Page 2 of Santa's Girl
She laughed, and for a moment, it was worth it just to see her smile. Huntley could keep his sudden nostalgia. I was putting those flowers to better use.
Thanksgiving crept up faster than I was ready for. Usually, it was loud and chaotic—my mom in the kitchen, my younger sister Emma arguing with me over pie flavors, Stanley pawing my thigh begging for scraps…
This year, it was just me, Mom, her boyfriend Ray, and Stanley.
Emma had called last week, all breezy and casual, to say she was staying up in New England to spend the holiday with her roommate’s family. “They have a ski lodge,” she’d said, like that explained everything.
I told her it was fine. It wasn’t fine.
Ray was nice enough—kind, handy, the sort of guy who could fix a leaky sink without calling a plumber. But he wasn’t Dad. And as much as I liked him, his presence still made the table feel… different.
Stanley, at least, stayed loyal, curling up in my lap during dessert and eyeing the pumpkin pie like he was planning a heist.
After dinner, I sat on the couch with a mug of peppermint tea, scrolling through pictures of friends gathered with their families, and tried not to think about how quiet my own house felt.
The holidays had a way of magnifying the empty spaces.
By Friday night, Caroline decided I needed “a change of scenery.”
Her words.
“We’re going out,” she announced over the phone. “Drinks. Cute outfits. Preferably somewhere with male options that don’t live in your mother’s zip code.”
I groaned. “I’m not downloading a dating app.”
“Becca—”
“Nope. I am not swiping through headless torso pics like I’m shopping for melons. I like meeting people in real life.”
“Fine. Then we’re doing real life. Wear something hot.”
An hour later, we walked into an upscale bar in downtown Charlotte. Soft jazz, low lighting, bartenders in suspenders—it was the kind of place where the cocktails came with edible flowers and a bill that made you blink twice.
It was also full of men who looked like they spent more time on their appearance than I did.
Designer shirts, watch faces big enough to land planes on, hair so precisely styled it could double as architecture. One guy at the bar flexed in the mirror while pretending to check his phone. Another’s manicure caught the light when he raised his glass.
I nudged Caroline. “Is that guy wearing eyebrow gel?”
She took a sip of her drink, eyes sparkling. “Oh, definitely. And that one over there? Spray tan.”
I glanced around the room, feeling a little like I’d stumbled into a fashion spread titledEligible Bachelors of Instagram.
Not that I was looking. Not really.
But I took another sip of my cranberry martini, scanning the crowd.
“That one over there,” I murmured to Caroline, tilting my head toward a tall guy in skinny jeans so tight they looked painted on, “looks better in those than I do.”
Caroline snorted into her champagne.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just no. I’d rather kiss Stanley at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Doggy breath and all.”
She grinned. “That’s a bold statement.”
“It’s an honest one.”
A guy with a jawline sharp enough to open envelopes strolled past, doused in cologne strong enough to count as a chemical hazard.
