Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

“I didn’t get around to asking—how was your day? Any good cases on the docket?” I ask Damien, running my fingers through his dark hair. It’s long but still appropriate for a lawyer when it’s combed back. But my hands kind of messed that up when he was eating me . . . My belly flips with the memory, and I’m pretty sure he knows it based on the look he gives me.

He seems to read me better than anyone ever has, something that both terrifies and comforts me.

Even so, he sighs a bone-deep sigh.

“It was . . . fine. I’ve got a new case that I’m on, and an associate is helping me with it. So I basically spent the entire day in a conference room with this douche, reminding him I’ve been practicing longer than he’s been driving a car.” I laugh out loud, and he smiles.

“You don’t like him? You’re the founder, right? Why not get rid of him?” Damien sighs then runs a hand through my hair, letting it flow down my naked back. He always seems so enamored by my hair, touching it and watching it spill.

“Unfortunately, he’s my cofounder’s grandson.”

“Oh,” I say, my gut sinking because I’m naked in a bed with a man talking about my ex, and he doesn’t know it. Thankfully, Damien doesn’t pick up on the sinking feeling.

“Anyway, I like to spend my days picking at him because he spends his days half hating me, half kissing my ass. It’s an interesting balance.” I give him a smile, and then he laughs. “Oh, you’ll love this. Remember, I told you he dumped that poor girl and she put his number on some fan site? I never told you, but a few weeks ago, he showed up to work covered in glitter. She put it in the vents of his car, and it exploded when he turned the heat on.”

I smile big, loving the mental image and confirmation that things went according to plan. “I still see some on his clothes sometimes. I don’t know if it’s just stuck in his vents still or if it’s embedded in everything, but every time I see it, I laugh.” He smiles, and at least I know he’s getting some small thrill from this, too. “Oh, and while we were in the conference room, his cell phone kept ringing. I guess after she listed his number on that site, she taped his cell number to a bunch of keys or something? So for a week, he’s been getting calls from people saying they found his keys. By the end of the day, he was just picking up and hanging up.”

“Stop, really? That’s so funny,” I say. I’m half excited that I get firsthand knowledge that our plan is working, but still, my stomach is churning. “Did anyone say anything?” I ask, hoping it wasn’t too much of a distraction.

“No, the office was pretty empty today with Thanksgiving coming. A few people take off or work shorter hours this week and next week.” I take the change of subject like the lifeline it is.

“I can’t believe Thanksgiving is next week,” I say in a tired growl. “Where has the month gone?” It feels like I was perfectly placing bunny ears on my head just yesterday to walk out the door to that party. Jeeze.

This week, Cam and I crossed off a few more of our petty tasks on the list. The tailor that typically does all the work on any new suits Richard has called on Wednesday, clearly not up to speed about the breakup. I wonder if Richard even knew that I was the person who handled that or if he just assumed it was magically done each time perfectly. He asked if the measurements were still the same, and I instructed him to remove an additional half inch from the pants. Not enough to not fit, but enough to make Richard think he was gaining weight.

It’s interesting how handling these calls without the guise of being his girlfriend definitely feels very personal assistant and less beloved partner.

How was I so stupid for so long?

“What are your plans?” Damien asks, knocking me out of memories.

“What?” I can’t quite remember what we were talking about. Exhaustion from a long, exciting night is creeping in alongside my depressing thoughts.

“For Thanksgiving? What are you doing? Do you do anything?” His fingers draw patterns on my skin, making pleasant chills run through my body.

“I’m going home. Well, I’m heading back to my hometown.”

“Oh yeah? Your parents?” My nose scrunches in a “no” way.

“No. My sister. I don’t . . . have parents.” I pause in the way anyone who has to explain a lack of parents does. “Well, I do. They’re not dead, I don’t think. But I don’t . . . talk to them.”

“But you have a sister?” he asks, completely bypassing the awkward conversation of my parents, for which I am thankful.

“Yes, I do,” I say, a big smile on my face because there are few things or people I love more in this world than my big sister. “She pretty much raised me. She’s . . . She’s amazing.” His white smile can still be seen in the moonlight,

“And you’re going to her place for Thanksgiving? Just you two or . . .”

“Oh, god, no. A million and seven people. She’s a nanny, and she married the kids’ uncle, so she basically inherited an enormous family. Nieces and a new baby nephew and Ron—that’s my brother-in-law’s dad.” I sigh. “Plus, friends. My hometown is small but close-knit. So basically, it’s one huge Friendsgiving Thanksgiving.”

“You’re excited,” he says with a smile, and I nod.

