Page 35 of A Cozy Holiday
Inside, Grandpa’s Basement is exactly how it looks from outside: someone’s house that accidentally became a bar. Heat hits me first, followed by the sweet burn of vodka and something cinnamon-y. People drink out of glass cups—thankfully—on the garland-wrapped staircase, and there’s a tree on the back patio that glows through the sliding-glass door.
To the left, an all-girl rock band is performing in matching white-glitter jumpsuits. The band’s name, Sugar Hex, is emblazoned on the bass drum. The lead singer with purple hair and platform boots screams into the mic.
I would bet good money that this bar is exactly like the college parties I skipped because I was studying. The crowd has claimed every square inch of space, and everyone is pressed in like sardines trying to avoid the polar vortex outside.
Heads swivel as I follow Jamie to the massive bar, which is lined with every kind of liquor imaginable.In New York, I can blend into a crowd; here, I stick out like a flashing neon sign.
I’m still taking it in when my gaze snags on the Santa hats perched on the bartenders’ heads.
My stomach lurches. Flashbacks of Parker’s naked ass flood my brain, and I pivot to make a run for the door, but Jamie catches me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Headache,” I blurt.
His brows lift. “What’sreallywrong?”
I jerk my chin toward the bar. “The hats. I can’t—just nope. Santa hats are a hard pass.”
His mouth curves. “Are you secretly a Grinch?”
“Oh my god, never call me that again.” I slam my hand into his chest. And before I can bolt, he drags me to the front of the bar and slides a bill across the counter, murmuring something to the staff. Three sets of eyes roll at once, but the bartenders tug off the hats.
“Finally,” one mutters, scratching their head. “That thing was itchy.”
“Ann’s not gonna be happy!” a bartender with a Boston Bruins shirt yells.
“Ann owes me after I took Gabs to school for a month.”
Jamie smirks at me like he’s just saved me from certain death before ordering two drinks. I shrug off my coat and hat and perch on one of the polar bear-shaped barstools tucked near the wall, a tiny bit more private.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“You deserve a night of fun. Even if you hate Christmas.”
“I don’t hate Christmas.”
“Every guy in here is staring at you,” Jamie says, settling on the stool next to me.
“Only because I obviously don’t belong here.”
His eyes rake down my short black dress, lingering where a strip of the garter peeks out. I have to look away to keep him from noticing the heat rising to my face.
“Do they break all this out just for December?” I gesture to the polar bear stools.
Jamie smiles. “Year-round.”
“Festive.”
The bartender glides a cranberry mule with rosemary garnish in front of me. I take one sip, make a face, then promptly take three more gulps. It’s tart and fizzy and absolutely capable of erasing the image of Parker from my mind.
Jamie leans in, the tip of his shoulder grazing mine. “Easy, Doc. That’s not a protein shake.”
“I know what alcohol is,” I say, then promptly choke on the next sip.
Smooth.
I straighten in my seat, which makes my heel slip off the rung. My hand shoots out, landing squarely on Jamie’s thigh. And I leave it there.
