Melody Anne - Baby, It’s Cold Outside

So Riley stood in his arms, frozen, not able to say a word. His hands stroked her cheek, the truth shattering them both, and then he kissed her.

Pure. Oh, his kiss gave everything she’d always wanted, sweet and gentle and humbling. She kissed him back, savoring every last moment, and when he pulled away she knew what she had to do.

“It’ll never work,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, trembling with the force of her need, and the iron-will control she had to stay strong. “You and I together will never . . . fit.”

“That fucking box again.” He stepped back, releasing her. He quickly turned, but she already caught the agony on his face, making a moan emit from her throat. He fisted his hands, cursing viciously under his breath. Finally, he spoke, but kept his back turned.

“I guess you’ve made your decision. I can’t force you to take a chance. I can’t force you to have feelings you may not. And I’m sorry, too.”

He moved toward the door. “I’ll call the tow truck to get you out of here and give you a lift home. Help yourself to coffee.”

He left. Riley shuddered, slumping down to rest in the chair and catch her shaking legs. She knew he had done more than left her in the kitchen. He’d respected her very rational, logical decision and let her go completely.

Too bad the win suddenly felt like the biggest loss in her life.

Two weeks later, Riley slumped in her office chair. Usually, her work schedule energized her, revving her up. Goals and deadlines were her happy place. But since she left Dylan, everything seemed . . . flat. Uninspired. Even the chocolate chips she’d put in her bran muffins didn’t make her happy.

Now, that was just plain scary.

Holding back a sigh, she tapped the pen against her blotter and tried to think. She’d told Kate to schedule her as many dates as possible with partners who complemented her list. She’d gone on four dates. A lawyer, accountant, teacher, and doctor. They’d been intelligent, low key, and respectable. They wanted children. She had a good time. But God, they were so dull.

Dylan had ruined her.

She’d reached for the phone to call him a hundred times during the past two weeks. He’d probably hang up on her. Riley ached that she’d been the one to hurt him, when all he had done was be brave and confess his true feelings. The same exact feelings she had for him, but was too chickenshit to follow. What a mess.

The unstoppable truth haunted her night after night. Dylan McCray was the man she was meant for. He may not be the type she imagined, but he completed her. Got her. He didn’t allow for her bullshit, respected her career, knew her past, ravished her body and soul with a hunger never matched. Life may be calmer without him. More reasonable. But it would be empty and lonely and dark.

What was she going to do?

How could she get him back?

The red light flashed on her phone. “Ms. Fox, you have a visitor. He’s not on your schedule but insisted you’d see him. Dylan McCray.”

Her mouth fell open. After trying to talk several times, she finally managed a squeak. “Yes, thanks, Cindy, you can send him in.”

She scrambled to neaten her desk, stood up, sat back down, then stood up again. Sweat dampened her palms. What did he want? Was he still angry? Would he try to get her back? What if he laughed and said her leaving was the best thing that ever happened to him? He strolled through the door thirty seconds later in a navy blue pin-striped suit, red tie, and leather loafers. He was the symbol of the gorgeous, successful American man, powerful and commanding with every move, the sharp fabric creased perfectly and a tangy aftershave floating from his skin that made her want to keep sucking in air.

“Dylan.” Her voice ripped from her throat. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“Riley.” He nodded, but his eyes gleamed with a mysterious intent. “I’m surprised I’m here myself. But after the two weeks I had, I realized I had no choice.”

She stumbled forward. The space between them yawned with emptiness. His body heat hummed from across the room. “Do—do you want to sit?”

“No, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.”

Riley fought a shudder and tried to look calm. She shifted on her high heels, glad she’d worn her smart pink plaid Jones suit. She needed all the confidence possible. “Why are you here?”

He grinned. Shot his cuffs. His casual pose reminded her of a jungle cat lazing in the woods for a nap before hunting its prey. “I’m tired of waiting. I was a good boy, deciding to give you the time you need. But watching you go out with other men has been pissing me off, and I’ve lost patience. Who’s in the box, Riley?”

