Page 40 of A Very Naughty Christmas

“I appreciate your concern, dear, but I’ll be fine.”

“Will you call when you get home, so I don’t worry?”

The old woman laughed, a lovely tinkling sound. “Now who’s grandmothering who?” With a wave, she opened the door and went out into the cold December rain, calling over her shoulder, “See you next week.”

Chapter Two

With the persistent rain, one dreary day blended into the next, yet didn’t stop the Christmas season from moving into full swing. The diner stayed busy as soggy, tired shoppers came in to dry off, rest their feet, and enjoy a wedge of Pete’s signature rum cake with a warm drink, either spiced cider or his coffee, the latter renowned to be strong enough to give even the most tuckered-out holiday bargain hunter a second wind. Every stool at the counter was taken and all the tables were occupied, one booth that was a four-top accommodating six, and the line was out the door and around the corner the morning of the Christmas parade the following Saturday. The same had been true for the tree lighting in the nearby town square the evening prior.

All in all, it wasn’t much different than a typical Saturday. Mainly because Dry Creek, North Carolina, her home town, situated about forty minutes north of Asheville along I-26 was a small town, the population barely exceeding five thousand, and it didn’t have much to offer in the way of culinary choices. It was either the McDonald’s off exit 119, Sturgill’s store, which offered only a small deli selection, or Pete’s. If you didn’t want to drive all the way into the city, that is.

That meant the diner was always busy, and Pete was constantly looking for waitresses because with crowds such as these, turnover was high. Tips were decent, the hourly wage not so much, and except for a lull on weekdays between two and four in the afternoon, there wasn’t much chance for a break. But the biggest reason of all was that Pete could be ornery. Okay, downright crotchety if she were honest about it. But after a decade, Dixie was used to it, and Janice, who had been there three times as long, simply ignored him. She was the proverbial duck, letting his guff roll off her back when he threatened to ‘can her ass’ on an almost daily basis.

Personally, Dixie put up with it because opportunities were few and far between in town, she could walk to work, and again, the tips made it bearable. Besides, Pete kind of grew on a person, rather like mold.

“Janice,” she called as she walked through the double doors out of the kitchen. “I’m taking my supper break.”

“Okay, kiddo. I’ve gotcha covered.”

“Everyone has their check except table fourteen. They’re waiting on a to-go order that Dustin has already got fired.”

“No problem. Sit down and take a load off, girlie. You skipped dinner altogether.”

Leave it to Jan to notice. The woman took more breaks than the entire diner staffcombined. She smoked, and everyone knew smokers got breaks on a four-to-one ratio to nonsmokers. At time or two, when her feet were aching and the wait for a table was over thirty minutes, Dixie had considered taking up the nasty habit for the sole purpose of getting to pee at least once every four hours, but it was too disgusting to bear even for regular potty trips.

Today, Dixie was pulling a double since the new girl had fallen in the face of Pete’s wrath and walked out on them last night. It also meant by the time a lull finally hit around ten p.m., her feet were screaming, and her belly was gnawing a hole clear through to her backbone. Breakfast—toast and juice—was a distant memory. She had picked up her plate from the window and settled into a vacant booth when the door opened, letting in a burst of cold air. Her mouth was full of cheeseburger when she glanced up at the newcomer. Then she choked, almost inhaling a diced onion into her lungs the next second, such was her surprise at who stood inside the door.

Kyle Prescott, with vivid blue eyes, sandy brown hair, and a killer smile that could melt the panties off a nun.

Dixie hadn’t seen him since his graduation, not in person, that is. She couldn’t have missed seeing him in the headlines of the local paper and on TV. A year ahead of her in high school, Kyle had been an all-state quarterback, class president, and valedictorian. He’d gone on to play football for Georgia Tech, starting as a sophomore. After college, he’d been drafted by Jacksonville as a backup quarterback, but hadn’t made it past two years with the team when an injury to his knee, a torn ACL or something like it, had ended his pro career. After that, she’d lost track.

It wasn’t like she’d stalked her old high school crush, but he was a local boy who’d done well for himself and gotten out of the mountains. This made him a celebrity in these parts, of which there were few. There was Oscar winner Charlton Heston, and Roberta Flack, who hit it big with several chart toppers way back in the seventies and eighties; otherwise, not many of greater Asheville’s native sons and daughters went on to bigger and better things.

And now he’d shown up once again and at of all places, her little diner. Imagine that.

She hadn’t thought of him in… well, about a day. Dixie would have liked to have said he never came to mind, but Kyle was the kind of guy a girl never forgot. For three years, she’d crushed on him, hard, and prayed one day he might take notice. It wasn’t like she was a wallflower or invisible, she was reasonably pretty and semi-popular, but she didn’t run with his crowd. He came from money, his dad some kind of businessman in Asheville, she wasn’t sure what, but he’d gotten a tricked-out black mustang for his sixteenth birthday and had never seemed to lack for anything. Ordinarily, that would have been enough to turn her against him, but unlike the other rich kids, he hadn’t seemed affected by it.

They’d had the same lunch period and Spanish II together, and sometimes he’d askher about homework assignments. He’d been nice, or so she’d thought until the Monday after homecoming her junior year. It was on that day when her crush had officially ended, and she remembered the event that had done it as vividly as if it were yesterday.

Standing at her locker, she was digging through her book bag for a permission slip that was due to be turned in for a field trip for Mrs. Espinosa’s class. If she didn’t find it and hand it in by sixth period, she’d have to go to regular classes while the other kids were ‘immersing themselves in Latin American culture’ at the fair they were supposed to attend in Knoxville, Tennessee, about a two-hour drive away by bus. Not only would she miss all the fun, food, and culture, she’d have to spend the afternoon in study hall with Mr. Lipper. That was a fate worse than death! The man gave her the creeps. He had a seriously bad comb-over that would give Donald Trump’s a run for its money, and he stared at her, not in a predatory way, but with his lazy eye that made you wonder who he was really looking at. She shuddered and dug deeper.

“She was so hot, she was panting for it. I swear.”

Dixie froze at the sound of the vaguely familiar voice. It was coming from right around the corner.

“Oh, man, and you say you touched her titties? Skin on skin?” a squeaky, pubescent male voice said excitedly. “I dream about those tits.”

“You jack it to dreams of her tits, you mean,” another said and snickers followed.

Although she was disgusted by the crass boy talk, she was glad for the laughter, which drowned out her squeak of surprise. Boys and boobs, is that all they thought about?

“What were they like?” another asked. “Are they as big and soft as they look in a sweater?”

“Bigger, and they felt fucking amazing. The softest pair of tits I’ve ever laid my hands on.”

There was a snort from someone, to Dixie it sounded like whoever it was, didn’t believe this yarn of teenage lust.

“Lucky prick. Dixie Culbertson has the best rack in the eleventh grade.”

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