30. The Best Christmas Present
30
THE BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT
MACKENZIE
There are exactly three things you learn working at your family's Italian restaurant on Christmas morning:
1. Marinara sauce has an uncanny ability to find its way onto every surface, including places you didn't know existed on your body
2. The people who come in for Christmas meals have the best - and sometimes most heartbreaking - stories
3. Love looks different for everyone, but it always needs somewhere warm to land
"Table twelve needs more bread," Lucia announces, expertly navigating between packed tables with a tray of steaming plates. La Famiglia glows with holiday warmth, every surface decorated with twinkling lights and garlands that somehow make even my marinara-stained apron look festive. "And Mrs. Shu is here for her usual Christmas meal."
I smile, already reaching for Mrs. Shu’s favorite wine. She's been coming here every Christmas for fifteen years, ever since her husband passed. "The usual table by the window?"
"Where else? Though you might want to clean up first." Lucia eyes my sauce-splattered state. "You look like you lost a fight with Nonna's Sunday gravy."
"It's a look," I defend, though she's not wrong. Between helping pack meals for the homeless shelter and serving our Christmas Day customers, I'm wearing more of our signature sauce than most of our plates.
Through the front windows, Seattle's snow falls steadily, transforming the city into something magical. The kind of magic I nearly dared to believe in.
But now I’m unemployed. Out on my ass. Again.
Only this time, I don’t have any corporate downsizing or big bad boss to blame it on.
It’s all on me. All on my inability to really look at the best thing that’s happened to me in too long.
Stop it , I tell myself firmly. This isn't about Alex. This is about being here, being present. Being useful to my family.
But being useful to my family is a little hard when everyone seems to be full of love, and your heart is now starving for it.
Clearly, the young couple in booth seven feeding each other bites of tiramisu didn’t get the message.
The message being: Kissing in front of the kiss-deprived might get you a side of spit in your marinara sauce.
Just kidding. Sort of.
Hard to determine when my heart is still doing that twisting-on-itself thing it's been doing since the gala.
Since Alex found my exposé. Since everything fell apart.
"You're doing it again," Sofia appears with another wave of orders, her dark hair escaping its neat bun. "That thing where you stare at happy couples like they're carrying plague."
"I am not?—"
"Table three needs more wine," she cuts me off. "And Nonna's making noise about your 'broken heart sauce' again. Pretty sure she's adding extra garlic for healing properties. "
I grab the wine, trying to focus on the warmth around me instead of the hollow spot in my chest.
La Famiglia is packed - not just with our regular Christmas crowd, but with people who need somewhere to be today.
Students who couldn't make it home. Elderly neighbors who live alone. Couples who'd rather let someone else do the cooking.
Family isn't always about blood.
Sometimes it's about having a place to belong.
"The Anderson party needs their check," Lucia calls out. "And you've got marinara in your hair. Again."
I reach up, finding another spot of sauce.
"The shelter pickup is in twenty minutes," Sofia updates as she efficiently manages the growing lunch rush. "And table eight just sat down. You want to go help them?”
I don’t , I want to say.
Honestly, I’d rather go home and eat my weight in Nonna’s cannoli while watching The Holiday on repeat. But at least this keeps me distracted.
With a sigh, I head over in that direction. Stopping in front of the table, I grab my notepad and pencil.
“Hi there,” I say, scribbling the table number on the pad. “Welcome to La Famiglia. Can I help you?”
“Hmm.” The deep voice behind the menu hums. “You might be able to. I’m looking for a woman you might know. Dark hair. Curly. Brown eyes. Has got this wicked right arm for chucking bottles of Dom Perignon at unexpecting suits.”
My jaw goes slack. My pad lowers.
The menu does, too, and suddenly I'm staring into familiar green eyes that still make my knees weak.
Alex.
In a perfectly pressed suit, his salt-and-peppered hair tousled in that indescribably sexy way, he looks exactly like he did that first night at the gala .
Powerful. Gorgeous. Slightly intimidating.
Especially when he leans back, his broad shoulders settling into a straight line. “Ah, I see I’ve come to the right place.”
I swallow. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Well, I—“ He stops and stares at my face. "You've got a little something..." His gaze scrapes across my body. "Everywhere."
"It's a new look," I manage, my voice surprisingly steady considering my heart's doing the macarena. "Very avant-garde. Making waves in the culinary fashion world."
"Clearly." His eyes sweep me over, taking in every sauce splatter and flour smudge. "Though I have to admit, it's better than champagne."
Around us, the restaurant bustles with Christmas energy.
Families laugh over plates of pasta. Singles find comfort in perfect risotto. Couples share intimate moments over tiramisu.
But suddenly all I can focus on is the way Alex's tie matches my favorite shade of green and how his fingers tap against the menu like he's nervous.
Alexander Drake doesn't do nervous.
"I should..." I gesture at the wine bottle in the cart to my left, though I've completely forgotten which table needed it.
"You should sit," he says quietly. "We need to talk."
