The Holiday Games

Chapter 15

fifteen

. . .

Caroline

T he island is pure holiday magic.

The massive lawn between the abandoned military housing blocks—Governors Island was once a Coast Guard installation—is packed with crafters of all kinds. Leo and I grab a hot cider and wander in circles under the lights strung overhead, admiring hand-poured candles, jewelry, ornaments made of found materials, and charming oil paintings of the city in winter.

I select a pair of dangly, moon-and-star earrings connected by whisper-thin silver threads for myself, and Leo buys another hat—a sock cap this time. I try to pay for it, but he brushes me off, shouldering me out of the way as he extends his credit card toward the clerk.

While he’s distracted, I slip across the lane to purchase a watercolor of a cranky-looking ginger cat in a peppermint-striped scarf that I saw earlier. It’s a pretty penny, but it’s perfect, and I want to do something to thank Leo for this perfect day.

When I pull it from my purse on our way to the food trucks later, his expression softens, “Wow. It’s Satan if he loved the holidays.”

I grin. “Looks just like him, right? I couldn’t resist. Happy Hanukkah!”

“I love it,” he says, looking visibly moved.

And a little sad…

I loop my arm through his and give his bicep a squeeze, telling myself I’m doing it because I want to offer him comfort, not because the feel of his powerful body beneath his clothes does fizzy things to me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to miss your cat, Fenton. You know we can always call off the move if you need Greg here with you. That’s totally fine.”

He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not a chance, Cane. He’s yours. It’s just… My friends aren’t the kind who exchange gifts, and I don’t have much family anymore. It’s been a while since I got a Hanukkah gift. Especially one this nice. So…thank you.”

Chest aching, I promise, “You’re welcome. And consider yourself on my holiday gift list for life. Or until you tell me to stop sending you crap every December. Fair warning, I usually give prank gifts. The holidays start to feel stressful if I take the gift-giving too seriously.”

“I’m a comedy writer. Who better to appreciate the glory of a prank gift? I would be honored to be on your list.”

I smile. “Good. Then it’s a deal. I’ll put your address in my book before I leave.”

Leave…

It was the wrong thing to say. Our festive vibe dips, making the late afternoon air feel cooler than it did before. But soon, we reach the food trucks, where vintage holiday tunes blast from speakers above the picnic tables and bonfires crackle in cozy fire pits. The smell of fried dough, freshly grilled meat, and mulled wine cheers us, and by the time we’ve eaten our way through three countries, we’re both smiling again.

“Now the hard part. Choosing the last snack,” Leo says, scanning the line of vendors with narrowed yes. “Brisket taco or smoked goose with orange sauce?”

“Taco every time,” I say. “Though eating goose is intriguing from a vengeance point of view. We had geese on my parents’ farm when I was a kid. They pooped under my tire swing and Francine liked to sneak up behind me and bite my butt while I was feeding the chickens before school.”

He winces. “Not cool, Francine. What was up with her?”

“Not sure,” I say. “She might have been jealous. She adored my mother and wasn’t too happy that I got to sleep inside the house with Cherry, while she had to stay out in the shed.”

“Your mom’s name is Cherry?”

“Yep. Cherry and Bart Cane, the cutest couple in Reindeer Corners.” I add with a wry smile, “And the most oblivious. They insist they didn’t realize they’d basically named me ‘Candy Cane’ until after they’d signed the birth certificate.”

He laughs. “No way.”

“Yes, way. I was named after my mother’s sister, Candace, who was lucky enough to have a different last name. But they’re both sweethearts, and great parents. Though they stress out about when I’m going to settle down more than I’d like.” I sigh as I realize… “They’re going to be upset about me calling it quits with Chris.”

“They honestly thought he was the guy for you?” Leo asks, a hint of judgment in his tone.

I shake my head. “No, but I think they were glad I seemed to be on the verge of starting a family. I’m not getting any younger, you know. Thirty-four is dangerously close to ‘geriatric pregnancy’ territory and Mom and Dad are desperate for grandkids.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Do you want kids?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my shoulders creeping closer to my ears. “I mean, I love the idea of being a mom, but only if I had a stellar dad in the picture. I don’t want to go it alone or with a man who doesn’t want kids as much as I do. My dad was always there for me, every bit as much as my mom. I want the same for my children. If I have them.”

Leo nods seriously. “That makes sense.”

Peeking at him from the corners of my eyes, I ask, “How about you?”

His lips hook up on one side. “I think that ship has sailed for me.”

I frown. “Why?”

“I’m old.”

“Forty isn’t old,” I scoff.

