The Holiday Games

Chapter 4

four

. . .

Leo

T he meeting with Ainsley goes off without a hitch.

Ainsley charms Caroline, Caroline charms Ainsley, and I’m charmed by an excellent dirty martini as the paperwork is signed.

All is once again right with the world, and my show is back on track. The weatherman is even forecasting a warmer-than-seasonal evening for ice-skating, which will make filming more pleasant for everyone involved.

So why am I haunted by the creeping certainty that I’ve made a mistake with Miss Caroline “Candy” Cane?

“What am I missing about this girl, Satan?” I murmur as I spoon ridiculously expensive organic cat food into Greg’s dish and warm up half a stale sandwich for my own dinner. “She seems perfect. So why has my gut been in knots since she signed the production contract?”

Greg “Satan” Fluffy Stuff, the 1st of his Name, sniffs from his place on the kitchen floor, where he watches me with his typical lack of affection or respect.

It’s because you want to date her, dumbass, he says, his golden eyes glowing in his ginger face. You’ve got a crush. But the crush will still be there when filming’s wrapped, and you’re not her boss. Now please, put my fucking food down before I’m forced to gouge holes in your ugly pants with my claws.

“You have a point,” I say, setting his dish on the place mat on the floor in the corner of my tiny kitchen. I refill his water and turn to wash my hands at the sink, but my thoughts are still churning. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to get punked.”

You need a therapist. Maybe then you could stop talking to a cat, achieve a modicum of self-growth, and move the hell on from the trauma of losing Vivian.

“Why is everyone so pro-therapy for everything all of a sudden?” I snatch the towel from the stove handle and turn to glare at Satan as I dry my hands. “I mean, I support it for a woman who punches her co-workers, but I remember when therapy was reserved for people who had real issues to deal with. So, my ex ghosted me? So what? That’s not trauma. Bombs exploding in Afghanistan is trauma. A friend getting shot is trauma. Being forced to walk through Times Square on a hot summer day when it’s packed full of tourists and smells like ripe ass, is trauma, but I know all the short cuts around that cesspool so I’m fine.”

Then why are you such a bitter, jaded, sad clown who only believes in love for “the younger generations?” He turns to study me with a bored expression as he licks one orange paw clean. Say what you will about Satan, but he keeps his ginger coat impeccably groomed. You’re old, you’re not dead. Get a life.

“I’m not old,” I grumble. “Forty isn’t old. Forty is the new thirty. I read it in The Times.”

Satan’s tail flicks back and forth in silent irritation.

I exhale. “I know, you hate The Times, but they have compelling content, and the investigative journalism is unparalleled.”

The Times can suck my juicy pink asshole, he says, his tail still flicking. It’s a rag for rich East Coast yuppies. There’s nothing there for me.

“You realize you are a rich East Coast yuppie, right?” I ask, grabbing one of my three plates from the open shelves above the counter. As a confirmed bachelor, I don’t need more than that, especially when I eat takeout most of the time. “You live larger than ninety percent of the cats in this city, which happens to be solidly on the East Coast. Your organic food costs two-hundred dollars a month.”

Satan’s eyes narrow to slits. Well, if that’s too much for you to spend on your best friend, who happens to be allergic to preservatives, by all means feed me the bargain shit. I’ll happily go back to vomiting on your bedspread after every meal. Truly, it would be my pleasure.

“I’m sure it would.” I slide my half sandwich from the toaster oven onto my plate, hissing as the melted cheese burns my fingertips. “But I’d be in pretty bad shape if you were my best friend, buddy.”

Exactly, dumbass, Satan says, racing forward to bat claws at my calf before rampaging into the living room with a hiss and a yowl.

“Ow!” I shout. “Why are you such a dick?”

Thankfully, however, my winter suit pants are thick enough to act as a protective barrier against Greg’s satanic side. As I take the four steps to my dining table, where I have a clear view of my cat galloping over the couch and leaping onto his giant cat play structure by the window, I add, “One of these days I’m going to get sick of your shit and put you up for adoption.”

On no! Not the chance to be adopted by a person who isn’t a disappointment to the human race, what would I do? Satan lands atop of the structure with a wicked laugh and settles onto one platform to watch the birds roosting in the tree outside my brownstone, silhouetted in the early sunset light.

“That was legitimately hurtful,” I mutter, tucking into my still dry sandwich. All the toaster oven accomplished was to glue the cheese even more firmly to the carboard bread.

