James

 

 

I’m absolutely ready to strangle Andrea with my bare hands for getting in the way of the sweetest kiss I’ve ever tasted. So I know I can’t go straight home. She’ll be there, and if I see her before I cool off there’s going to be a confrontation, and my poor mother will end up in tears.

 

At least Mom knows I’m all right and doing something normal. I often go down to the one late night bar in Phoenicia for a few pints and maybe a hot brandy when it’s cold enough. In good weather, I can just walk down the hill.

 

But this time, it’s snowing thinly again, and there’s a threat of a snowstorm coming through just in time for Christmas. With all the mess going on with Andrea, I know that Mom’s anxiety is through the roof, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she called, even without Andrea bugging her.

 

I absolutely have to make sure that if Andrea finds me, it’s nowhere near Lorena’s, so I head out to the bar as quickly as I can. Fifteen minutes later I’m sliding onto a stool at the shiplap and carved wood bar of the one late night watering hole in town.

 

The place smells of woodsmoke from the potbelly stove, and the heater is rumbling away as well, keeping things cozy despite it being in the twenties outside. A few men sit at the bar, barely glancing up as I come in. Despite having family here, I’m an out-of-towner, and get treated as such by most.

 

I’m not the only out-of-towner in here tonight, though. A couple in their early thirties sits in the corner in high-end down coats like the ones Lorena wants—but in drab colors, the woman in olive green and the man in navy. Her red braid glimmers like copper in the semi-dark. He holds a beer he doesn’t drink in one long-fingered hand and looks back at her with occasional sad-puppy eyes when he thinks she isn’t looking.

 

Couple troubles. They seem universal sometimes, though they vary in circumstances. I look away politely as the burly, Navy-tattooed bartender comes up to take my order.

 

I order my hot brandy—a toddy this time, with honey and lemon. The bartender throws a gob of honey the size of a golf ball in the bottom, and I suddenly remember how carefully Lorena handled her last tiny bit of honey while serving tea. I wish I hadn’t been forced from her side tonight. I wanted to show her that despite the brief amount of time we’ve known each other that I’m already very interested in her—and in making her life better.

 

I distract myself by looking around more—and am startled when I realize I’ve overlooked a nearby familiar face: Dr. Whitman’s. He’s perched two stools down from my seat and looks over at me with his small eyes twinkling, a smile hidden somewhere in his beard. “Trouble at home?” he rumbles, his booming voice a perfect fit for his Saint Nick looks.

 

“Trouble came to my home. My family’s great.” I turn to him and offer a hand. “Merry Christmas, Dr. Whitman. How are you and your son?”

 

He lets out a laugh that he cuts off quickly, as if aware that his voice is big and there are men with alcohol-induced headaches squinting in the shadows of this place. “Well, quite well. It’s Jack’s favorite time of year, of course. I’m sure he’ll be hitting the slopes as soon as his holiday duties are finished.”

 

“Holiday duties?” The Whitmans are more than eccentric; sometimes they can be downright cryptic.

 

“Oh, nothing serious. Decorations, arrangements, meetings with family. All the things you’d probably expect.” He smiles broadly and scoops up his small glass of schnapps, savoring a small sip. “My son’s flighty, but responsible when it matters.”

 

He looks over at the couple in the corner, who appear to be surreptitiously watching us. “Friends of yours?” I ask quietly.

 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, nothing like that at all. I seem to have attracted some curiosity-seekers again.”

 

“Huh.” I look back at the pair. They certainly interact with each other like a couple. “I just thought they were out on a date.”

 

“Well they should be on a date,” he grumbles good-naturedly. “There’s not enough romance in this world any more. Even with mistletoe everywhere, some pairs just refuse to smooch. It’s a damn shame.”

 

I think wistfully of that lingering kiss with Lorena and nod. “I think you’re absolutely right.”

 

We talk and drink for a little while, and I’m two toddies in and starting to relax before Andrea finds us. We’ve been talking about my indecision over what to get Lorena on such short notice, trying to sort out what I can get her that will really impress her. Dr. Whitman is good at making me laugh, and better at finishing his drinks. He loves his schnapps.