“Very much so. It’s only, like, an hour from here, but I don’t see them enough. I don’t have a car, so it’s kind of an ordeal getting there regularly. I have to be back in Long Island for Black Friday, but it will be worth the trek.” I stop, staring at him, realizing my smile is completely taking over my face. I highly doubt it’s gleaming in the moonlight like his is. His hand moves, crossing the moonbeam and breaking it temporarily before he moves a lock of hair behind my ear. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask, remembering the manners Hannah drilled into me for years. We might have shitty parents, Abs, but we don’t have to be shitty people.

“Ordering takeout,” he says with a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing going on. My family moved away from the city years ago. My mom hates the cold, just like you.” I smile at his habit of remembering everything I tell him. “My parents will be up for Christmas, but until then, it’s takeout and the parade on TV for me.”

“You live in the city. Why would you watch the parade on TV?”

“Have you ever actually gone to the Macy’s Day Parade? It’s a madhouse of insane tourists.”

“Valid.” I pause, smiling at him, the thin gold chain that hides beneath his clothes dangling as he moves up to an arm. “So you’re not going anywhere?”

“Nope.” I pause, wondering if what I’m about to do is unbearably stupid.

It’s so, so stupid.

It goes against every instinct to keep this simple, casual, and uncomplicated.

And it sure as fuck goes against the need to keep my heart and my life from getting involved.

But I do it anyway, partly because I’m an idiot and partly because no one should be alone on Thanksgiving.

“Would you . . . want to come home with me?” I ask, the words soft, and instantly I regret them.

This is not very “cool girl keeping things with the older, high-powered lawyer casual” of me.

I backtrack, trying to cover my mishap. “I mean, it’s just a thought. Really, so you’re not alone because that’s just depressing. No pressure, I swear. This is casual. Not serious. I promise. I just . . . hate the idea of—” He cuts me off with that smile somehow wider than before.

“If you’re offering, I’m there, rubia.”

“What?”

“I said, if you’re offering—if you want me to come, I’ll be there.” He’s smiling in a way he does when I think he thinks I’m being cute.

“Oh.”

“Unless you don’t want me to, then we can—”

“No, no, I do!” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Shit, not like that. I just mean I want you to if you want to. Not in an “I want you to meet my family way,” but in a come enjoy the holiday with good people way.” There’s another big smile before he’s moving, shifting to roll me on top of him. “They are. Good people, I mean.” God, shut up, Abbie! His hand goes into my hair at the nape of my neck, and he softly presses his lips to mine.

“I know what you mean, Abigail. If you’re offering, I’m accepting.” Then he kisses me again; the heat that only seems to come when his lips are on mine takes over my body and fills me with unadulterated joy.

Shit.

I am so fucked.

When I come up for air, he’s smiling at me but breathing just as heavily as I am.

“So you want to come home with me?” I ask, moving hair from his forehead.

“Only if you come to dinner with my family after Christmas,” he says in rebuttal.

With his words, my gut drops. By then, he’ll probably think I’m a manipulative piece of crap, my mind tells me.

But why would he? the devil to the angel on my shoulder asks. This is casual, simple, and he agreed to that. Strange how the devil has a striking resemblance to Cami while the angel looks like Kat . . .

Is it still feeling simple and casual? the voice in my head asks, continuing the conversation with Angel Kat and Devil Cam.

“You don’t have to do that,” is all I can say in response.

“Are you bringing me home?” He twists a lock of blond hair hanging next to his face and tucks it behind my ear.

“If you want to, but it’s not a big deal.”

“It is, Abigail.” His words ricochet around me, broken shards of reality meeting the crumbling landscape of my revenge plan.

The plan that requires this to stay casual in order to avoid my being a terrible, horrible human being.

And for me to have the guts to actually finish this plan.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” I don’t ask him to elaborate, to tell me exactly what “oh” means. Maybe if we don’t say the words out loud, if we don’t say that this is quickly moving past casual and fun, it won’t matter.

“So?” he asks, staring at me. The moon shows the gold flecks in his brown eyes perfectly like this, and I think I could stare at them for hours, slowly documenting the slight differences in shade, shape, and frequency. “If I go home with you for Thanksgiving, will you go to Christmas with my family?”

I stare at him, reminding myself of all the millions of reasons I should say no. The reason I should confess everything right this second and face the firing squad to go back to start on my plan, but this time, not drag a victimless man into it.

But I can’t.

And it’s not because I want to finish this plan. Shit, the plan matters less and less with each passing day.

It’s because he’s looking at me with boyish expectancy, excitement even, and on serious, all business Damien, it’s so fucking sweet.

So I agree.

Like the idiot I clearly am.

