“I love it here,” Abbie says, one tiny hand holding the warm cup of hot chocolate and the other pointing across the street to the big marquee for Rockefeller Center. It reads: “Coming Soon: the Christmas Spectacular starring the Rockettes!”
“Yeah?” I ask, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her back into a closed store’s entryway, watching flustered and rushed New Yorkers run back and forth, raising hands to catch a cab or arguing with someone in an invisible Bluetooth headphone. Normally, I’m one of them.
Too busy to take in the city, too busy to worry about what’s happening around me. I’ve lived in New York City my entire life—it’s part of my blood to rush to my next stop, to turn my shoulder, to slip past slow walkers, to flip off a taxi driver who’s turning into the crosswalk.
All a part of it.
But today, I feel like a tourist, wandering the city as it begins its holiday transformation, a gorgeous woman on my arm.
And fuck, is she gorgeous. All hourglass curves wrapped in a tight pink dress, sky-high heels, and loose blond curls down her back. The office all jokes that I have a type, and to be honest, I do.
And Abigail Keller is my fucking type.
Most people see having a type as a bad thing.
I never understood that.
I’m a busy man.
If I know what I like, what I want to see in a woman, what turns me on, and who I’d like to spend more time with, why would I try something new?
It’s simple and efficient to have a type.
“When I was little, my sister and I had a VHS tape of the Rockettes. I wanted to be one,” she says, her voice low, and when I look at her, her eyes are dreamy, locked to the building across the street.
“Why weren’t you?” I ask. “I feel like if anyone can will something into existence, it would be you.” She laughs, but it’s just a hair uneasy, like I touched on something too close to the truth.
“I’m a terrible dancer, for one. And I hate cardio,” she says, disconnecting her eyes from the Rockefeller Center and looking at me, a small smile on her full lips before she bites her lip like she’s nervous that’s the wrong answer.
“You hate cardio?” I ask, eyes purposefully running down her body.
I’m not sure if I mean she’s in good shape for someone who hates cardio or if I mean I’d love to do some with her in a few hours, but either way, a visible shiver runs through her. I smile.
“I don’t like sweat. It’s . . . inconvenient. And it’s not good for my skin or my hair.”
“Ahh. Of course. Wouldn’t want to mess with this gorgeous hair of yours,” I say then move my hand to run through it. Though my stiff fingers are nearing a point of cold numbness, I can feel just how freaking soft it is. My mind flashes to holding this hair in a different situation, golden tresses wrapped around my hand . . . I change the subject.
“So, have you ever been? To see the Rockettes?” I ask, tucking the hair behind her ear. When I do, my knuckle runs down her neck, stopping at my jacket that she’s still bundled in. Her tongue comes out and licks her lips, pouty and pink, parting out to taste remnants of cocoa, and it takes everything in me not to adjust myself.
Not to grab her hand and drag her back to my apartment.
Play it cool, Martinez.
“No, not yet. One year,” she says wistfully, smiling like she knows what I’m thinking.
This woman is dangerous.
The good kind of dangerous.
“Each year, my firm throws a party up there.” I move her in front of me, dipping so my mouth is to her ear and backing her body up so it aligns with mine. My hand moves to point up above at the Rainbow Room. “It’s a big thing, food, and drinks, announcements of promotions, retirements—the whole nine.” It’s a tradition to celebrate our firm—our family—and remind them how much they mean to us. If you treat your employees like they are family, they work hard and are more loyal. You can count on them more.
“Do you . . . bring guests?” Abigail asks with a strange look on her pretty face, and I wonder if maybe she’s nervous to ask, to imply too much too soon.
“Why, you trying to get an invite?” I say, turning toward her with a smile on my lips. Her eyes go wide with concern, anxious, maybe. My cold hand comes up, tucking the hair the wind is whipping around behind her ear, and I leave it on her neck. “I’d bring you, baby,” I say, breathing in her scent, sweet and flowery. “If things go well here, I’ll bring you. It would be an honor to have you on my arm, walking in to see a room of people I would rather not spend extra time with, have all their eyes go to you, and feel that jealousy build. Watch them want what’s mine.”
That look in her eyes changes to a strange mix of happy and forlorn, like she likes what I’m saying, but it means more to her than simple, obvious words should, and god, I want to know who put that look in her eyes.
What scumbag saw this perfect specimen of a woman and decided he didn’t want that?
I want to ask.
Instead, I tip down, pressing my forehead to hers, and breathe her in.
“Is it okay if I kiss you, Abigail?” I ask, the words barely a whisper, and on a busy New York City block, you shouldn’t be able to hear my words when they’re spoken so quietly.
They should get lost in the hustle, the noise of the city
But she hears them.
I know because her lips part, and her eyes go heavy, and one small hand moves to my chest, and she nods.
And then I take life into my own hands, the way I’ve been doing for years, finding what I want and making it mine, and I kiss Abigail Keller right there in front of the Rockefeller Center, and the world slows.
She tastes like hot chocolate and tropical coconut lip gloss. Yet, it works on her, and I wonder if that’s just her—a strange mix of opposites that somehow work together because they’re her.
Her lips press to mine, and we stay like that for a few long beats, enjoying the simplicity of a first kiss before my hand on her chin moves her closer, and my tongue dips out to touch her lip.
She lets me in.
And then I take a step closer, backing her into the storefront glass, pressing my body to hers, marveling at how she’s nearly a foot shorter than me but still somehow fits against me perfectly.
Her hand moves up, grabbing my hair, holding me close to her, and I groan into her mouth.
I want her.
I want everything with her, from her.
I want this woman more than I’ve wanted anything in some time.
“Get a room!” a random passerby screams, and although it breaks the moment, I don’t break my hold on her, just lift a hand and a single finger to flip off the rude person who doesn’t even deserve my eyes.
“We should,” I say, a whisper against her lips. Her eyebrows come together, a small crease forming there, and I kiss there before clarifying. “Get a room.” I press my lips to her once more, a gentle brush, her hand in my hair gripping tighter to keep me there, and I don’t think it’s done intentionally. An instinct. But I move back. “Come home with me,” I say, unsure what she’ll answer. “We don’t have to do anything. It’s cold, and I don’t want to end this date.” She smiles, and it’s sweet, but under is devilish. Needy. “Though I’m more than happy to do whatever you want, Ms. Keller,” I say, my voice gruffer.
“Okay,” she says with a wicked smile, and I know she feels it too. And as I take her hand, stepping to the curb and raising the hand with my forgotten hot chocolate cup, a single snowflake falls to my sleeve.
This might be my first holiday in a while where I don’t feel entirely alone.
