Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) (12 page)

He was still clothed, for crying out loud.

Priorities, Felicity.

“Felicity.” Harry swallowed heavily, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Melting snowflakes littered his dark brown hair, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, deciding to brazen it out.

“You’re naked.”

“Not really. You’re covering me.”

His cheekbones went bright red. Awwww. How freaking adorable.

He darted a glance at her. “In whipped cream.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a trail of whipped cream throughout the cabin.” Harry looked over his shoulder at the partially opened door behind them. “And you left a mark.”

The imprint of her breasts and vagina were on the back of the door. How embarrassing. But she was also naked, and
the mess
was what he focused on.

He swallowed heavily. “And, like you said, I’m on top of you.”

Much better.

“I should get up,” he said.

If she wasn’t mistaken, a part of him was already up.

“I’m naked,” she reminded him.

“I—I know.” He got up, quickly turning his back on her.

She stood as well, not bothering to cover herself. What was the point? He’d pretty much seen
and
felt it all. But Harry was back to avoiding her. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Harry, aren’t you wondering why I’m like this?”

He straightened, his shoulders going back stiffly, and walked to the front door to grab his duffel bag. “I assume I’ve interrupted something of the romantic nature. It’s that new co-worker you hired. The sugar guy from Switzerland.”

Ah, Sven. He was very cute.

“No, Sven,”—there was no way she could say
Sven
without a sighing a little—“is not here. I’m alone.”

He closed the door finally, careful to avoid the whipped cream imprints, and turned toward her. His eyes focused solely on her face. It was kind of cute how he was trying to be a gentleman. There really was no need for that, though. Not if she had her way.

“You’re—you’re alone?”

She nodded.

“Then . . . then . . .” Harry blinked behind his glasses. “Why?”

And now was the time to tell him. She could do this. She was going to do this. She took a deep breath and let it all out.

“I’m naked for you.”

He stopped in the midst of picking up his bag from the floor. “Um, what?”

Did she really have to repeat it? Gah!

“I’m naked for you.”

“Okay, so you did just say that.” Harry stared at her. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She shuffled from foot to foot, and more whipped cream fell to the floor. Soon, she really would be
naked
-naked.

“Why?”

Um. Seriously? Why else would she be in naked? For shits and giggles?

“You’re too overdressed, and I’m way too
un
dressed for this convo.” She placed her hands on her hips, daring him to really look at her. “Here’s the Twitter version. We’re twenty-nine. Single. And haven’t you
ever
wondered?”

“Wondered?”

“You. Me. Together.”

“We’re friends,” he said. “Best friends.”

“So you haven’t thought about it? At all?”

He hesitated.

“I knew it!” She pounced, a thrill running through her body. Because if Harry imagined them naked
together
, then her plan for weekend sex was so going to work. “You totally have!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t not say anything.”

“That makes no sense.” Harry shook his head, falling silent for a moment. Realization dawned on his face as he once again looked around the cabin. “Our families aren’t coming up, are they? What exactly did you plan?”

“No, they aren’t.” She felt her face flame, because she had lied to him about that, but soon squared her shoulders. All was fair in love and sex. “Here’s my proposal. We have this weekend. Alone. Three days, two nights. Let’s give it a shot. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. No harm, no foul.”

He frowned at her. “It’ll ruin things.”

“No, it won’t.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t. Plus . . . “You’ve seen me naked. So that could ruin
things
anyway. And our friendship has survived much worse.”

“I can’t think straight when you’re”—he gestured to her from head to toe—“like this.”

“You want me to get dressed?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders slumped forward, her heart sinking. She had hoped to sex him up so much that she could tell him she loved him. Her magical hoo-ha had to be used for some good, after all.

“So no . . . smexytimes?” she asked.

A blank look from Harry. “I’ve been driving for the last five hours. I can’t think, much less process all of this right now.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes. “We’ll talk at dinner.”

“Sure,” Harry said quickly. “Dinner.”

