, Santa’s Helper, any word on the standby?”

She raises an eyebrow and laughs. “You think you can sweet talk your way onto this flight?”

“I thought I’d try, and it looks like you could use some holiday cheer.” I hand her a miniature candy cane that a bell ringer gave me when I dropped a twenty in his bucket on my way to the gate. My eyes graze her, and I can’t help but think about her licking my candy cane.

She must like my eyes on her because she takes the peppermint stick and says, “I think we’ve got one ticket left, you ready to fight for it?”

Before I can answer, a tiny mouse of a girl with long hair, big brown eyes and an upturned nose appears. She’s swinging her arms, trying to get the attention of the attendant I’m speaking with.

“I’ll fight for it,” she says, apparently overhearing my conversation. “I need to get on the plane.”

A voice over a loudspeaker calls. “Final boarding for flight 1932 to Phoenix boarding now. All passengers on standby please wait as we finish filling the plane.”

The mousy girl and I lock eyes. Her pink-lipped mouth is set in a firm line. She means business.

“You said there’s one seat left?” I ask.

The frazzled-hair woman nods. “Think so. I’m gonna go check.” She smiles, raising her shoulders slightly. “I’ll let you know.”

I turn to the girl. “I need the ticket.”

She smirks. “Me too.”

“I know you are probably thinking I’ll just hand it over, to be a gentleman and all, but it’s Christmas and I need to get home.”

She nods, her lips pursed. “Well, like the lady said, you’ll have to fight me for it.” She drops her tote bag and raises her fists, moving her right foot back in a fighting stance. “Come on Mr. Bah-Humbug, let’s do this.” Her eyebrows raise and I know she is playing with me, but this day has been way too long.

“So you’re a southpaw?” I ask, crossing my arms, assessing her.

“That’s it?” she asks, fake jabbing me. “I need that ticket. My dad is counting on me. He told me he hung up a stocking and everything. He’s baking a ham. I can’t let him down.”

“You should have gotten here earlier, Rhonda Rousey.”

She drops her arms and picks up her bag. “Let me have the ticket.”

“No way,” I tell her. “You may be ready for a fight, but that flight attendant has a sweet spot for me.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Oh, give me a break. Let me guess, you gave the poor woman who’s been on her feet for twelve hours some pickup line about sitting on your figurative Santa’s lap.”

I smile. “Listen, I gotta do what I gotta do. If she wants to suck my candy cane, I’ll let her. It’s not personal. It’s Christmas.”

She looks at me with disgust, and I’ll admit, maybe I went a tad overboard with that comment, but this girl is unnerving as fuck.

“Right. Which is why I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.” She grins, and starts hollering, “This man is harassing me!”

My mouth drops, she is playing dirty. “Stop it,” I tell her. “That’s so not cool.”

She stops yelling, as people stare at me uncertain of how to respond to her claim.

She crosses her arms. “I’m not standing around waiting. I’m getting that ticket.” She moves past me toward the ticket counter. “Excuse me?” she asks the attendant I was flirting with. “Is there a standby seat left? My dad’s dying in the hospital as we speak.”

Her eyes go wide, “Oh sweetie, let me check.” And she rapidly begins typing on a keyboard. “Yes, yes, we do. We have one seat left.”

“You told me he was baking a ham.”

She instantly gets red in the face. “Well, I mean. Figuratively.”

But the attendant isn’t having any of it. “You’re lying about your father?”

“Umm. Sorta. But he,” she says pointing her finger at me, “told me he planned on having you lick his candy cane during the flight.”

Holy shit, this girl is fighter, a liar, and knows how to play dirty.

Now it’s my turn to get red-faced and backpedal. “I didn’t say that. Exactly.”

The mouse-girl responds, but I can’t even hear her, because the attendant is scowling, clearly disgusted with our antics, and is asking a man behind us to come forward.

Then she gives him the last standby ticket.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say to no one and anyone willing to listen, but the only person to hear me is the girl with a smart mouth. Everyone else has either boarded the plane or cleared out of the gate.

“Fuck me now,” mousey girl says, huffing as she pulls her rolling suitcase, glaring at me the whole time, before leaving the gate.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I think, before making a beeline to the bar with three hours to kill.