“I don’t want Christmas. I don’t want twelve days with you. And there’s no us.” She stabs me in the chest with the clicker after each sentence.
I open her car door, drop the stack of paper inside and then hold the door for her like a fucking gentleman. I should paint my Harley white and pretend it’s a horse and I’m a knight.
“What do you want, Vik?”
I keep it short and sweet. “You.”
She’s equally to the point as she drops into the driver’s seat. “Fuck off.”
* * *
Do you know the words to the Christmas song? Because whoever wrote that thing had the world’s worst taste in Christmas gifts. Asshole definitely wasn’t a Macy’s shopper. The first day of Christmas calls for a partridge in a pear tree. Achieving this requires a minor felony on my part and takes the better part of Tuesday. I bribe one of the Bellagio’s waiters for one of those silver room service domes and then I load it up with a nice roast chicken and a poached pear swimming in something alcoholic. More money changes hands when I reach Harper’s building and it gets me inside to her front door. This is where the second felony comes in.
I’m naked except for the bow around my neck. Harper really, really likes bows. And dinner. And sugar. I’m just hoping she likes me most. I lean hard on her bell because this whole plan will go much better if she spots me before her neighbors do. It’s twenty-four long, naked seconds before she opens the door. I count each one, which just goes to show how much Harper’s changed me, right?
“Jesus.” She stares at me and I refrain from the obvious jokes about not being a deity. Instead, I wave the tray at her.
“Surprise. Can I come in?”
Look at me using my company manners and asking instead of telling.
“You’re naked.” She looks a little wild-eyed. Also, her gaze may dip beneath my bow. She’s welcome.
“I’m apologizing,” I correct. “I fucked up big-time, Harper. I get that. You told me that you loved me, and I told you shit. You want me down on my knees? Because I can do that.”
“What makes you think this is what I’d want?”
“Me? On my knees? I think you’d fucking love that, babe.”
Generally speaking, groveling isn’t something I do. Ever. And getting down on my knees only happens when it involves pussy and my tongue. But for Harper? Anything’s possible. I drop down and set the tray down on the floor in front of me. This both frees up my hands and prevents her from slamming the door closed.
“Oh my God.” Her gaze darts down the hall.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Can I apologize?”
Christ, she’s fucking beautiful. My dick picks this grossly inappropriate moment to stand up and applaud her.
“Go.” She points toward the elevator. “Just—go.”
“I brought you dinner. It’s a partridge and a pear. Not sure I worked out the ‘in a tree’ part, but I’m hoping you cut me some slack.” I nudge the room service tray toward her, and for a minute, I think I’ve got her. Then she shoots the tray back toward me, zips inside and slams the door. I retrieve my clothes from the stairwell, get dressed and move on to the next step in my plan. I’ve got eleven more days, as I explain to the homeless guy I end up sharing the chicken with. We sit on the curb, picnicking, and I figure day one could have gone worse.
* * *
The second fucking day of Christmas calls for turtledoves. Since real birds shit everywhere and would disagree with Bing’s digestive tract, on Wednesday I clean the drugstore out of Turtles and Doves. I take the whole lot of chocolate over to Harper’s office at dark o’clock and let myself in. This requires smiling charmingly at her assistant, who’s more than willing to let me wait for Harper in Harper’s office. I keep my clothes on this time because Harper loves her goddamned job and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.
“Day two, babe,” I tell her when she shows up clutching a coffee. Since I’m sitting on her desk, she can’t exactly miss me. Figure I won’t scare the shit out of her this time, either.
She jabs a finger at the sugar mountain stacked beside me. “What is this?”
Since she asked, I sing her the verse. “On the Second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.” I pause. “I didn’t bring you another chicken, though. Didn’t seem like breakfast food. Guess I could have gone for chicken and waffles. You want a redo?”
She rubs her temples. “Why are you here? Why do you think I’d want you here?”
“I know what you like.” The trick is to sound confident. Remember what I said before? Harper. Forgiveness. Another chance. That’s all that matters.
“How do ten thousand calories reflect your greater understanding of me?”
“You like candy. You like laughing. You have an awesome fucking sense of humor.”
Harper stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I may have. My dad would have smacked me upside my head, and he’d have been right. Of course, he’d also have laughed his ass off—and then he’d have suggested that we fill Harper’s office to the ceiling with candy. Go big or go home, right?
Thinking about him hurts just a little less today, although it still feels like getting a root canal with no drugs. And possibly using a shovel to do the digging around in my gums. Or my heart.
Harper braces her hip against her desk. She hums a bit of the song. “You’re really doing the entire song?”
“You bet.” And because I’m all in and dignity has gone out the window already, I start belting it out at the top of my lungs.