Her heart hammered in her chest. Excitement slithered in her veins and she was thrust from dreary Kansas to Oz in seconds. She took a step forward. “You.”

Those eyes burned hot and demanding. Her muscles softened in surrender. Finally, the truth released her and joy burst through her body. She blinked away the mad sting of tears.

Dylan nodded. “Damn right. About time, too. Now there’s just one last thing you need to do.”

She’d do it. She’d do anything for him. Because Riley knew in that moment she belonged to him as wholly as he did to her. They were a team, and she’d never doubt it again. “What?”

He gave a slow grin. “Prove it.”

“This is ridiculous. It’s the middle of the day. People just don’t do these things in the afternoon, Dylan. It’s too . . . decadent.”

He tried not to laugh at her whispered horror, because he knew she frikkin’ loved every second of it. Hands firmly clasped together, he led her around the circle of the rink while the lights twinkled, and the scent of popcorn and candy filled the air. The carousel sang merrily, the painted horses bobbing up and down as children laughed with delight. Still dressed in her work clothes, heels swapped out for skates, they glided in perfect coordination, and Dylan realized he’d never been so completely and utterly content.

He’d finally found her.

“You love it,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get married here.”

She stumbled and he caught her. “You always were arrogant, egotistical, and assuming,” she declared.

“I’m also right.”

“Funny, before the marriage part comes another element I haven’t heard yet.”

He laughed, spun her around, and pressed her back against the gate. Her nose was red, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled. Dylan lowered his head. “I love you, Riley Fox. I probably always have. It was you I was searching for all along.”

“Damn right.” She lifted her arms and buried her fingers in his hair. “And I love you.”

“About time. I have a wonderful plan already for the honeymoon.”

“Oh yeah? Someplace warm and tropical?” she teased.

He nibbled on her lower lip. “No. I intend to fill an entire room with stainless-steel appliances and fuck you thoroughly on every last one of them.”

Her body shuddered and a low moan vibrated from her throat. Crap, he loved this woman. Body, mind, heart, and soul. He couldn’t wait to see what the next fifty years would bring.

“But for now, I just want to skate with the woman I love.”

She smiled and pressed her lips softly to his.

And they skated.

Deck the halls with boughs of holly,

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

’Tis the season to be jolly,

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Urban legends. We’ve all heard of them—eating pop rocks and soda will make your stomach explode; the tourist who gets his kidney stolen in a faraway land; alligators living in the sewers. By the time you reach adulthood, you realize they’re all crocks of shit. Stories that get passed on from generation to generation to scare the hell out of us and keep us on the straight and narrow.

Well . . . except for the alligator one—I’ve lived in New York City my whole life and that’s completely possible.

But the others, yeah, all lies.

In the latter part of the last century, new urban legends sprung up that society’s all too willing to fall for: action stars who die on movie sets doing stunts; rain-forest plants that cure obesity; and Justin Bieber actually having a set of balls.

Sometime in the late 1970s, after the city’s crime rate began to drop and New York became more tourist friendly, another urban legend was started—one that annually throws a fucking wrench into the otherwise smoothly operating machine that is my life.

That would be the myth that New York City is a prime place to go Christmas shopping.

I don’t know what moron started the rumor, but I will gladly stick my foot up his ass if I ever find out. Because now, scores of people from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and upstate clog our bridges, tunnels, and streets from Black Friday to Christmas Eve, scurrying to make their holiday purchases like rats going after a gourmet piece of cheese. To get little Timmy a train set from FAO Schwarz and grandma a brooch from Tiffany.

Sure, they’ve heard of the Internet. Of course they know it’d be easier—and less expensive—to order online and have packages delivered right to their front door.

But for them, it’s not about what’s easier. Christmas shopping in the city is now—say it with me—tradition.