Page 1 of Christmas Kisses

1

KELSEY

“Two. Cheaper for two.”

While stuffing a bag under the seat of the first airport transfer company I came across upon exiting the domestic terminal, I reply, “I don’t need two seats.”

“Yes, two,” misunderstands the man with a heavy accent. “Great prices. Get you to hotel quick smart.” He nudges his head to the triple-strength expresso that’s supercharging my veins with more than caffeine. “Hot chocolate still hot at the check-in desk.”

Dark locks swing against my bare shoulders when I spin to face him. Considering the month, it should be chilly enough for a sweater. Florida just never gets the memo when it comes to winter.

Or perhaps the nip of bourbon you added to your coffee with your duty-free purchase when the barista wasn’t looking is the cause of your sweaty top lip?

After shrugging off the certainty that more than alcohol is heating my skin, I say, “I’m single.” When he peers at me as if I spoke in a foreign language, I try again. “Sin…gle.”

Breaking it up won’t help, Kelsey.

I hold my left hand in the air, highlighting my bare ring finger. “Single. No love. I’m going to be alone and miserable for the rest of my life.” My last five words come out with a low, pathetic whimper.

It is December, the second most romantic month of the year—unless you’re single. Then it is as painful as a table for one on Valentine’s Day, though you get half-price candy the day after Valentine’s Day. Nobody wants an endless supply of eggnog.

“Oh…” the stranger drags out dramatically, pulling my focus back to him. “Single.” His bottom lip drops into an immature pout before he guides me into the empty seat next to the driver. I ignore the scorching burn of the coffee and bourbon as it slides down my throat when he adds, “Keep the good seats for the couples. Better tippers when in love. Everyone happy.”

He slams the van’s door shut before dashing for a couple with matching Christmas sweaters and a grossly sick expression of love crossing their faces.

Thirty minutes later, I almost fall out of the van when it comes to a stop half a block down from my apartment building. No amount of cheap bourbon will wash the image of the two loved-up commuters in the rearview mirror from my eyes. They’re not in the throes of passion, more a hand slip away from indecent exposure, but still, I’m drinking on an empty stomach, and my shoes are new. I don’t want them wrecked.

Remembering the last time I thought a bottle of champagne was the equivalent of steak and eggs, I veer my steps to a hotdog vendor on the corner of my building.

“One hotdog or two?” Not looking up, the vendor announces, “We have a buy-one-get-one-half-price special for Christmas.”

“I’m single,” I reply, my words slurred since I chose the possibility of the fiery burns of bile drinking on an empty stomach causes than to rehash memories I need alcohol to fade. “Uno. Solo. Withoutel compañero.”My Spanish is horrible. It is expected. I haven’t visited my parents’ home country in years.

As I hand the vendor a crinkled twenty from my purse, I take in his shadowed jaw, tight body, and inky black eyes. “Andavailable?”

Don’t look at me like that. Every woman on this side of LA knows there’s only one way up when you’re down.

With a star-inspiring orgasm.

The vendor’s smirk reveals he appreciates my underhanded compliment that he’s hot, but he holds up the hand I flashed an hour ago, nosediving my effort for a rebound fuck.

He’s married. For a long time, by the looks of it. His ring is embedded in his finger. He couldn’t remove it even if he wanted to.

Although I want to be in the “who cares if he’s taken” stage of my life, I’ve not yet reached that level of desperation, so I accept the loaded hotdog he’s holding out for me before wishing him and his wife a happy upcoming holiday season.

He flashes me a second grin before digging the stake deeper into my heart. “Merry Christmas to you too, ma’am.”

Ma’am? How old does he think I am?

Don’t answer that. I don’t want this week to get worse.

As I trudge to my apartment building, my steps slow and sluggish, loved-up couple after loved-up couple pass me. Although the public PDAs add to the swirling of my stomach, Istop to admire a super cute couple holding hands on a bench. They’d have to be in their eighties. The tips of their noses are red, but they stare up at the stars with their tongues hanging out, hopeful to catch the first snowflakes of winter.

That’s what I want.

That’s what I thought I was getting.

Then he threw it away for someone with a pathetic name like Noelle.

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