What Happens This Christmas

Chapter 1

WINTER WONDERLAND

Candy

A wild little cry ripped through me like a tornado, only my mouth was clamped shut so it didn’t escape.

This was not the place to be uninhibited or unreserved about my pleasure.

My heartbeat was rapid.

My veins throbbing.

I bit back another sultry, intense vocalization.

Besides foaming at the mouth, there was no way to convey how I was feeling.

There it was. Right before my very eyes, a sight that I wouldn’t have believed unless I’d witnessed it for myself. A Harrison original was on sale, and not just any Harrison original. No, this one was a black coat. Wool. Long sleeve. With a silk lining.

Reaching out, I ran my hands over one of the sleeves, allowing my fingers to gracefully roam across the gem, taking it in and trying to memorize the feel.

Nothing would ever compare to this. All the other coats would be jealous, frowning in utter disbelief that one like this existed.

That was all the more reason I needed it.

Anyone who was anyone could spot it from a mile away.

They’d stare and want one for themselves, wishing, hoping, dreaming that they were so fortunate as to stumble upon one that was on sale too.

Dreams like this only came true in a luxury department store on Fifth Avenue.

It was the magic of New York City. That, and knowing where to shop.

A skill like that only came with practice, lots and lots of practice.

Thankfully, I’d earned my master’s degree in shopping a while ago, and now I spoke the language, knew where to go, when to go, and who was who. Designers, I mean.

As I carefully drew down the coat in my size and headed to the nearest register, I recalled the beautiful moment when I’d been first introduced to this coat. It had been during New York Fashion Week. I’d watched Harrison’s new ready-to-wear collection in rapture.

Just as expected, the line to check out was so long that it may as well have spanned continents.

Perhaps slightly dramatic, but some people had places to be, namely me, and I didn’t have the time or patience to stand in line.

It was Christmastime, which meant that every department store in the city was as congested as the streets on a normal day.

They were filled with people desperately trying to rub two pennies together to buy something nice for someone they cared about.

People who had hit it big with an end-of-the-year bonus they barely earned.

People who didn’t know the first thing about shopping in New York City.

With both of my arms practically draped with new items that I couldn’t wait to get home so they could become better acquainted with my walk-in closet, I hightailed it to the jewelry salon on the first floor.

Typically, it was less busy, and almost no one decided to make that their last pit stop on their way out, such that they checked out with one of the employees behind the counter.

Good news for me.

Bad news for anyone who hadn’t picked up on that trick.

Heaving a sigh, I unloaded everything on the top of the glass case, where precious gems and diamonds were hidden away, sparkling and waiting for the next person to come and admire them, maybe even buy them, if it was their lucky day.

Sue me, but to me these things weren’t just inanimate objects.

If people treated shopping the way they did food or property, then it was a necessity.

These objects were carefully picked out and purchased for a moment in time when they’d be pulled from the closet or drawer, and the owner would realize now’s the time to wear it.

They were made to be there for a time in life that couldn’t possibly even be anticipated.

“Hi,” I greeted the gentleman behind the counter, his ensemble impeccable.

It had to be, though, because look at what he was selling.

So, the two-piece textured wool and cashmere navy-blue suit he was wearing was essential.

Honestly, he could have been scowling, deeply unsatisfied with his place of employment, and he would still be throwing off the right vibe.

Because no one was staring at his face, or his hair, or the beard he should have rethought growing. They were looking at his clothes.

He cleared his throat, twisting his neck to peer behind him as though confused by the current situation. “May I help you?” he asked, finally turning back around to me, managing a forced smile before it collapsed faster than a house of cards in a windstorm.

I nodded, my blonde hair hardly swaying in the high ponytail. “Please. I’m in a rush. Would you be able to ring me up?”

“Sure,” he replied without a second thought.

To be honest, I was intelligent enough to know there wasn’t a single thing to contemplate.

If he earned a commission on his sales, which I was pretty sure he did, then he just hit the jackpot with me.