"I'm working."
"You're hiding." He leans forward, those green eyes seeing too much. "Behind sauce and service and every wall you've built since that walking testicle Roberto made you think you had to choose between love and success."
"How did you?—"
"I did my homework." His jaw tightens. "Finally. Though meeting him in person really drove it home."
"You met Roberto?"
"At the Apex Club. Right after reading your last blog post." His brows lower. "He won't be joining Drake Enterprises' accounting department, by the way. Apparently, my opinions on his... equipment were not well received."
Despite everything, I laugh. The sound brings a crooked smile to Alex’s face.
"Sit," he says again, softer this time. "Please."
"I'm a mess."
"You're perfect."
“I’m tired. And sweaty. And unemployed.”
“Well, that depends.” He stares. “Do you see yourself making a habit of serving Christmas meals at your family’s restaurant? Or are you ready to get back into the field of transforming fucked-up companies just like mine?”
I have no choice but to sit this time. I can barely stand. I settle onto the other side of the booth. “I’m sorry—what?"
"I want to hire you back, Mackenzie.”
“But Alex—" My voice rises, and I glance around us—at the restaurant and its humming holiday life. Someone's child laughs at a neighboring table. Mrs. Shu raises her wine glass in a silent toast. Through the windows, Seattle's snow continues falling.
“I…I did things.” I lower my voice, licking my dry bottom lip. “I wrote an exposé," I whisper, because apparently I'm determined to sabotage myself. "I planned to?—"
"To expose corporate corruption. To fight for change. To protect yourself from trusting again after someone made you think you had to be less to be loved."
"That's not?—"
"It is." He moves around the table to my side, smiling briefly at Nonna as she passes near the kitchen. Several customers definitely notice our intense conversation, but I can't focus on anything except how he still smells like cedar-wood and fireplaces and warmth and everything I thought I'd lost. "And you know what? You were right. About all of it. The culture problems, the retention issues, the way we've been doing everything wrong while convincing ourselves it was right."
"Then you’re set. I’ve done what I came back to do.” I bite down on the tears that are threatening to spill. “So why come back here? Why want me back at all?”
Alex blinks, reaching for my hand.
"Because somewhere between champagne and revolution, I fell for the woman who made me see what needed fixing. What I was missing while building walls around success." His other hand curves around my cheek, thumb brushing away what's probably more sauce. "And because I was invited for Christmas dinner. Though I may be a little early."
"A little?” I laugh, the sound caught behind a sob. “We haven't even started the main service."
"Perfect timing then." His eyes hold mine. "Gives me time to spend with my favorite corporate culture consultant.”
"I'm not ‘consulting’ anything when I looked like a lost a wrestling match with a tomato cart."
"I noticed that.” His smile turns lopsided. "Though I have to admit, it's a good look on you. Very... passionate Italian chef meets corporate revolutionary."
"Speaking of revolutionary..." I glance around. "Where's Keith's choir? I expected at least one musical number about love and corporate redemption."
"Oh, they're outside. I convinced them to wait for my signal before starting 'All I Want for Christmas is Corporate Equality.'"
"Of course you did." But I'm smiling too, even as tears slip down my cheeks. "This is insane, you know that?”
"Seems perfect to me." His thumb catches another tear. "Though I do have conditions for rehiring you."
"Oh?"
"No more walls." He leans in closer next to me on the faux leather booth seat, and suddenly the bustling restaurant fades away. "No more hiding. No more lying. Just us. Building something real. Together."
Through my tears, I see the truth in his eyes - the vulnerability, the hope, the love that matches my own.
"You do realize that if you take me back, you're stuck with all of this?" I motion to my sauce-covered state, to the Christmas-y chaos around us. "The revolution doesn't end just because we choose trust."
"Good." He pulls me closer, not caring about the tomato stains transferring to his perfect suit. "Because I happen to like revolution. And champagne. And you.”
"Even though my shirtfront is literally sticking to yours?”
"Especially that part." He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Though I’d like a lot fewer clothes the next time either of us gets…sticky.”
A startled laugh breaks through my tears, and suddenly Alex is kissing me, like no else is there.
Through the windows, I spot Keith's revolutionary choir, already launching into what sounds suspiciously like a love-themed version of "Do You Hear the People Sing."
But for once, I don't care about the chaos or the olive oil stains or the way my heart feels too big for my chest.
"I love you," I whisper against Alex's mouth, tasting happiness and wonder and everything we can build together. “Do you know that?”
“I do. And I love you," he murmurs back. “I’ll love you even more if you can sneak away some of your Nona’s tiramisu.”
I lean in, licking his bottom lip. “Done.”
Outside, the snow falls harder and Keith's choir launches into another number.
But inside my heart, everything is warm and bright and possible .
Because sometimes the biggest revolutions aren't in corporate culture.
They're in learning to trust love again.
Even the sticky parts.
I tug Alex closer and smile at the thought.
Especially the sticky parts.