Holiday Hoax: Chapter 3

The Next Day

Everything feels strange this year. It’s the first time I’ve not gone back to Savannah or been with my grammy for the holidays. Since she died six months ago, there’s no reason to return to my hometown. No one is left.

When I was little, my parents were always on the road. They had musical ambitions, so they traveled the country, singing. One night, their tour bus crashed, and the little time I did get to spend with them was gone. I became an orphan.

I’d already been living with my grandfather and grandmother in Georgia. In some ways, it didn’t seem any different even though there was grief. And I noticed how sad my grandparents became.

My grandfather had a harder time hiding it than my grandmother. I’d catch him staring at my mother’s picture and crying some nights.

But my grammy’s saying was, ‘when life gives you lemons, you turn them into lemonade.’ So even though my parents were gone, I didn’t feel the loss like a child might have. Sure, it hurt, but if they hadn’t been so absent, I imagine I would have had a harder time adjusting.

Ever since I can remember, I’d spent every holiday with my grammy. This will be the first year I stay in Dallas for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Most of the friends I met in college when I was getting my MBA have left. They’ve gotten jobs around the country or returned to their hometowns to be closer to their families. The only friend I have in town is Melanie. She’s married with a four-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter.

One night, we were talking. I was having a hard time contemplating spending the holidays without my grammy. Then I heard her voice telling me to turn lemons into lemonade. That led to me volunteering to host Thanksgiving for Melanie and her family since her and her husband’s parents are all in Ohio.

Now that I have plans, I’m feeling excited about Thanksgiving. I plan on making a big, traditional meal. So even though I’m waking up a little bit sad today, I need to do what my grammy would do.

I glance at my clock. It’s five a.m., but I can’t sleep. My guests are arriving around ten this morning, and we’re going to eat around eleven o’clock. So, I roll out of bed to start the turkey. I already brined it and prepped some of the sides last night.

I go into the kitchen, pull the turkey out, and prepare it in the roaster. I start the water for the sweet and white potatoes. Then I mix a can of mushroom soup with fresh green beans.

After I’m finished, I leave the kitchen and return to my bedroom. I jump in the shower, dry my hair, and am in the middle of putting my foundation on when my phone buzzes.

I swipe at the screen and chirp, ‘Happy Thanksgiving, Melanie!’

Her voice sounds raspy as she replies, ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’

My red flags wave. ‘Melanie, what’s wrong?’

‘I’m so sorry, Georgia. The kids were throwing up all night. Their temperatures are slightly over one hundred. Even Darren’s got a fever.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, as disappointment shoots through me.

She continues, ‘I’m so sorry. There’s no way we can come over.’

My gut drops, but I assure her, ‘It’s okay. Is there anything I can get or do for you?’

She sneezes several times.

I pull the phone away from my ear. When she stops, I bring it back.

‘Sorry. No, I’m just really sorry. I feel horrible leaving you on your own today. Plus, it was going to be so much fun.’

I take a deep breath, trying to sound happier than I feel. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry about me. Just get better. If I can do anything, just let me know.’

‘I will. Thanks. Bye.’ She hangs up.

I stare at myself in the mirror. What am I going to do now? I have a ton of food with no one to eat it.

I blink back tears, but grief overwhelms me and wins. My cheeks turn wet.

A memory of my grandparents on Thanksgiving comes to my mind. Loneliness rears its ugly head. It’s something I’ve felt way too much of lately.

‘Stop moping,’ my grammy says in my head.

I pull myself together and go out to the kitchen. The aroma of turkey fills the air. I stare at all the food, trying to figure out what to do.

I have to finish making everything. Otherwise, it’ll go to waste.

I can take it over to Melanie’s.

Doing my best not to sink into a pity party, I turn on some music and finish making everything. I save two servings for myself and text Melanie.

Me: I’m going to drop food off. I know y’all are sick, but you can have some when you feel better.

Melanie: That’s sweet of you, but don’t feel obligated.

Me: I’m not going to be able to eat all this, and I don’t want it to go bad.

Melanie: Okay, thanks. Just leave it outside our door so you don’t get sick.

Me: No problem.

I package everything in containers I saved when I cleaned out my grammy’s house. They keep the food warm, and I stare at the worn-out fabric. It’s off-white with little turkeys on it. It’s another bittersweet feeling.

I stop myself from getting on another pity-party train and text Melanie.

Me: Hey, I’m leaving in five minutes. Can you make sure I get my containers back? These were my grammy’s.

Melanie: Of course. I’ll take good care of them.

Me: Thanks.

I find a box and put everything in it. Then I take everything to my car. I drive to Melanie’s, ring her bell, put everything on the front porch, then text her.

Me: Food’s here.

Melanie: Thanks, girl. I’m so sorry, again.

Me: It’s okay. Just get better.

I return to my apartment and stare at the wall.

What am I going to do now?

I should just crawl into bed and forget about this entire day.

