Merry and Bright (Home Sweet Holidays #2)

Chapter 1

If I’m being honest, getting a little tipsy on a flight to see my family is appealing.

But I’m still responsible me, so I’m planning to decline the flight attendant’s offer of a drink.

Until a deep voice next to me says, “I will if you will.”

The avoiding had been easy, since I grabbed my Kindle and got pulled back into the book I was reading (yes, I am more into fictional men than real men; sue me).

Until. I will if you will.

And now he’s looking at me amused, eyebrows raised, his expression too impish for someone so tall. I can’t help but nod him on. He grabs two glasses of champagne off the flight attendant’s tray and hands me one.

“Thank you,” I muster.

“I’m sorry if I assumed,” he says, his smile dimming enough where I’m surprised by how desperately I want to bring it back. “I get a little nervous flying. A drink seemed like a good idea. And no one wants to drink alone at ten in the morning.”

“You?”

“Me what?”

“You get nervous flying?”

He chuckles and throws the drink back in one sip. “Why not?”

“I don’t know, you’re . . .” I wave my hand in front of him. “You know. You know you look like this.”

Now his cheeks turn a little pink, and it surprises me. But he still leans in. “Look like what?”

Are we going to have a blush-off? Because that’s how it feels once I realize I’ve just implied that he can’t be afraid of flying because he’s gorgeous and jacked. Great job, Miriam, putting your foot in your mouth once again.

“You think if the plane goes down I’m going to, what, block it physically somehow?” he says with an adorable smirk.

“It’s not that,” I rush out. “I just assume that if you have less to be scared of generally, you’d be scared of less overall.”

A wistful look crosses his face. “Maybe. Physical stuff, sure, I’ll give you that.”

I take a sip of my champagne, liquid courage. Although for some reason, that nervousness I’d normally get while talking to an attractive man isn’t taking hold. There’s something about his earnest smile that gives off warmth instead of incineration. “What’s bringing you to Charleston?” I ask.

“Family Christmas,” he says succinctly, even though it’s over a week away. “You?”

“Same,” I say, nodding. “Well, family Hanukkah.” I grimace.

“You’re not looking forward to it?”

“Would you want eight nights in a row with your overbearing, oversharing, over-everything family during a time when they get a chance to be even more exuberant?”

His laugh crinkles his eyes so tight they’re barely visible anymore. It’s like the laughter takes up his entire body, and it’s so different from what anyone would imagine of this man if they only saw a photo of him. “Sounds kind of fun,” he says, still smiling.

“Maybe if you fit into it.”

“And you don’t?”

I shake my head, but his expression indicates he wants more. I’m normally not a sharer, but something about this guy makes me feel like I should.

“I was the surprise baby,” I explain. “My parents were in their twenties when they had my sisters and then accidentally got pregnant with me when my mom was forty-four and my dad was forty-eight. My dad gave my mom a turtle the year before—because the seventeenth-anniversary gift is shells—and that was supposed to be her new baby. So I’ve basically been the extra family pet, vying for attention with a turtle and four outgoing people for almost thirty years. ”

His eyes are wide, and I can tell he wants to laugh but is kindly resisting the urge. “What’s the turtle’s name?” he asks.

“Shells,” I say, and he loses the battle. He doubles over, laughter booming out of him. “This is my actual life!” I exclaim, trying to sound angry, but it’s impossible with the grin he’s brought out of me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting up and taking deep breaths to stop himself from cracking up. “I’m taking you very seriously. What do you do for work?”

“Oh, you’re trying to see me as a professional now and not as a foil for a turtle?” I watch him hold his breath, attempting to not burst out laughing again, and I have to take pity on him. “I own a snack company,” I say, taking one out from my bag.

“Nosh Sticks!” he exclaims, and I beam with pride that he knows them.

I’m already dreading hearing my mom call them “my little snacks,” so his acknowledgment bolsters me.

But then he reaches into his own bag and, to my surprise, pulls out a few.

“I love these, actually. Matzah is apparently a much better carb than what any of the other bars have, and then you’ve got them with nut butters—one of the guys on my team found them, and now we’re all obsessed. ”

“Your team?”

“Oh.” He looks away for a moment. “I play football,” he finally says with a shrug.

“Like . . . for fun?”

His eyes snap back to mine, and all I can see now is fondness. “No. I mean . . . yes. But it’s my job. I’m an offensive lineman for the Giants.”

“You’re going to have to explain all of those words to me.”

“‘No’ and ‘yes’?”

I chuckle and swat at him. “I meant the football words! Sorry, I don’t watch it.”

I wonder why I see relief in his eyes. “It means my job is to basically hold off big dudes who want to take down the quarterback.”

“The guy who throws the ball?”

“See, you do know something,” he says, and I snort a laugh.

“Seriously, that’s very impressive,” I say sincerely.

“You just said you don’t watch,” he teases. “How would you know?”

“Well,” I say, slowly, considering. “It sounds like your job is the most selfless one. You’re not getting the glory; you’re in service to the team. You’re a protector. That’s pretty cool.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible that such a big guy could look so soft. “For someone who knows nothing about football, you somehow clocked my favorite thing about it.”

“Well, tell me more about it, then.”

The next hour flies by. I geek out over the extensive food regimen that comes with playing football, and he genuinely seems interested in the science of packaging (a topic no one else ever finds as weirdly fascinating as I do).