I’d contribute to his mortgage, and if he lived in the Upper East Side, which he probably did for commuting purposes if nothing else, then his silence was a hearty thanks.

“My husband would love a watch like that,” I noted, pointing to his wrist.

My husband, Nick Crane, was the very definition of debonair.

He was extremely handsome, dapper even. He was a wealthy, charming dreamboat.

If only he hadn’t decided to have a quarter of a century crisis years ago and get a job at The Black Sheep, some Irish pub on Long Island, our home away from home.

He’d claimed he had been bored, wanted a change of pace, and liked the company, talking to people, even getting to know the usuals.

I couldn’t imagine a worse hobby to take on, but there was no changing Nick’s mind no matter how much I hated it.

The gentleman continued ringing me up as he explained, “It’s new actually. We just got this design in stock from Francesco Vega’s two-tone collection.” He nudged his chin past me. “They’re in the case just behind you.”

“Thank you.” I rolled my lips and turned, trailing my finger along the top of the warm, smooth glass as I attempted to find the perfect watch.

Frankly, there were so many options. Nick didn’t own any jewelry from Francesco Vega, so I knew he’d appreciate the addition.

“A man can never have too many watches,” I said, making meaningless conversation to pass the time and break through the cloud of silence that was making me feel like I was in a haze.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Obviously, he’d say that. The number one rule in sales that the customer was always right wasn’t for no reason.

Finally, my gaze landed on the watch. Water resistant with an emerald crystal glass.

The sparkle from the way the light hit it practically shone in my eyes and made me consider putting sunglasses on.

There was nothing quite like a new piece of jewelry.

Like everything else, it dulled with time, but in the beginning, it was pretty and polished.

It was like there was an unspoken mission for each piece to be used enough to appear worn and tired until the shine wore off. Timing was everything.

“I’d like to buy it,” I told the gentleman as I studied it in detail, the two-toned three-link band that would make my husband’s forearm look more attractive.

Truth be told, I had a thing for a man’s hands and arms. Like a moth to a flame. Especially when it came to my husband. God, I didn’t think it would matter how many years we were married. I’d still be able to close my eyes and feel his hands touching me, his arms wrapping around me.

He was built with corded muscles in his arms, slutty veins in his hands, and long fingers. It wasn’t really a wonder that his grandfather had always told him that he had the potential to be a brilliant pianist—he had the fingers for it. And other things…

I went back to the counter and allowed the salesman to do his job, boxing up the last-minute addition.

I was in a hurry, needing to get home to Nick, but wouldn’t dream of rushing him.

There was something special about a man who took pride in his work, and this man clearly did, so I allowed him the appearance of the luxury of time.

A part of me wondered if I should wait until Christmas to give Nick the watch, but something that magnificent deserved to be enjoyed right away. I’d give it to him tonight. The watch would surely make up for my lack of punctuality for dinner.

Dinner had been, and always would be, served promptly at seven.

By our private chef. In the dining room where French doors opened to an expansive private terrace, and we could revel in the views of the city.

In all my years, I’d never really been tardy.

It was my rule, after all, but sometimes exceptions had to be made. Nick would understand.

Outside, my driver was focused on the road and taking me back to the penthouse where we lived on 76th Street in Manhattan. It wasn’t a long drive, but with most taxis accounted for by people looking to make it home for the evening, the roads weren’t exactly accommodating my concern for the time.

At this point, drinks and appetizers had probably already been served, our chef waiting to bring out the main course.

Nick would be alone, but he wouldn’t be bothered by that fact.

He didn’t mind a little solitary peace. In fact, sometimes I thought he preferred it, something I chose not to dwell on.

I wouldn’t be able to change him, and worrying about it would only cause wrinkles.

Heaven knew, I had a few more years before I needed to concern myself with those dreadful telltale signs of aging.

I moved to open the window on my side in the back of the town car.

I couldn’t imagine a better place to reside than New York. Nothing beat it. Shopping came pretty close, but nope. Maybe sex at one time, but lately, we’d been in a bit of a dry spell, so I couldn’t count that.