‘That’s not the answer,’ my grammy’s voice states in my head.

The empty, lonely, depressed feeling that I hate continues to grow. I almost get trapped in it and go into my bedroom, but I stop myself.

Maybe I should go to work.

‘It’s a holiday,’ my grammy reprimands.

I say out loud, ‘At least if I go to the office, I can get more caught up on the backlog of work.’

My grammy tsks me, and it’s so vivid I shudder.

‘At least Mr. Grumpy Pants won’t be there,’ I add.

No matter what I do to convince myself to go, I can’t get my grammy’s horrified expression out of my head. Then I hear her say, ‘Bake. It’s what you love best. You’ll feel better if you bake.’

Deciding it’s better to use my free time on something I love, I pull out ingredients and debate about what to make.

Tomorrow’s Black Friday. Make something fun for the day.

It’s funny how I’ve never gone shopping on Black Friday. My grammy taught me how to watch my pennies, but she and I always spent the day preparing the house for Christmas and baking cookies, fudge, and other holiday treats.

Tomorrow I have to work. We have several important meetings with bigwigs who are in town for the holiday. So I try to remember how many people will be at each meeting. Then I add in the staff who always eat them. By the end of the afternoon, I have six dozen double chocolate fudge cupcakes with dark chocolate frosting. And just like my grandma stated in my head, I do feel better.

I heat up the Thanksgiving meal I cooked, pour a glass of White Zinfandel, and put it on a TV tray. There are several Christmas movies on, so I eat my dinner and drink two glasses of wine while watching them, but my thoughts begin to wander.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I’m thinking what I am, but thoughts of Sebastian won’t leave my head.

What’s he doing today?

Is he with his girlfriend?

Ugh! I’m sure she’s a runway model or something fabulous like that.

Maybe he’s single.

Fat chance.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t care about him! He’s rude and obnoxious.

Maybe he just needs someone good in his life to morph into the nice person that must be deep inside him.

Like way deep.

Way, way, WAY deep.

‘You can’t change a man,’ grammy’s voice states.

The second movie ends, tearing me out of my thoughts. I decide to go to bed early, but I regret it.

All night, I have dreams about Sebastian. His praline, citrus, and sandalwood scent flares so powerfully that I swear I’m not dreaming. I can smell it.

In one dream, snow’s falling and he’s kissing me. Not in a way anyone’s ever kissed me before either. He uses his tongue as a weapon, assaulting my mouth until I’m unable to stand without his arm holding me tight to his waist.

In another, we’re in a barn. He pushes me onto the hay bales and pins his body over mine, murmuring the dirtiest things I’ve ever heard. What’s crazier is I’m not offended, not one little bit. Every word that comes from his mouth makes my core stir faster.

Then there’s the last one. He’s dragging his tongue on my cleavage, then past my belly button and on to my most private region. I grip his chestnut hair and push him closer to my body. An earthquake of adrenaline annihilates my entire being. I wake up in a sweat, shaking and horrified that I’m dreaming of my rude boss who hasn’t said a nice thing to me since I started working for him.

Plus, he tossed my cupcake in the garbage. If he didn’t want it, he could have waited until after hours to do that, given it to someone else, or put it in the break room.

My alarm rings shortly after that dream. Relief fills me that I not only got through Thanksgiving but that I’m scheduled to go to work. I don’t want to sit at home and think about how I’m alone on the holidays. But then I’m disturbed, thinking about the dreams I had of Sebastian.

I convince myself I’ll just ignore him. Besides, it’s not like he knows my thoughts. So I get ready for work and then text Melanie.

Me: Hey, girl, how are you feeling?

Melanie: Oh, this flu is so bad. I’m so glad we didn’t see you the day before we got this.

Me: Do you need anything?

Melanie: No, but thanks for the food. It’ll come in handy once we can eat again.

I cringe.

Me: Yikes. Well, my offer still stands if you need anything.

Melanie: Thanks, girl. I’ll let you know if something pops up.

I load the cupcake boxes into my car and head to work. It doesn’t take long to get to Cartwright Enterprises. I make my way through the building, saying my good mornings to the security guards and other people I’ve started to get to know within the last few days. When I get up to our floor, I take the boxes back to the break room and start separating them on the platters for the different meetings.

Victoria comes in, peeks over my shoulder, and asks, ‘Oh, what do we have today?’

‘Black Friday cupcakes. They’re double chocolate fudge with dark chocolate frosting,’ I inform her.

She snatches one out of the box. ‘I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t get through the pumpkin pie yesterday. So I deserve this.’

‘Oh? Why not?’ I question.

She huffs. ‘I couldn’t stop comparing it to your pumpkin pie cupcakes you brought in on Wednesday.’

‘Really?’

She nods. ‘Yep.’

‘Well, sorry I ruined your pie,’ I offer.

She shrugs. ‘No biggie. How was your Thanksgiving?’

‘It was great,’ I lie before I ask, ‘How was yours?’