They both still stood there, not doing anything.

“Felicity, why aren’t you moving?”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s because my butt is bared. No whipped cream is covering it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I won’t peek. I’ll even turn around. Just . . . go.”

“And we’ll talk?”

“Later,” he said.

She would give him time. Harry was always a little slow to catch up on things.

H
E LIED.

He peeked at her butt. And he had thought about being with Felicity. A lot.

But he also knew better. Sex ruined things. Or so he had heard.

At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he was still a virgin. He’d seen movies and read books—male virgins never performed well on their first try. Or second. Or third. Or even the fourth. What if he got naked with Felicity and then only lasted two seconds? What if it wasn’t good for her? What if Felicity didn’t like how he looked?

He was no Calvin Klein model, nor was he ripped like his two older brothers. He’d always been a skinny kid, and as he had matured, the skinniness had turned into a well-honed leanness. He was nothing to fawn over. He would never elicit secret fantasies by either gender. He was never going to be considered “hot” or “sexy.” He was a geek. A dork. A total nerd. And he had embraced that truth about himself long ago, but the thought about getting naked with the woman he’d fallen in love with at thirteen and then having her reject him, well . . . yeah. He didn’t want that.

Although . . . it did seem like Felicity wasn’t going to reject him. She had whipped creamed herself and then asked him point blank for sex. And what had he done?

Acted like a stereotypical virgin and shied away.

Pathetic.

But he didn’t have to be.

This could be
the
chance for him. The only chance to be with Felicity like he wanted to. He would shove all his insecurities aside. He wanted to be with her. In her. He wasn’t expecting to fuck her into love. His penis didn’t have magical properties, sadly.

But . . . but . . . but . . . he could have sex with her. For three whole days. Maybe it wouldn’t be good the first time. Or second. Or third. Or even the fourth. But he was a fast learner, and he sure as hell had thought about all the things he would do with Felicity if given the shot.

Never had he imagined she would want to be with him.

And he might be slow on some things, but he wasn’t totally stupid. He didn’t want to lose her, his best friend, and now his potential first.

There needed to be some ground rules so things didn’t get messy.

He looked around the cabin, at the smeared whipped cream all over the place, and sighed. It might be a little too late for things to
not
become messy. There were only two things to do.

Clean up this disaster.

And make sure things didn’t become any messier.

TWO

F
ELICITY COULD SPEND
all day in the kitchen, and she usually did. Back where she lived in Lake George, her candy shop, Fat Lady Sweets, had a physical storefront in one of the shopping plazas. Her shopping plaza was the best, though—at least to her. Not only did it have a supermarket and bank, but Fat Lady Sweets was nestled between a discount shoe store and a bridal dress boutique. And there were a lot of women who, after searching for a wedding gown or bridesmaid dresses, would come into her candy store, obviously suffering from PTSD—post traumatic shopping disaster.

And there she would be in one of her fabulous dresses, purchased online from Modcloth, that hugged her curves for everyone to see. She didn’t hide her body behind oversized clothing, although there were days she loved to snuggle in her sweats. Customers would look at her creations, carefully selecting sugary confections, and they would always come back for more, time and time again. Because as she always said in her TV commercials, “It isn’t over until the you’ve had the Fat Lady Sweets.”

Making candy had always come easily to her, but she’d never thought when she was younger that it could actually be a career. Candy seemed like a childhood thing, not something a sensible adult would do. But in college, Felicity started thinking and dreaming and planning. She had taken cooking classes on the side, and she’d worked in candy stores, big ones and small, to study them. Making candy for a living and having others enjoy it was something she wanted—no,
needed
—to do. She started saving and hoped by the time she was thirty, she would have enough to open up her own place. And then her other dearly departed grandmother, the one who actually liked her, died and left her a note in the will, along with the money to open up a storefront much sooner than expected.

