Chapter 9
Grandpa’s Basement
Twenty-five Days Until I Can Go Back to Work
We have to park half a block away because the entire street is jammed with snow-dusted cars. It doesn’t look like a bar so much as someone in the neighborhood is throwing a block party.
I squint at the house from the passenger seat. “Okay. Is this place really called Grandpa’s Basement, or are you about to take me into an actual basement right now?”
“Started out like that,” Jamie says. “Doug just wanted a hangout after he retired. Then it sort of grew.”
The bar is a three-story Victorian house painted a mustard yellow that makes the building glow like a lantern against the two snowy trees in front.
Every step leading up to the porch is painted in red and white.
The front lawn is packed with inflatable snowmen and penguins, and a string of multicolored lights blinks to the beat thumping out of the house.
There isn’t a sign anywhere.
Jamie glances at me. “Are you sure you aren’t gonna be cold?”
“The basement is heated, right?” I open the truck door and tug my Cossack hat lower over my ears.
Underneath, I’m wearing tights attached to a garter belt and the little black dress I haven’t worn since a Raya date with a stock exchange guy who could barely string two words together because my clavicle distracted him. The dress deserves redemption.
Specifically with Jamie.
Kissing him earlier this week jolted my body back to life with the force of jumper cables.
And ever since, Jamie has found any excuse to touch me again. He lets his hand brush mine when he delivers my coffee in a stupidly cute snowman mug. He fixes my bangs and rubs hay off my coat after I’ve checked on Arrietty and the sick members of the herd.
The worst part?
I’m one thousand percent sure Jamie has deployed his daughters as tiny, adorable buffers.
They’ve joined us for morning chores, though they do less cleaning and more twirling through the barn with brooms while begging for makeup tips.
And I’ve happily provided them—all while mentally compiling a very long list of the indecent things I want to do to their father.
Jamie rounds the truck to offer his hand, steadying me onto the salted sidewalks. It’s unnecessarily chivalrous, but I still cling to his plaid jacket.
I think I’m developing a thing for cowboys.
My pulse is already misbehaving when he points to an old capsule vending machine on the sidewalk that’s decorated with faded pictures of butterflies and flowers.
“Wanna get temporary tattoos?” His grin under his mustache is disarmingly mischievous.
“No.”
“Which means you should.” He digs two quarters out of his pocket and slots them in.
“Who even carries change anymore?”
“Never know when you’re gonna need stickers or tats.” He’s such a dad. “Do the honors.”
“I said no.” It’s hellishly cold out here, and I just want to get inside.
“Afraid you’ll have fun?”
Has he been talking to Miriam? With a sigh, I twist the metal. It clinks and rattles until a plastic globe rolls down the winding chute. I pick it out of the delivery slot and hold it up between us. Inside is a pink butterfly tattoo.
“Happy?”
“Not until you put it on.”
“I need at least one drink to let you mark me.”
His eyes narrow. “Consider it a challenge.”
I shove the little globe into my coat pocket, hoping he’ll forget about it, then follow him up the steps to the house. Two men stand on the porch, laughing so hard their cigars nearly fall out of their mouths. They step aside and wave to Jamie as we pass.
Inside, Grandpa’s Basement is exactly how it looks from outside: someone’s house that accidentally became a bar.
Heat hits me first, followed by the sweet burn of vodka and something cinnamon-y.
People drink out of glass cups—thankfully—on the garland-wrapped staircase, and there’s a tree on the back patio that glows through the sliding-glass door.
To the left, an all-girl rock band is performing in matching white-glitter jumpsuits. The band’s name, Sugar Hex, is emblazoned on the bass drum. The lead singer with purple hair and platform boots screams into the mic.
I would bet good money that this bar is exactly like the college parties I skipped because I was studying. The crowd has claimed every square inch of space, and everyone is pressed in like sardines trying to avoid the polar vortex outside.
Heads swivel as I follow Jamie to the massive bar, which is lined with every kind of liquor imaginable. In New York, I can blend into a crowd; here, I stick out like a flashing neon sign.
I’m still taking it in when my gaze snags on the Santa hats perched on the bartenders’ heads.
My stomach lurches. Flashbacks of Parker’s naked ass flood my brain, and I pivot to make a run for the door, but Jamie catches me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Headache,” I blurt.
His brows lift. “What’s really wrong?”
I jerk my chin toward the bar. “The hats. I can’t—just nope. Santa hats are a hard pass.”
His mouth curves. “Are you secretly a Grinch?”
“Oh my god, never call me that again.” I slam my hand into his chest. And before I can bolt, he drags me to the front of the bar and slides a bill across the counter, murmuring something to the staff. Three sets of eyes roll at once, but the bartenders tug off the hats.
