My Hot Holiday (2 page)

He sits back against the bookshelf studying me.

"You're shaking, Jillian."

I don’t want to admit it, but it isn't the sudden phone interruption as much as this man himself that makes me tremble.

"Yes, yes.  I need to get to my mom's house.  They are waiting for me.  I didn't realize..."

"How much time had passed...” he interrupts as he rises to his feet.  "I know."

For a few moments we stare at each other without speaking, and I break the awkward stare to straighten my clothes.

He reaches for my arm, helping me gather my purse and gifts.

My fantasy is rapidly becoming my nightmare.  My ass accidentally dials my mother during the most passionate moment of my life?!?!

God, what have I done to deserve this?

"I think we have some unfinished business, though, don't you?" he asks.

I pause, wondering if he is serious.  He's probably just being polite after nearly having a quickie with me in his bookstore.

"Me?  No, I'd actually rather spend Christmas Eve without a date and listen to my grandmother talk about the Great Depression again...You?"

He tilts his head and flashes that million dollar smile again.

"You are pretty funny, Jillian.  You know that?"

I avoid his eyes, shift the heavy load in my arms, and mutter, "I try..."

We walk along the rows of bookshelves and head toward the register in complete silence.  His smell is still lingering on my neck. He steps behind the counter and reaches for some bags.  I look up and meet his eyes, recognizing that twinge of fear again as it starts to pulse through me.  My whole body's tingling with anticipation.

"Aren't you going to ring those up?" I ask.

"Consider it...on the house.  But, only on one condition." He demands.

"Yes?"

"We need to meet again..."

Summoning all my strength, I force myself to speak.

"I think I can handle that," I respond.

Emphasis on think...Then, a smile passes over his features and he begins writing.

"Here's my number...when you get finished hearing about the Great Depression, please give me a call," he says with a hint of sarcasm.

We both giggle over my ridiculous, yet effective attempt at humor.

"Will do," I say, my whole body subsiding in relief as I rapidly snatch the number out of his hand.

"Enjoy your evening.  Merry Christmas, Jillian."

"Merry Christmas."

It kills me to say it.  I don’t want to be leaving this beautiful man alone.

Chapter 2: Family Drama
 

Driving up to the granite-colored colonial house feels like a stiff drink on a stressful day.  It’s great to be home, even if I’m flushing slightly.  This is not surprising, since I’ve just experienced more lust in the last hour than the past decade.  I throw open the car door and wonder how I'm going to act normally among my nosy family.

I can hear their questions before they utter a word.

Anyone special in your life these days?  How are you doing after that shameful divorce? Have you considered online dating?

I ascend the steps to the front door, which is glowing with lights that mark the season.  I straighten my shirt, transfer my overnight bag from one perspiring hand to the other, and squeeze the snow-covered handle.

Here we go.

My eyes browse the crowd of smiling faces that I haven't seen since last Christmas...except for Mom, Dad, and Sissy, of course.

I'm full of adrenaline, and as I look at the mouths moving around me, I can't help but wonder if Jake and my bookstore fantasy are a fixture of my imagination.

I work to avoid eye contact and shuffle through the room full of red sweaters and graying hair.  I swing the door open to my old bedroom, taking off my coat -- and then my stomach jumps.

Mom is waiting for me in the hall.  She's leaning against the wall with a furrowed brow and a look that I haven't seen since I was 17, sneaking in past curfew.

"Oh Mom, I didn't see you there," I say, trying to sound natural, but aware my voice sounds more like a chipmunk.

"I don't suppose you have an explanation for your tardiness and that strange phone call," she says after a long pause.

"Well,” I hesitate, feeling woozy.  Now I know how my kids feel when I grill them.

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, Jillian, but I am worried about you.  Are you in some sort of trouble?" she asks.

"No! No!" I say quickly.

"That divorce and handling the kids can't be easy.  And I know you are worried about your job.  Do you need money, honey?" my mother asks.

“Money, honey...money, honey...that’s funny, Mom!”

“Jillian Michelle!”

"NO...NO, Mom.  I'm alright." I bite my lip.  "What do you expect?  I'm doing the best I can...Merry Christmas, by the way.  It feels good to be home."

