A Kiss for Christmas Page 10

  I know I’m babbling, but I can’t stop. If I do, Matt will have to speak, and tell me why he’s not here right now, starting what was meant to be our perfect romantic trip.

  “Sophie…” His voice is reluctant.

  “Or we can stay in and order room service,” I give a nervous laugh. “Whatever you want!”

  “Soph!”

  I fall silent.

  “Listen, we both know this hasn’t been working.”

  Blood pounds in my ears. My face tingles, hot. “Don’t—” I say, but he presses on in a halting, guilty voice.

  “I told you when we started dating I didn’t have the time. And you should, you know, be with someone who can make time for you.”

  “But you said this is just for the year, until you finish your residency,” I protest desperately.

  “Come on, Sophie. You know that’s not it. We just…we aren’t compatible. Not like that.”

  There’s silence. All my worst insecurities come rushing out. The terrible secret I’ve worked so hard to ignore.

  “Is this about…?” I whisper, but he quickly cuts me off.

  “When it’s not right, it’s not right.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “And everything with us, well, it’s a sign.”

  “A sign,” I echo dully. Across the lobby, a happy couple is checking in, bundled up in coats and scarves against the cold. The woman is beaming, pink-cheeked, and the guy drops a laughing kiss on her lips.

  That was supposed to be me. Us.

  “But what about the trip?” I ask, tears stinging in my throat. “I’ve been planning it for months. I told you everything. The sleigh ride. The ice skating… Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  Before I got on a plane and flew all the way across the country. Before I sublet my room for the holidays, and spent way too much money on the perfect hostess gifts for his mother.

  “I… I guess I didn’t think it through,” Matt admits. “I’m at my parents’,” he continues, haltingly. “I, uh, talked to the hotel. It was too late to get a refund on the room, but we can work that out when you’re back in LA. So I’ll…uh, goodbye.” Matt says quietly, and then without waiting for my reply—for any sign that I’m OK with this—he hangs up.

  And just like that, it’s over.

  I stare at my phone in a daze. He broke up with me. I can’t believe it. Rejection and sadness spiral through me. I don’t understand.

  He could have done this weeks ago. Days, even. Every time I showed him a new article with fun tourist activities, every time I emailed him a link to the perfect brunch spot or romantic place to get dinner. This whole trip was even his suggestion, back in the fall. “Let’s go to New York,” he told me, lying in bed one rare morning he didn’t have to get to the hospital. “You’re always talking about it. We can go stay with my parents after. I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

  So what changed?

  Why wasn’t I good enough for him?

  Tears well up again, and I quickly duck into the elevator, heading upstairs. I find my room—our room—and swipe the keycard three times before the door finally opens and I can stumble into the room.

  The door closes. I’m alone.

  I look around. It’s beautiful, luxurious, perfect for a romantic trip. The king bed is made with crisp white linens, there are fresh roses on the nightstand, and there’s a huge marble tub in the bathroom made for two. I planned a long hot soak with Matt, drinking champagne and relaxing in the bubbles.

  What am I supposed to do now?

  I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. This is your fault, a small voice whispers. If you’d been more understanding…more exciting…sexier…

  I try to block out the chorus of blame. Then I realize what he just said to me on the phone.

  He checked with the hotel. It was too late to get a refund on the room.

  He tried to cancel.

  My rejection hardens to anger, sharp in my gut. He called behind my back, tried to cancel the reservation. He would have left me stranded here in New York with no warning and no place to stay—all because he didn’t have the guts to break up with me back at home?

  Asshole.

  I repeat the word out loud, stronger. “Asshole!”

  It feels good. I leap up, and check myself in the mirror by the door. I quickly wipe away my smudges of tearful mascara, smooth my hair down, and take a deep breath. The sexy vintage dress I picked out to wow Matt clings to my body, showing off my long legs and a hint of cleavage.

  I’m here in New York, I’m suddenly single, and there’s a gorgeous man in the bar who wants to show me a good time. The psychology student in me says that I’m in denial: deflecting my rejection and avoiding my real feelings.

  The woman in me says, why the hell not?

  “Screw you, Matt,” I tell my reflection. I grab my purse and coat and scarf and head back downstairs. My pulse races as I step off the elevator and sashay through the lobby. Part of me is panicked he’s found another girl to pass the time with, but then I see him, still alone by the bar.

  Still hot enough to melt the snow on the sidewalks outside.

  Maybe it’s denial and avoidance. Maybe it’s something more. But some instinct I can’t explain propels me across the bar, and brings me to a stop right in front of him. “Hi,” I start, my heart pounding in my chest. He looks surprised, opening his mouth to speak, but I keep talking. “My name’s Sophie,” I blurt out. “It turns out I’m free tonight after all. Do you still want to go to dinner?”

  Austin

  It’s the easiest question of my life.

  “Yes,” I say, before she’s even finished asking it. “Let’s go.”

  Relief flashes across her face. “Oh, good.” Sophie exhales with a rueful grin. “I figured you might have changed your mind.”

  “Not at all.” I watch her carefully. “But what changed yours? Your boyfriend not going to show?”