“Yeah, Damien, I’d like that.” And with that, his smile lights up the room, and I decide that for the purpose of witnessing that moment alone, it was the right answer.

“She’ll like you,” he says, the smile fading, his face becoming more contemplative.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. She’ll like you.” I smile big at him and let the playful, bubbly part of me I hid for years come out.

“I’m very likable.” My smile must be contagious because it travels to his own lips.

“You definitely are.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. “You were good with Sharon,” he says in what feels like a change of subject.

“She reminds me of what my mom could have been, but also my sister. She’s easy to get along with.” I breathe in, feeling the pull to open up, to explain. “My dad left my mom when I was born—too much responsibility, two kids, and a wife. She resented us for it because she lived for my dad. She lived and breathed him, and when he tossed her aside, she didn’t know how to handle that.” I stop, thinking about how to continue on but also remembering the epiphany I had with Sharon. That I was moving down a path with Richard to repeat history. A family history of living for a man who didn’t give two shits about me.

“Hannah, my sister—-she resents her for that. Which is reasonable, I think. Hannah had to basically raise me. Mom was rarely home and just . . . not great when she was. But me? I get it, to a degree. She lost herself to a man and never got that part back. I . . . I get that. Sharon was able to untangle herself in order to be strong for her girls. That’s admirable.” My nails trace invisible lines on Damien’s thick bicep as I try to avoid the look of pity always there when I talk about my family to someone new.

“It is,” he says, and I stupidly hope that’s where he’ll leave it. But this is Damien, after all. “Did you? Lose yourself in a man?” he asks and shit. But, of course, he knows.

I answer.

I answer honestly because it’s all I have right now, scattered shreds and shards of honesty that I’m trying to piece together. I purse my lips, moving them side to side as I try to decide how to put it.

“I did. I lost myself for four years. Long years where I worked really fucking hard to change things about myself to keep a man who didn’t want me. I’m . . . slowly being reminded who I am after that.”

“My mom will like you,” he says, and that’s a . . . strange, confident response to what I just laid on him.

“What, that I lost myself in a man who wasn’t her son?” I ask with a laugh because the thought of that alone sounds absolutely insane.

“No. That you can sit there, bubbly and gorgeous and open and kind, and tell me your story about your family and your ex and about finding yourself, and you still have that smile on your face. You still radiate fucking joy.” I twitch my nose, uncomfortable with the words. “That you can meet a woman, hear her story, convince her to open up to you, and let her leave your presence feeling and looking ten times better with the confidence to face a man who verbally, financially, and physically abused her for years.” I swallow, feeling uncomfortable with this sort of praise.

“My mom left my father ten years ago.” I furrow my brows because he’s never mentioned his parents were divorced. “She was 53 but realized she had spent 32 years changing herself to be what my father wanted her to be. She spent 32 years being the perfect mother and wife, keeping the perfect home, cooking and cleaning and balancing the checkbooks . . . all of it.”

My breath stops in my lungs.

“We weren’t wealthy growing up, but my dad made enough that she could stay home. She lost herself in that. In the need to balance the scales, she told me. He worked, so she had to do the rest. But once I moved away, she started working too, a job at a tailor that kept her busy. My dad worked at a bank, so they kept similar hours and similar physical demands. And it took another ten years after I had moved out and she was working alongside my father to realize that even then when they were equals, she felt the need to do everything. The cooking and cleaning and keeping the house while he relaxed. And he let her. He insisted, even. They’d gotten into such a habit over the years, that it was just . . . who they were.”

I can see it.

I can see how that would happen, how it could have happened to me.

“My mom left him for a year.” I widen my eyes.

“A year?”

“It only took a year for my dad to win her back,” he says with a smile.

“Oh, was it the Martinez male charm that won her?” I ask, returning the look. He rolls until he’s hovering over me, chasing me the way I’m learning to love.

“Oh, yeah. It was also a lot of groveling. I may have had some words with him too, helped him realize what an idiot he was.”

“You’re a good son,” I say, my hands moving to touch his cheek, just barely rough with stubble.

“Yeah, well. Right now, I’d like to stop talking about my parents,” he says, and I smile bigger.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?“

“Right now, I have my dream woman pinned beneath and fully naked, and I’ve had enough time to recover.”

“Yeah, it must be hard, being an old man and needing so much recovery time,” I say, and god, the smile is nearly breaking my face.

“Excuse me, little girl?” he asks, his thick eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Just, you know. You’re a full 14 years older than me. It must be hard, keeping up.”

“Oh, I’ll show you how hard it is,” he says in a growl, nipping the skin on my neck before moving down.

And he does show me how well he can keep up.

And by the end of the night, I’m the one waving my exhausted white flag.