“Honey, I'm thrilled you are here.“ She reaches out and squeezes my hands with excitement.  "Until then, I have a surprise for you.  I invited someone to come by tonight.  I think you might like him.”

"OH!  Mom, please don't do this.  I really don't need any introductions." I turn away and gaze into the living room, working to bide some time.

"Jillian, he’s a very nice man.  He would be PERFECT for you.  My friend Glenda from tennis was telling everyone at the hair salon that she's been trying to introduce her newly divorced daughter to him for weeks.  I hear he's the biggest catch on the block."

"And...and you expect me to meet him tonight?" I ask.

"Yes, of course.  No better time than the present, honey!"

"Okay, Mom," I say, crossing my arms around my ribcage, "But, I can tell you I am not in the mood to meet anyone new."

"Are you sure?  I don't think you are going to be disappointed."

There’s nothing like your mother's sympathetic tone to make you want to well up with tears.

My heart begins sinking.  Obviously she thinks I'm a neurotic mess of a 37-year old who needs her parents to fix her up on a holiday blind date.  While I know she's right, I can't let my mind go there.

"So?" Mom's eyes dance.  "Are you ready or would you rather sulk in your room like you did as a teenager?"

I stare in disbelief of what I'm about to do.  No doubt Mom has found me the cutest, heavy set, bald man Cape Cod has ever seen.  Having a polite conversation with a man wearing a holiday sweater and sweating profusely isn't going to be easy, especially considering I can't stop the mental images of Jake's eyes and perfect lips.

"Okay," I say with a rebellious tone.

"Well, come on," she says.  "Let's introduce you to Joe.  He looks holiday handsome.”

Whatever THAT means!

As I follow her into the family room, my mind recites scenes from Bridget Jones’ Diary.   I glance down at my own attire and realize I am sorely in need of an iron and a post-divorce makeover. What does it matter?  The man of my dreams is gone for the night, and all I can think about is how long I have to wait before calling him.

Oh, who am I kidding?  Finding eternal love or even a best friend with benefits feels hopeless.

Here's my coping strategy: After meeting my blind holiday fix-up, I'll escape to the kitchen, find the holiday punch, and get deliriously drunk.

As I walk at a funeral's pace behind Mom through the living room, I spot the back of “
Holiday Handsome’s
” head and he looks...hmmmm...  He doesn't look bald or chubby after all.  That's weird.  He has dark wavy hair, a grey wool sweater with a collared shirt and no scary mustache...yet.  Nice behind?  I must have the wrong guy.  Surely, the molester-looking guy will appear soon.  I mean, I'm sure I'm just seconds away from Scaryville -- but so far, I'm not repulsed.

Mom reaches an arm around the “
Holiday Handsome’s
” shoulder and begins to turn him around.

"Joe, would you take a moment to meet my daughter, Jillian?"

I begin to extend my hand, and my body pauses with shock.

This isn't a mystery man, after all.  This is Joe!  Oh.  My.  GAWD!  This is Jake's brother.  NOOOOOO!!!!!  JOE!!!!!

"Nice to meet you, Jillian.  I'm Joe.  Joe Sterns."

My mouth remains a gaping hole, and I recognize that I need to get myself together.

His eyes fall on mine with a look of concern, as his eyebrows furrow, clearly sensing my confusion.

There's a long, awkward silence.  Is this some kind of joke?  This can't be just a sheer coincidence.  For a few seconds I am frozen with astonishment.

"Merry Christmas to you," I say, trying to locate the remaining shreds of my dignity.  I glance over at Mom, who's taken a few steps toward the table full of sugar cookies, obviously pretending not to be listening.

He smiles and those lines spring out from either side of his stunning eyes.

God, is he ever hot!  Breathe Jillian, Breathe!

"Sorry, you will have to forgive me.  I get nervous...  It's just been a long time since I have done this kind of thing..."  My voice trails off.

Oh wait, an hour ago I was about to have hot, impulse sex with his brother.

I guess that’s beside the point.

“Yeah, me too.  No worries," he reassures me.

"Are you newly divorced, as well?" I ask with a mixture of hope and curiosity in my voice.  Misery loves company, especially when company looks like Joe Sterns.

"No, my sponsor held me to no dating for six months after rehab."