Ever since Felicity had cut the ribbon on Fat Lady Sweets, her business steadily increased. She had started in the last year to sell candy on Etsy and offer an online storefront on the Fat Lady Sweets’ website. Customers liked the retro design of the shop, with its pink and white striped walls, and, well, they loved her and her staff. And everyone absolutely loved Sven, but c’mon, that Swedish accent was impossible to resist.

She was used to being in the kitchen. This was
home
to her. She could make anything—and that was the problem.

With so much to choose from, she was left adrift with what to make for dinner. Her first choice—her naked on the table with a fig leaf over her vagina and slices of apples covering her nipples—was out of the question. So she had to think of another one. Something that said,
After you eat this, you really should eat me
, but without seeming too obvious.

And she also felt like dinner should be a thank you to Harry for cleaning up the whipped cream apocalypse. She’d brought groceries when she first arrived and packed them away earlier today, as the cabin wouldn’t have been stocked with anything but cooking supplies and cutlery.

She stood there, hands on hips, and went over recipes in her head as she walked over to the main window. It was still snowing, the flakes falling heavier and heavier. The cabin was an hour and a half northwest of Burlington and another hour and a half from the Canadian border. The nearest small town was twenty minutes away, but in this sort of weather, it would take twice as long to get there. Thank god she had decided to get groceries beforehand as opposed to later. Outside looked windy and cold, the type of weather that made you want a steaming bowl of stew and warm, buttery rolls.

Ohhh. Beef stew. She had just enough time to make it from scratch, and she would put a few pre-baked pretzel rolls in the oven to help save time. As for dessert . . . Well, she already knew what she was going to serve for that.

H
E COULD SMELL
the food from the bathroom. He’d decided to take a shower after the unusually long drive from Lake George to the Walsh family cabin in the outskirts of Vermont. And now, towel wrapped around waist, all Harry could think about was the paltry breakfast of a granola bar and apple from hours ago.

His stomach rumbled, and his mouth actually watered at the aromas. Was that . . . was that beef? And potatoes? And pretzels? And . . . and . . . what was that other heavenly scent? It was distinctive, that smell. Did he dare to hope? Because it smelled a lot like apple pie.

Apple pie was his weakness. He could never say no to apple pie. And, god, if Felicity drizzled the top of the apple pie in her famous sea-salt caramel sauce, he . . .

Wait.

Harry straightened, eyes narrowing.

Wait, wait, wait.

Felicity was smart. And she was dangerous when she had a plan, which was 99.9% of the time. She was totally making some of his favorite foods to seduce him.

And he was complaining?

Well, not really. But they couldn’t just fall into sex. There had to be rules. Guidelines. An agreement between the two.

There needed to be a contract.

F
ELICITY FINISHED SETTING
the table and lit two slim candles. Stew simmered in the bowls, and the pretzel rolls were in a basket, covered in linen cloths. The apple pie remained on the countertop, still bubbling, and a fire crackled in the fireplace. It was a perfect romance setting. And, yes, she had totally planned it just like this.

All in all, everything looked awesome. And if Harry didn’t want to jump her bones after eating her pie and the candy she had made yesterday, then he was a total idiot. She really hoped he would see reason—and that he wanted to be with her.

She stepped back, surveying the table and room. Something was missing.

Music.

She hurried into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and found a station playing a classical music piece that sounded romantic. From her spot in the kitchen, she surveyed the table and ground floor of the cabin as a whole. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Felicity walked to the bathroom in the back of the cabin and double-checked her appearance. She washed her hands again and ran a brush through her shoulder-length, straight brown hair. She still had to take off her apron, but she would do that a little bit later. She hadn’t wanted to get anything on her candy apple red dress. She reglossed her lips, the sheer red giving her a just kissed look. Her hazel eyes looked greener tonight due to the gold-dusted eye shadow, and her cheeks glowed, thanks to Nars Super Orgasm blush. She’d left her perfume upstairs, so when she returned to the kitchen, she dabbed her wrists, neck, and cleavage with some vanilla. She was just putting the vanilla away when she heard footsteps.