  She presses her lips in a thin line. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” she finally answers.

  I have a hundred questions right now, starting with, "Is he crazy?” and ending with “How about ordering in—from my room?” But I can see from her reluctant expression she doesn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to screw up a good thing before the night is even started, so I push back my curiosity and remind myself, this isn’t the kind of girl to fall for my charming bullshit lines.

  Instead, I gesture towards the exit and offer her my arm. “After you.”

  I take her to one of my favorite spots, a real old-school New York deli just a couple of blocks from the hotel. Anika would never step foot somewhere without valet parking and a wine list, but I have an instinct that Sophie will get a kick out of the noise and bustle, the huge chalkboard menus and the way the cooks yell out their orders across the room.

  She lights up the minute we walk in. “It’s just like the deli in When Harry Met Sally!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.

  “That’s Katz’s, downtown,” I chuckle, leading her to a free booth in the corner. “But they’re packed with tourists these days. This is the real deal. Best pastrami melt in town.”

  Sophie slips off her coat and gloves, revealing her figure-hugging blue dress. She looks like an old-fashioned movie star, with her tiny pearl earrings and the seam of her stockings running up the back of her legs. I watch her hips shift as she moves, mesmerized. I’m not the only one: every guy here turns to watch her walk across the room. By the time she slides into the booth, she’s blushing bright pink. “I’m kind of over-dressed,” she whispers, looking down self-consciously.

  “You look amazing,” I reassure her. “They’re all just wishing they were sitting in my place right now.”

  She just gives me a suspicious look, like she can’t trust my compliments. “Thank you.” Sophie replies carefully, then reaches for the menu.

  And then I realize, whatever happened to send her marching up to me in the bar, she still hasn’t forgotten ever
ything that happened before then. How I made a fool of myself dialing every girl in my phone before going to hit on her—and how she called me on it right away. She’s not one of those fluttering fangirls trying to get backstage after the show; or those cool model It Girls who love getting photographed with me for the tabloids.

  In fact, as I watch her scanning the menu, ignoring me completely, I wonder. Does she even know who I am?

  “I’m Austin, by the way,” I say casually.

  Sophie’s eyes snap up. She gasps. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t even ask you your name!”

  I smile. “That’s OK.” I watch for any sign of recognition, but none comes.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie says. She shakes her head. “I guess my mind is just all over the place. Nothing about today has worked out like I planned.”

  I exhale. I’m surprised to feel relief. I’m not going to complain about the perks that come with being a famous rock star, but it’s nice to escape from it too: to sit across from a woman and not wonder if she’s going to text all her friends the minute I go to the bathroom, or sneak my coffee cup into her purse to sell on eBay.

  True story.

  But Sophie doesn’t know who I am, or if she does, she doesn’t care. She just looks at me with open curiosity. “So what’s your deal?” she asks. “Did you get stranded too?”

  “Yup. I’m supposed to be on a flight to London right now,” I explain. “I was going to meet my family there for the holidays, but it was cancelled.”

  “That’s too bad.” Sophie looks sympathetic. “Mine are traveling right now. Otherwise I’d go see them. Nobody should be alone for Christmas.”

  “Why not?” I shrug. “It’s just like any other day.”

  Her mouth drops open. “It’s not! It’s the holidays, a time for family, and celebrations, and—”

  “Hallmark cards and stupid gifts everyone’s going to return in the morning anyway?” I finish, amused by the passion in her voice.

  “Scrooge,” she shoots back, but she’s smiling as she says it.

  I laugh. “And you’re stuck with me.” The waitress brings us plastic water glasses, and I raise mine in a toast. “Here’s to getting stuck.”

  Sophie cracks a smile and taps hers to mine.

  “You guys ready to order?” The waitress demands. She’s a brassy woman in her fifties with a pencil through her bun.

  “Um, I’m not sure…” Sophie looks back at the menu. I take it from her hands.

  “We’ll get two Ruebens, potato salad, slaw, fries too.” I order for us both. Sophie’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Trust me,” I tell her, as the waitress bustles away. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

  Sophie assesses me. “What if I was a vegetarian?” she asks, a smile creeping to the edge of her lips.

  “Are you?”

  “No,” she admits with a laugh. “I love bacon too much for that.”

  “My kind of woman,” I grin, leaning back in the booth. I let out a satisfied sigh. Things are turning around. A half hour ago I was stranded, bored, and alone, and now I’m in the company of a beautiful, intriguing woman, with a heap of pastrami on the way.

  Life is good once more.

  Sophie

  The food is amazing, and I can’t get over the restaurant: clustered with real New Yorkers chatting over their bottomless coffees and overflowing plates. Austin jokes through dinner, telling me stories about his other travel nightmares: getting stranded in an airport in Guatemala with a group of nuns for two days, or the time some boy band was flying out of the same terminal and he got caught up in a teen-girl riot.

  It’s easy and fun, and almost enough to distract me from the knot of rejection, still heavy in my gut.

  Almost.

  Finally, Austin pushes his empty plate back with a satisfied sigh. “Meat good. Man full,” he says in a low, caveman voice.