What?  Rehab!?  I thought Mom said he was the hottest bachelor in the zip code.  Well, he doesn't drink.  I guess that's not all bad.  Then, scenes of us in cozy, romantic restaurants flash through my head -- both of us drinking iced tea.  Not going to happen!  At this point in my life, I think I've earned a right to liquid sedation.  I wonder if I can drink around him.  At least he would be my designated driver 24/7.

"Ahh, yes.  I have heard that before.  Focusing on your recovery, right?"  I assure him.

"Yes, it’s my main goal these days."  He says.  Then, I realize he's drinking a glass of wine.  That can't be part of his program?!

"I used to be a relationship columnist, and I have written numerous columns on alcoholism and the trauma it can cause.  I applaud your courage and discipline."

Did I just sound like a public service announcement?  And suddenly a warning bell goes off in my head.  Why, oh why, is he drinking wine?  Is that non-alcoholic wine, I wonder?

"Oh, no, no.  I'm not an alcoholic.  I'm a pyromaniac.  I had to go through rehab after prison.  I served ten years for arson and I'm really ready to get on with my life.  I feel so much stronger, and thanks to my brother, I have a great job now, too."

Welcome to the dating world, Jillian.  Your hot fantasy is a pyro.  REAL NICE.

I've got to say something; maybe I can change the subject.  How?!?!  What do I do to backtrack out of a prison story?  It's almost so absurd that I feel the choking sensation of uninhibited laughter emerging.  Oh no.  NO!  No, Jillian you can't laugh!

"That's wonderful, Joe!" I say, desperate for an escape, forcing the corners of my mouth back down.  This is bad.  I mean, I’m not just being picky, right?  This is very bad.  My, how far I've fallen. I have to get away from him -- stat!

Option one: Continue this very painful conversation with the convicted felon whom I have secretly lusted over for 3 months.  Discover how one recovers from pyromania and which house he burned down.

Or...

Option two:  Find alcohol and drink rapidly.

I'm going with option two.

I suddenly want to run through Mom and Dad's living room screaming, “Fire!  Fire!  Fire!”  What might Joe do?  His reaction would be more exciting that seeing the ball drop on New Year’s Eve.  Mom needs to pay for this one, but I must admit she couldn't have known Joe's online dating profile would include a mug shot.

"I umm...need to grab something to drink.  Excuse me for just a moment; I’ll be back in a bit.  So nice to meet you," I say, as I flash him a dazzling smile.

I turn my back, and I feel the instant fall of my cheeks as I search for the nearest adult punch bowl.  I squeeze through the narrow break between Mom and Dad's neighbors -- Susie and Louis -- and reach for a flute glass of something red sitting on the counter.

Mom went all out this year, I see.  The plastic evergreen trees and snow- covered mice that we bought when I was in high school made it out of the box yet again.

Where is Mom?  I can't wait to scold her about "
Holiday Handsome
!"

A moment later, Aunt Lucy appears from around the corner of the kitchen, wearing a black ensemble, as usual.  No one really understands why a 67-year old psychologist needs to wear black all year round.  The good news is that she hasn't blown off the holiday this year.  She usually calls the night before to tell us she can't celebrate because she "has to do her taxes."

"Jillian!" she says.  "What a stranger you've become!"

Wait, isn't she the same person who refused to accept my Facebook friend request last month and hasn't returned my emails?  Yep, that's family for you!

“Well," I say, trying to deliver a believable smile, "You know, I'm an e-mail kinda girl lately.  I'm quite busy with my job and the kids."

"Of course," says Aunt Lucy, giving a nod and batting her eyelashes so rapidly I can't even see her eyeballs.  "You know, I've been quite busy myself."

Somewhere down the road of life, Aunt Lucy got it into her head that the world revolves around her.  I doubt she knows I even have a job or finalized the divorce.

"Yes...well, the kids ask about you often.  They've been very busy with soccer and macramé,” I say as a matter of fact.

"I'm sure," says Aunt Lucy, while she browses the room for another victim to talk to.  Since there are none available, she returns to pounce on me.

"I heard about the big D, dear.  So sorry to hear about that.  Have you met anyone new?  You have a date with you tonight?"

Her face is all lit up, and suddenly I feel like a failure in front of the woman who has been divorced four times.

"No, no.  Not tonight.  I always say Christmas Eve is just for family."