I could, of course, go to a restaurant or order better takeout. I’m not a billionaire, but I do very well for myself, especially for a guy who’s trafficked in jokes his entire adult life. My apartment is paid off, I have a healthy savings account, a retirement account, and an adorable little vacation home in Maine. I have more than enough extra cash floating around to eat out every night if I wanted to. I used to love exploring my Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, trying every new café as soon as it opened. But since I started producing the reality show, my taste for being out and about in the world has dulled.

You can only spend so much time around people behaving badly before you lose your taste for being around humans more than absolutely necessary.

Maybe that’s why I can’t shake the feeling that the other shoe’s about to drop and Caroline isn’t as fabulous as she seems.

Candy, not Caroline. She said people from her hometown call her Candy. Remember?

This time, the voice in my head isn’t Satan’s depraved cat telepathy. It’s my intuition, underlining pertinent information, helping my weary synapses fire. Before I’ve swallowed my next bite of stale sandwich, the pieces start to slide into place, sending my stomach into freefall.

Vivian had a cousin named Candy—Candy Cane to be specific. I remember we laughed about it during our first holiday together, how cruel it was for her aunt and uncle to give her cousin a name like that, especially when they lived in a Christmas-themed town.

Could that town be Reindeer Corners?

I don’t think that’s the name Vivian mentioned when she talked about her hometown—I thought it was Jingle Bell Ville or something equally horrible—but I could be wrong. After all, what are the chances there are two Candy Canes in the tiniest state in the nation?

Snagging my laptop from the other side of the table and flipping it open, I type Caroline’s full name into the search along with Vivian’s. In just seconds, I have proof that Caroline is indeed Vivian’s cousin…in the form of a wedding announcement in the local paper. Caroline was one of Viv’s bridesmaids.

And now she’s my newest reality show contestant.

And likely plotting my downfall as I scroll through search results…

My mind races, my dread intensifying as I connect the dots.

Caroline had a strong reaction to my name, meaning she almost certainly knows I’m the man her cousin used to date. And I know Vivian well enough to guess that the story she told her family about our breakup probably isn’t anything close to the truth. Vivian insists on being the victim, even when she’s clearly in the wrong, though that wasn’t a character trait I understood until we were over.

Explaining to our mutual friends after the breakup that no, I didn’t criticize Viv’s taste in clothing or force her to eat meat when she was desperate to stay a vegetarian, added insult to our break-up injury. I’m betting the stories she’s told her family are even worse. After all, in Vermont, there’s no one around who knows me to contradict her tales of Evil Leo the Bad Boyfriend and how he made her life a living hell.

She will have found some way to spin our breakup to make me the bad guy, maybe even the very bad guy.

Bad enough to tempt her cousin to sign up for my reality show simply to fuck with my life?

I don’t know. I hope not. Maybe Caroline kept the Vivian connection a secret because she was excited about the show and didn’t want to ruin her chances at being included in the project.

And maybe, if you open the window, the birds will fly inside and deposit themselves into my mouth, Satan pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Shut up, smartass,” I mumble.

I mean, it’s worth a try, he says, his voice plaintive now, I want to hunt them so badly, Sad Sack. The need…it haunts me.

Just like Caroline’s face has haunted me since the moment I met her.

That’s another major downside of this connection. I can’t date Vivian’s cousin. Not ever. No matter how well we get along, no matter how drawn I felt to her from the moment we met.

Even if she’s truly a friend, not a foe, that’s all we can ever be.

Friends.

But that’s fine. You don’t want to date anyone anyway, remember? Satan coos. Dating is for the young.

“I’m going to lock your catnip in my safe.”

Fine, just open the window first. I can take these birds, man. I know I can. Let me shoot my shot.

Shoot my shot…

That’s what I need to do, shoot my shot before Caroline can shoot hers.

Tossing my mostly uneaten sandwich in the trash, I text Ainsley an SOS to warn her to get a contract ready for our backup, a woman from New Hampshire she chatted with at the New England Innkeepers meet and greet.

Instantly she shoots back— Okay, but are you crazy? Caroline is great, and filming starts in two hours!

I know , I say. Hopefully we won’t need the backup, but we should have the contract ready. Just in case. Trust me, okay?

Shit, okay. Ainsley replies. But shit!

“Deep shit,” I agree aloud as I head for the door.

But if I hurry, there should be time to find out if this shit can be cleaned up before we’re all due on set.