 

I’m smiling in the middle of a joke when the door bangs open and Andrea stalks in, bundled in silver fox fur, scowling like an angry mother who has just caught her misbehaving son. She sweeps her glaring gaze around like a spotlight as she stands in the doorway until the bartender yells, “Close the fucking door!” She squeaks in outrage and stumbles inside.

 

I sigh and drop my face into my hand, and Whitman chuckles and pats me on the shoulder with a meaty palm. Then Andrea sees me, and I hear her stiletto heels clack across the floor toward me so loudly that a couple of the drunks grunt in pain. “Where the hell have you been?”

 

“Getting away from you, you crazy shrew.” I keep my voice low, but I’m done pretending that I’m all right with her ridiculous behavior. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

 

She stares at me, fists on hips, while a few of the others chuckle at her expression. “You should go home,” she snaps. “Your mother is worried.”

 

I roll my eyes. “My mother picked up a phone and talked to me herself. She’s fine, and she knows that I am fine. And at this point, she also knows more than a little of what you have been up to.”

 

I can feel myself being watched, probably by Whitman, while I confront Andrea as calmly as I can. Inside, I’m wrestling down the kind of rage that will make a man drink too much, drive too fast, and fuck too hard. I have to dial it back.

 

“There’s someone else, isn’t there,” she demands. I feel my heart skip a beat. It’s ridiculous to let her nosiness worry me, but just as with my mother, I feel like I have to protect Lorena from the worst side of Andrea’s personality.

 

“I don’t see how anything in my life is your business anymore,” I reply in a low, hard voice. “And I don’t understand why you continue to follow me around, pestering me. I can’t even go out and have a drink without your showing up to bother me.”

 

I notice her glancing around, as if she’s realizing for the first time that she’s throwing a hissy fit in public. A few bar patrons have phones out and are recording her. “You should still come home now,” she says, much more uncertainly.

 

“Think I’m going to finish my drink first,” I tell her coldly.

 

She looks around at everyone watching us, her mouth working, and then looks back at me. “You are being difficult for no reason.”

 

“Look, Andrea, it’s pretty clear now that either you’re hitting the cocaine and tequila an awful lot, or you’ve lost your damn mind. We broke up over half a year ago. And as of tomorrow, either you leave, or I’ll be staying at a hotel instead of my own mother’s home, just to get away from you.”

 

Her eyes widen. I’ve just admitted in front of cameras that we’re quits. It’s something we had both been avoiding—her out of pride, and me because I wanted a break from dating and didn’t want every other woman like her beating down my door.

 

“I can’t believe you,” she murmurs, astounded, and I let out a harsh laugh.

 

“Oh, I imagine that you can’t. That part of your mind doesn’t seem to be working right now. Just know that if you kick up a tantrum on your way out tomorrow and upset my mother, I really will get a restraining order against you—and I’ll go straight to the press about doing so.”

 

Her jaw drops as if I just slapped her. She knows I have her dead to rights. If her diva reputation gets too enormous, she won’t even manage to get a job as a trophy wife. She’ll be kicked off the rich-guy dating market just as she’s been kicked off of modeling agencies’ client lists.

 

Without another word, she turns on her heel and stalks out, slamming the door hard behind her.

 

Thank God. “Sorry guys,” I call out, and hear a few grumbles and more than a few sympathetic chuckles. I turn to the bartender and order a round for the bar, and the grumbling stops.

 

Dr. Whitman clears his throat, and I turn back to his merry face as he lifts his glass. “Nicely done. I imagine she’ll try some parting shot or another, but I believe you took the wind from her sails when you mentioned going public.”

 

I smirk and reach for my glass. The toddy’s already cooling. “Well, I’d rather be spending my evening with the young mother I told you about.”

 

“Of course you would!” He drains his schnapps and calls out for his free one. “She sounds lovely. And by the way, I think I know how you might make her Christmas just a little bit brighter, since that’s of concern to you. You said that you wanted to surprise her? I’ve thought of the perfect thing, and I may be of help.”

 

A weight lifts off of me, and I lift an eyebrow at him. “What did you have in mind?”