‘Oh, lots of family drama. You know how it is,’ she says.

I just smile. Actually, I don’t know. My family didn’t really have drama. It was only the three of us. I was a good kid, so I didn’t cause my grandparents any problems. I always wondered what it would be like to have a big family. But I guess I’ll never know. I pick up a platter and reply, ‘I’m going to get the room ready for the first meeting.’

‘Later,’ she says and gives a small wave.

When I get to the conference room, I run smack into Sebastian. Several cupcakes smash into his suit jacket. I exclaim, ‘Oh no! I’m so sorry!’

He glances down at the frosting stain, then back at me, scowling.

I set the platter down and try to wipe the dark concoction off with my finger, but it only makes it worse.

‘Stop,’ he demands.

A shiver runs down my spine. It’s the same way he spoke to me in one of my dreams. I slowly glance up. His intoxicating scent teases me, sending tingles to my core and heat rushing to my cheeks.

He locks his blues on mine, then clasps his fist around my hand. He moves my frosting-covered fingers near his mouth and asks, ‘What is this?’

‘Dar—’ I clear my throat. ‘Dark chocolate frosting.’

He repositions them in front of my mouth. ‘Do you smell that?’

My insides quiver, but it’s not from fear. Zings ping-pong around my body like a professional game. I swallow hard, trying to find my breath, and manage, ‘The frosting?’

‘The sugar,’ he states.

Confusion fills me. I answer, ‘Yes.’

‘Do you eat your cupcakes?’

‘Sometimes,’ I admit.

‘Go on then,’ he goads, pushing my fingers closer to my lips.

‘What?’ I ask.

Something plays in his expression, but I don’t know what it means. ‘Show me you eat what you bake. Go on.’ He pushes my fingers past my lips, and I have no choice but to suck the frosting off.

His breathing turns into short pants. Time seems to stand still as neither of us breaks our gaze, and he continues to keep my fingers positioned in my mouth.

For a moment, I forget I’m at work. The chocolatey sweetness dances on my tongue as Sebastian clenches his jaw.

He finally releases my hand and steps back. ‘Good to know you aren’t trying to poison me.’ His eyes dart down my body, in his lewd way, then back to my eyes.

‘Why would I do that?’ I inquire, my heart pounding so fast, I wonder if it’s possible for it to explode.

He leans into my ear, and in the same voice as in my dream, he murmurs, ‘Georgia, Georgia, Georgia.’

Every time he says my name, I overheat. In my current predicament, it’s not helping matters. I squeeze my thighs together, then whisper, ‘Yes, Sebastian?’

His hot breath hits my ears, and goose bumps break out on my skin. He inhales as if he’s smelling me, then adds, ‘I think you owe me a clean suit.’

Dizziness hits me. I grip the part of the jacket with the frosting to steady myself. I reply, ‘I can take this to the dry cleaners.’

He softly chuckles, but it only confuses me.

‘You don’t want me to?’ I blurt out.

He retreats. His lips twitch, and he steps back, slowly unbuttoning his jacket.

Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my freaking gosh!

I’d never seen Sebastian without a suit jacket on. He lowers the coat, his muscles flexing just like in my dream before he pushed me onto the hay. I try to tear my eyes off his torso, but it’s like they’re glued to his pecs.

He tilts my chin, which only adds to my embarrassment. His eyes shine with arrogance, and he slings his coat over his shoulder. ‘I think we have more important things to discuss, Georgia.’

‘What?’

He shuts the conference room door, pulls a chair away from the table, and motions for me to sit.

I obey and wait for him.

He takes the chair next to me and states, ‘I have a proposal for you.’

The hairs on my neck rise. I tilt my head and furrow my eyebrows. ‘A proposal?’

He grins, which is the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. My heart skips a beat as he asks, ‘How would you like to get your cupcake bakery started in the New Year?’

Shocked, I gape at him, unsure how to answer.

Amusement fills his expression. He stays quiet.

I blurt out, ‘Is this a trick?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. Are you serious about your dream or not?’

‘Of course I am,’ I assert.

He leans closer. ‘Okay, then I’m only going to ask you one more time. How would you like to start your cupcake bakery in the New Year?’

‘This upcoming year? As in a few months?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not possible,’ I reply, adding up the little money I have in my bank account.

‘Where’s Little Miss Sunshine’s optimism gone?’ he challenges.

I glare at him. ‘Stop calling me that.’

‘Why? You are, aren’t you?’ he retorts.

‘Just because I choose to—’

‘Look, we’re getting off topic here. Do you want your bakery or not? If there were no obstacles in the way, is that what you’d do?’ he interrogates.

I don’t hesitate. ‘Of course I would.’

He studies me for several moments.

I confess, ‘You’re making me nervous.’

‘Don’t be,’ he orders.

I stay silent, my pulse racing faster with every passing second.

He finally drops the bomb. ‘Marry me until January 2nd, and I’ll give you enough money to open your bakery.’