“Finally,” one mutters, scratching their head. “That thing was itchy.”
“Ann’s not gonna be happy!” a bartender with a Boston Bruins shirt yells.
“Ann owes me after I took Gabs to school for a month.”
Jamie smirks at me like he’s just saved me from certain death before ordering two drinks. I shrug off my coat and hat and perch on one of the polar bear-shaped barstools tucked near the wall, a tiny bit more private.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“You deserve a night of fun. Even if you hate Christmas.”
“I don’t hate Christmas.”
“Every guy in here is staring at you,” Jamie says, settling on the stool next to me.
“Only because I obviously don’t belong here.”
His eyes rake down my short black dress, lingering where a strip of the garter peeks out. I have to look away to keep him from noticing the heat rising to my face.
“Do they break all this out just for December?” I gesture to the polar bear stools.
Jamie smiles. “Year-round.”
“Festive.”
The bartender glides a cranberry mule with rosemary garnish in front of me. I take one sip, make a face, then promptly take three more gulps. It’s tart and fizzy and absolutely capable of erasing the image of Parker from my mind.
Jamie leans in, the tip of his shoulder grazing mine. “Easy, Doc. That’s not a protein shake.”
“I know what alcohol is,” I say, then promptly choke on the next sip.
Smooth.
I straighten in my seat, which makes my heel slip off the rung. My hand shoots out, landing squarely on Jamie’s thigh. And I leave it there.
“You’re gonna have to pace yourself. I plan on keeping you here long enough to dance.”
“I dance better with a few drinks.”
Before Jamie has a chance to answer, Winnie materializes from the crowd wearing a striped scarf and red, square glasses that swallow her cheekbones.
She hugs me so hard I’m pretty sure my face looks like one of her taxidermy fish.
“Look who it is! Star of the week! That video was hysterical—” She launches into a dramatic impression of me flailing while ice cubes rattle out of her drink and onto the floor.
I glare at Jamie over her scarf.
“Winnie, be nice,” he says, but he’s grinning like a jerk.
“Nice. Pfft.” She turns to hug her brother. “Look at you in your fancy jeans. You’re really pulling out all the stops for this one, huh?”
“Don’t you have someone else to terrorize?”
“You’re my favorite brother to fuck with, you know that.” Winnie swivels back to me. “Joy! How’d you like those snowshoes?”
“I’m gonna get you back for that,” I warn.
“Perfect. Let me buy you a shot, and then we’ll be even. Also, this dress? Ten out of fucking ten.”
“Thanks, but I don’t do shots.”
“Just one,” she insists, already flagging the bartender. “Also, your supplies came into my PO box. I’ll drop them off at the barn tomorrow.”
I look to Jamie, hoping he’ll rescue me from this situation. He just shrugs.
Traitor.
Winnie hands me a glass crowned with whipped cream. “Mrs. Claus’s Blow Job,” she announces. “Peppermint schnapps, don’t ask questions.”
I drink it, brace myself…and…it’s actually not bad.
Which is why I order another.
And another cranberry mule.
There’s still a buzz in my ear to check my email or download more research papers, but maybe if I drink enough, I can actually force myself to relax.
By the time Winnie bounces toward the dance floor, dragging a stranger behind her, I’m giggling and rippling all over. My eyes admire the people dancing, the Christmas lights strung about the room, and…Jamie’s jeans, which is the place they’ve been avoiding but really, really want to be.
He folds into my space. “You gonna tell me why you’ve got a personal vendetta against Santa hats?”
“You’re not gonna believe me.”
“Try me.”
I twirl the tiny red-and-white straw in my mule. “Six days ago, I walked in on my boyfriend of a year”—I take a sip of my drink—“fucking a Grinch while wearing an assless-chaps Santa suit.”
He blinks rapidly. “No.”
“Yep.”
“Hence the aversion—”
“To Santa hats. Exactly.” I roll my lips into my mouth, probably smearing what’s left of my lipstick.
“Fucking asshole,” Jamie mutters.
“And then he called me an ice queen.”
Jamie frowns. “What does that even mean?”
“Apparently, I can’t deal with my feelings. Which, sure, I haven’t cried in over a decade, so maybe he had a point. But not exactly what you want to hear when your boyfriend’s dick is—” I cut myself off to take a loud sip through the straw. “But it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“The worst part? I probably would’ve married the guy so I could finally cross off the ‘single’ box in my thirties.”
“Joy.” His tone slackens. He shifts closer, knee knocking into mine. “You know that’s not a reason to marry someone, right?”