We cover what you feed a turtle; the best concert seating; our favorite restaurants in the city—he’s convinced me I have to try this downtown restaurant from a chef named Kit Roth that he’s obsessed with.

Until finally I ask, “So what does your family do for Christmas?” and suddenly he clams up.

“I, uh . . .” He pauses, and I wonder if maybe I’ve missed some Christmas etiquette I didn’t know about. “I actually haven’t been home for Christmas in four years.”

“Four years?”

“Well, the NFL has games on Christmas. And even if your team isn’t playing, you only get one day a week off in season, and the week of Christmas counts. So I just . . . never made it.”

“What changed this year?”

He sighs and pulls up his pant leg to reveal a shiny fresh scar all the way down his knee. “I tore my ACL at the end of last season.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, knowing it’s not enough. But he gives me a grateful nod, like it’s better to say that than to try to put a fake positive spin on it.

“Hopefully I’ll be cleared to play in a few months, but since that’s not anytime soon, they said I should take the week off and see my family for the holidays.”

He’s not looking at me anymore, and I wonder if there’s more to his hint of sadness than just the injury. I don’t even know this guy’s name, so I’m not entitled to his family dynamics, but for some reason I want to understand. “Is getting to be home for Christmas not a silver lining?”

He continues staring ahead for a beat, all that mirth and levity that’s lined his face for the last hour temporarily muted. “My parents are great . . .” He stops. “But I think they’re gonna make too big a deal of me being home.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my family’s a tornado that can’t notice anything I do. So maybe the grass is always greener.”

“I’d love to be in a tornado where no one’s asking about me.”

“Well, maybe we should buffer each other’s families,” I joke, laughing at the absurdity. But when I look back over at him, his expression has turned thoughtful. “What?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” he says, and I can feel the fizz of that one glass of champagne bubbling through me as my pulse suddenly speeds up.

“What’s not a bad idea?”

“I can stand up for you with your family on Hanukkah, and you can distract my family on Christmas.”

I fully turn toward him, to try and see the hint of the joke, yet there’s nothing but that impish smile back, as though this ridiculous suggestion might be fun. And after that hint of sadness, I find myself wanting to keep the fun for him as long as possible.

“You’re serious?”

“Well, I’ve been dreading sitting around Charleston with nothing but time on my hands. It sounds like it would help you, and be entertaining for me. Besides, I live in New York. Everyone in New York should know more about Hanukkah.”

“Well, the first step is realizing Hanukkah is eight nights and Christmas is one.”

“You come with me for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and that’ll more than make up for eight nights of hanging with a loud family.”

“I don’t even know your name,” I say with a chuckle.

He holds out a hand. “Cal Durand.”

I put my hand in his, and it dwarfs mine. My whole body feels it, a current that warms me all the way through. Maybe he is like the sun.

“Miriam Brody.”

“What do you think, Miriam Brody?”

“I think . . .” I let myself imagine it: showing up with a guy on my arm after never bothering to bring anyone home. No one could baby me if I showed up with Cal. Man, would it be satisfying to surprise my family for once.

And for some reason, I trust Cal. Even after only an hour, some gut feeling is telling me that he’s a good man who, like me, needs some way to avoid the drudgery of whatever his family brings out in him. Maybe we both need a little lighthearted holiday fun.

“I think . . . I’m in?” I say, and his nose crinkles with delight, like a child getting to play. “But what am I supposed to introduce you as? My emotional support giant?”

I get that boisterous laugh again and can’t help but smile. “Just say I’m your boyfriend,” he suggests with a shrug.

I can’t stop looking at his mouth. Pretending to date a man I’m wildly attracted to suddenly seems like trying to cross the street in the middle of traffic—impulsively fun but almost certainly highly stupid.

I look up and I can see he’s caught me staring, his smirk playful. “We have to set some ground rules,” I cough out.

“By all means,” he says.

“Well . . . no sleeping over, obviously.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he chuckles.

“Hand-holding and like . . . basic stuff like that . . . I guess it has to be okay, or no one would buy it.”

He nods. “Agree.”

“That easy, huh?”

“You’re the quarterback, and I’m just blocking. Sometimes you’ve gotta hold a hand in the process,” he says.

“A lot of hand-holding in football?”

“More like butt grabbing and tackling, so I’d say this plan is pretty tame.”

Then somehow, with the same ease we talked about packaging and food regimens, we shift to delving into the family basics we’ll each need to know—names of all the relatives, basic background information, a story about where we met (a flight, naturally).

Before I know it, we’re landing.

When we get to the gate, he stands up and pulls his hair into a bun with a dusty rose–colored scrunchie, and I can’t help but stare. It’s adorable. He’s like a gorgeous teddy bear come to life.

“I don’t like haircuts,” he says, as though that’s why I’m staring. But instead of responding, I stand up too. And instantly we both start laughing. He’s more than a foot taller than me. I’m going to look like his niece he’s taking to a school dance or something.

He pats me on the head, the perfect silent teasing, no words of explanation needed.

“Well, Miriam, are we really doing this?”

That gaze is on me again. Fun, I think. Why not, I think. “You’re about to learn that Hanukkah is a holiday of miracles,” I finally say.

“And?”

“And if you can get my family to take me even mildly seriously, maybe I’ll start believing they’re real.”