  I laugh. “How did you get through that? I’ve barely made a dent!” I look mournfully at my full plate. Even having barely eaten all day, I still have half a sandwich left.

  “But that’s the best part of Canter’s,” Austin grins. “Midnight leftovers.”

  He winks, and I feel a shiver of something I can’t quite recognize. Anticipation maybe. Excitement. Nerves.

  I didn’t think this through.

  I was too angry and hurt at Matt to think about anything other than getting out of that hotel room. I wasn’t going to sit around moping over our break-up when New York City was waiting for me—and Austin had made it clear, he had time to kill.

  But sitting across from him now, the fluorescent strip lighting bathing his gorgeous face in a golden glow, I realize, I’m way out of my depth.

  Before Matt, I never dated much. A couple of hook-ups and short relationships in college, but I was too focused on my studies to pay anyone real attention. And when I did, they were always the cute but geeky guys I paired up with for study partners. Matt was like that too: awkward and sincere; we met through friends at a summer BBQ. He said it took him a week to work up the courage to call me. That’s when I knew I was safe with him.

  Austin is anything but safe. He’s sexy, charming, adventurous…

  Way out of your league.

  “You OK?” he asks, watching me. “Or did you overdo it on the pastrami? I warned you…” he adds, teasing.

  “I’m fine!” I blurt, then I pause. “Actually, there is one thing I need.”

  Austin quirks his eyebrow. “Anything, sweetheart. Ask, and it shall be yours.”

  I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I do know, I can’t deal with that heart-stopping smile and those piercing blue eyes in my current state. I need to take the edge off, and forget the whispers of guilt and insecurities rising in the back of my mind whenever I think about how things ended with Matt.

  What if he was right? What if you couldn’t have made it work—and it’s all your fault?

  I shake off the fear, and look Austin straight in the eye.

  “I’m going to need a drink.”

  I still have the hopeful list of places I was planning to go with Matt programmed into my phone, and when I check, one of the bars is right nearby.

  “You didn’t have to treat me to dinner,” I scold Austin, wrapping up against the night winds. It’s cold and clear, the kind of bone-chilling breeze we never get in California.

  “Hush, you.” He falls into step beside me, out on the sidewalk. “I was raised right. My momma would have a fit if I ever let a lady pay.”

  I giggle. “Well, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He casually places his hand on my back, carefully supporting me as I pick my way through the slush on the ground. My pumps may be cute, but they’re not made for icy sidewalks, and I nearly go slipping on my ass for the second time today.

  Austin catches my arm before I can fall, yanking me up against him. “Easy, tiger.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur, flushing. “I’m not usually this clumsy. Shoes,” I explain.

  His eyes slide down my legs to the red heels. “Hot.”

  He’s still holding me, crushed against his chest. I catch my breath. His body is solid and firm. I can feel the dense muscles even through our layers of winter clothing.

  Matt was rangy, tall and thin. I used to joke that my hips were wider than his when I wrapped by legs around him at night, but Austin…?

  Austin would pin me to the mattress without breaking a sweat.

  I pull away, certain my cheeks are burning bright red. “Thanks,” I mumble again, and look around. I hope we’re close; another couple of blocks falling into Austin’s arms every time I lose my footing, and I won’t need a drink to be light-headed and dizzy.

  “There it is!” I announce, spotting the big old sign. “Just ahead.”

  “Marie’s Crisis…” Austin reads, looking puzzled. “What kind of name is that for a bar?”

  “No idea.” I walk hurriedly to the stairs that lead below street level to the fro
nt door. “Let’s go find out.”

  As soon as I push open the front door, I’m hit by heat and raucous singing. I step inside to find a small, dimly-lit room, barely twenty feet square. There’s a bar along the back wall, a piano to my right, and forty guys enthusiastically singing along to “Hey, Dolly!” by Barbara Streisand.

  I love it.

  Austin enters behind me and stops dead at the scene. “Sophie…?” he says, placing his hands on my waist and leaning in to murmur in my ear. His breath is hot against my cheek, but his tone is amused. “Did you bring me to a gay bar? Because trust me, honey, that ain’t my thing.”

  As if to prove his point, he tugs me back, so I’m pressed flush against the front of his body.

  All his body.

  “No!” I yelp, spinning around. “I didn’t think… I mean, I know you’re not…” I stop, embarrassed. “I just read about it, it sounded like fun. Something different.”

  “Well, you certainly got that part right.” Austin’s mouth creases in amusement as he surveys the scene. “C’mon, sugar. I’m feeling like I’ll need a drink myself.”

  He takes my hand and leads me around the crowd to the bar. “Whiskey, neat,” he tells the bartender, then turns to me.

  “Malibu and coke, please.”

  He groans. “What are you, fifteen? Order a real drink, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll have a Malibu and coke,” I tell the bartender firmly, before turning back to Austin. “I like what I like,” I tell him with a smile. “You won’t change my mind.”

  “Weak-ass drinks, show tunes…” Austin shakes his head, but his eyes are full of laughter. “It’s a good thing you’re so beautiful, otherwise I’d be running for the hills right about now.”