Never Sleigh Never (Man of the Month Club: Christmas Novella)

1. Cara

Cara

T he balmy Sunday afternoon in December couldn’t be more picture perfect as I glide across the outdoor ice rink, my hand tucked perfectly into Wayne’s warm grip. Everything is going flawlessly this afternoon, from the sweet scent of cinnamon roasted pecans carried on the breeze from a nearby stand to the couples twirling around us, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of White Christmas playing over the speakers.

My holiday-loving heart swells as I glance over at my boyfriend. Thanksgiving was fine and all, but this—enjoying the first sights and sounds of Christmas together—is the perfect start to a busy and memorable holiday season.

“Isn’t this magical?” I gush, squeezing Wayne’s manicured hand and hoping he’s enjoying this skating outing as much as I am. “I can’t wait to do All. The. Things. with you before New Year’s. Caroling around my neighborhood, a friendly gingerbread house decorating competition, trimming the tree, a holiday movie marathon, and…”

I trail off, glimpsing Wayne’s lips pursing, his eyes fixed on the ice. The evergreen-and-cranberry plaid scarf I gave him last week as an early Christmas present is styled fashionably around his neck, the perfect complement to his carefully curated look. But he seems a little…off, because of course, he does.

“What do you think, honey? Any preferences?” I ask sweetly.

He shrugs, and I give him a minute to consider the options, but when he still doesn’t respond, I bite my lip. And my tongue. I need to play it cool. I can’t let on that I am onto him like honey butter on a hot biscuit.

My suspicion Wayne is planning to pop the question this holiday season is basically confirmed based on the way he’s being so tightlipped, when usually, he has a witty comeback or cutting remark for every question I ask.

I release his grasp in case he can sense my excitement. “I definitely want to try my hand at your grandma’s famous pecan pie recipe,” I say brightly, picturing us together in his pristine, barely used chef’s kitchen, me mixing ingredients while Wayne mixes us a couple of cocktails. “I know it’s a cherished family tradition, and I’d love to practice, so I can help on—”

Out of the corner of my eye, a blur approaches on my left, and before I can react, a little redheaded boy on hockey skates zooms past, knocking into me, his laughter echoing in the air. I reach for Wayne, but another little boy, hot on the heels of his friend, whips by. My arms flail wildly, but it’s too late. I lose my balance, my heart leaping into my throat as I scramble to brace myself for impact.

It doesn’t help. I hit the ice hard, pain shooting through my tailbone and wrist as I land flat on my ass. The world spins for a moment, and I blink away tears. Even if I wanted to cry, I wouldn’t. I can’t risk smearing my mascara. We haven’t taken any photos yet this afternoon.

“Are you okay, honey?” a nearby skater drawls, stopping to check on me.

“I…uh,” I stammer, still trying to gather my wits.

“She’s okay,” Wayne assures the woman hovering over me with a concerned look. “It’s those damn kids who are to blame.” He makes no move to help me up, his hands on his hips as he glances around with a scowl, trying to locate them in the crowd.

I try to push myself up, but a sharp pain in my wrist makes me wince. “I…I don’t think I am. My wrist really hurts.”

A flicker of annoyance crosses Wayne’s classically handsome features before he extends a hand. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He helps me to my feet, but I’m still wobbly, gripping his forearm with my good hand as if he’s a lifeline.

“Looks like that’s enough for one day,” he says, already turning toward the exit.

I cradle my wrist against my chest, swallowing hard against the throbbing pain shooting up my arm. “I think I need to get this checked out. It really hurts.”

He sighs, flicking a glance at my hand. “I believe there was a first-aid tent past the line for the photo booth.”

“There was a photo booth?” I glance around. “I love photo booths! It would have been perfect to get a picture together.”

“Hmph,” is his only response as we make our way off the ice. I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Okay, more than a twinge, if I’m being honest. This isn’t how I imagined our first romantic holiday date of the season going. I wanted it to be picture perfect. And not only because I asked Sarah to fly solo at the boutique today, so I could spend the afternoon with Wayne, which is something I rarely do.

In my head, we were going to skate the afternoon away to Christmas music, share a steaming hot chocolate with peppermint whipped cream, kiss under the mistletoe, and game plan for the next few weeks of holiday events to be sure we could fit in everything. Then, fingers crossed, I would have convinced him to let me come over and put up a few decorations at his place.

Instead, I’m inching along, piercing pain from my tailbone shooting up my spine and my wrist pulsating like a strobe light in a nightclub, while Wayne looks as if he’d rather be getting a root canal. We’re definitely in no shape to preserve this moment at the photo booth.

I’m sure it’s just the number of kids here today. Wayne isn’t a fan of children, especially loud, unruly ones, but I’ve known that about him from the beginning. And, he’s got enough of the qualities I’m looking for in a man—sophisticated, charismatic, articulate, and, of course, wealthy doesn’t hurt—so I’m willing to overlook the single character flaw. Even though I’ve dreamed of raising enough kids to fill a minivan for as long as I can remember.

After I struggle out of my skates and slip on my suede ankle boots, we turn in our skates at the counter then, thankfully, locate the first-aid tent easily. It’s cramped inside, the four EMTs killing time playing spades on a stretcher until I walk in.

A paramedic with kind hazel eyes asks what happened and the level of pain I’m experiencing as he checks out my wrist. I fill him in while Wayne pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.

“Looks like a sprain,” the EMT confirms, testing my range of motion and examining the swelling. “You’ll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks. I’ll get you set up with a splint.”

This is the last thing I need when the bustle of the holiday season is here. Though summer is the busiest time for my boutique, Coastal Charm, the Christmas season is responsible for a sizable chunk of our annual revenue. But that’s not what’s got me the most upset.

I turn to Wayne as the paramedic wraps my wrist and forearm. “I guess I won’t be practicing that pecan pie recipe anytime soon, but I’ll be sure to take good notes, so I can help out next year.”

Wayne shifts from foot to foot in his leather wingtip loafers, darting a glance at the EMTs. There he goes again with the odd behavior. He probably can’t think of how to reassure me he’ll happily wait a year to taste the pie I bake from scratch.

“Actually, Cara,” he says, clearing his throat, “I think I’m going to go solo to Christmas dinner.”

I shake my head to clear what must certainly be cotton balls in my ears. “I’m sorry, what?”

He smoothly slips the phone back into the pocket of his designer jeans. “It’s just… It’s a family thing, you know? And we’ve only been dating a few months…”

I stare at him, my vision going in and out of focus as my mind reels. Only a few months? What does that have to do with it? Sure, we only met on the Fourth of July, but we’ve been serious since Labor Day. At least, I thought we were.

I feel my carefully composed manner cracking, and I scramble, desperate to hang on to some semblance of our perfect relationship before it slips away. “But…but weren’t you going to propose on Christmas? Or, if not Christmas, maybe New Year’s Eve? Or New Year’s Day, that would be romantic, too. A way to ring in the new year in style.”

His brows knot together. Wayne’s brows never knot together.

“Propose?” he chokes out.

Am I speaking a foreign language? The EMT has stopped wrapping my wrist, but his pause barely registers. “Yeah, propose, as in get down on one knee, pop the question, ask for my hand, make it official, seal the deal? You know, propose .”

“I…I…” Wayne stammers, taking a step back, then another.

I glance around, certain it’s not me who’s not making any sense in this conversation, but the EMTs’ card game has come to a screeching halt, and they’re all watching Wayne and me as if we’re stars on a reality TV show.

Am I on some sort of hidden camera?

“I wasn’t going to propose on Christmas, Cara,” Wayne says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or New Years. In fact, I was planning to break up with you. Today.”