“If thirty-four is a geriatric pregnancy, forty is absolutely a geriatric paternity. My sperm is probably all crooked and wrong.”

I laugh. “Crooked and wrong?”

“Mutated,” he says. “That’s the word I was looking for. I probably have geriatric mutant sperm.”

I hum beneath my breath. “I think you’d be fine. The rest of you seems to be holding up okay so far.”

“Yeah, well, I’m in the same boat you are. I’d only want kids if I had the right partner and so far, not so good, on that front.”

“Maybe your luck is turning around,” I hear myself whisper, even though I know it’s wrong.

I’m not the woman for Leo, but damn, do I want to be.

“Maybe it is,” he says, his face drifting closer to mine.

Closer, closer…until my breath locks in my chest and my lips tingle with anticipation and my heart is dancing along to the Jingle Bell Rock beat blaring over the speakers.

I’m positive he’s going to kiss me, but instead he pauses with his mouth just inches from mine and murmurs, “How about I get you a taco, and I’ll feast upon wretched goose flesh in your honor?”

I sigh and nod, “Yes, please. And while you’re doing that, I’ll grab us both another mulled wine?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he says.

And it is. It’s a lovely plan. Even without kisses, spending the day with Leo is the most fun I’ve had in years.

But I can’t help wishing there were kisses…

As we finish our food and wander through the light display at the island’s bougie campground, admiring the Statue of Liberty in the early sunset light, I want to kiss him by the Christmas tree. When we hop aboard a hayride, singing along to an off-key rendition of Good King Wenceslaus on our way back to the dock, it gets even worse. By the time we board the return ferry, sneaking a final glass of mulled wine onto the boat under Leo’s coat, it’s all I can do not to throw my arms around his neck and tell him that he’s my favorite.

But that would be insane.

Someone can’t become your favorite in just a day or two.

I barely know Leo. He could be hiding dark, deal breaker secrets. He could have a temper lurking behind his wry smiles or an addiction to uppers or downers or whatever drugs television producers are doing these days. He could leave all the cabinets open after he makes himself a sandwich or wear socks with sandals in the summer or eat crackers in bed.

But even as I make a list of all the things that could potentially stand between us, deep down, I know better.

For the first time in my life, I have no reservations, no doubts, only the quiet certainty that Leo is the one I’ve been waiting for.

Too bad Vivian met him first…

“Sip?” he asks once we’re aboard, discreetly opening his coat to reveal the paper cup full of mulled wine.

“Yes.” I take it and swallow a gulp of the hot wine, hoping the alcohol will take the edge off.

Instead, it floods down my throat and through my chest, before somehow skipping my stomach to burn between my hips, where it makes things even worse. The warm, aching feeling is now a five-alarm fire only Leo can put out.

I’m about to do it—to press my lips to his lips and wreck our budding friendship—when a man dressed as a snowman dances up the aisle, singing “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus,” accompanied by tinny music blasting from the portable speaker strapped to his waist. He’s holding a fishing pole with a sprig of something green dangling from the end and wears a sign around his neck that reads: Tips Appreciated.

Before I’ve put two and two together to make a New York hustler trapping couples under the mistletoe for cash, he stops beside us and swings his pole into place.

“ Ho ho ho , look who’s under the mistletoe,” he crows, summoning a wave of uncomfortable laughter from the sorority girls sitting on the other side of the aisle.

I turn toward Leo, deciding this must be fate. How else to explain this perfectly justifiable excuse to make out?

But before I can so much as lift my chin, Leo drops a five-dollar bill in Frosty’s tip cup and rumbles, “Thanks, buddy, we’re just friends.”

Shame floods through me, shriveling my stomach and cooling the fizzy feelings bubbling inside. I pull in a breath, hoping something light and breezy will emerge from my throat once I remember how to speak. But before I can, Leo leans in and presses his lips to my forehead.

He holds them there for a long beat as his arm tightens around my shoulders, cradling me to his side like something precious, irreplaceable.

My eyes slide closed and for one brilliant, shining moment, I feel it…

This is what they write about in festive country songs.

This is what Hallmark wants us to feel during their Christmas movie marathons.

This is love laced with the perfect pinch of holiday magic…

I’ve fallen fast and hard for a man who gives magical forehead kisses capable of making a flock of sorority girls sigh with envy as the snowman wishes us a happy holiday and tap dances down the aisle.

“Hope that was okay,” Leo murmurs as he pulls back, taking a discreet sip of our contraband wine.

“It was perfect.” I hold his gaze, certain once again that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

This is love, all right. This is the real deal, the thing I was beginning to think wasn’t in the cards for me.

Now, all that’s left to figure out is…what am I going to do about it?