55. Run Rudolph Run
MARK AMBOR
As we walk in, a man with the melancholy of Sinatra drags his voice tenderly through “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
The ballroom has been transformed, trapping old-money New York Christmas warmth—
pine and evergreen garland,
mahogany wood accents,
deep reds dark as cabernet.
Men float to the private cigar lounge in packs, disappearing into leather and clouds of smoke.
Andrew leans in, hand resting at the base of my spine. “You got me livin’ in a movie right now.” He checks behind us, mouth close to my ear. “I feel like some asshole’s about to yell cut.”
I glance up at him, smoothing my hand down the back of his blazer, the colors of charcoal and smoke, with bourbon hidden in the houndstooth weave.
I don’t know how I got his measurements this right. It fits him as if the wool was stitched around him,
moving with him each time he moves,
when he reaches for a door,
when he reaches for me.
While other men stand in the corners,
adjusting their cuffs,
fiddling with their ties,
Andrew exists terrifyingly timeless,
hair slicked back
with a come-hither confidence.
We pass the servers circling the room
and head straight for the bar.
Andrew skips the menu and eyes the bartender, low-slung trousers hugging perfectly at his hip.
“Zero-proof Old Fashioned,” he orders.
“Zero?” the bartender confirms.
“Yeah,” Andrew flicks a finger toward the top shelf, “and a double Chopin—long-pour cran, pure juice, no syrup. Heavy ginger, and a triple-lime squeeze…” He leans in an inch. “86 the trash, aight?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re so smooth.”
He ignores my comment, keeping a distrustful eye on the bartender. “He was holding that shaker like a shampoo bottle when we walked up. Guy’s nervous.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I don’t want a nervous hand touchin’ your glass,” he says sideways from the corner of his mouth, then drops his fist on the bar. “Kid’s gonna amateur-hour your drink if I don’t watch him.”
A small laugh slips out from under my tongue. Swear, nothing’s more dangerous than a man who acts like he owns the entire room just because you’re standing in it.
Callista’s twenty feet away, a rock-glam hand grenade in a dress that’s the color of a winter pine forest.
Soon as the drinks land, I reach back, my fingers finding the warm wool at his thigh. “Drew, I want you to meet someone.”
He steps into my wake with a low-rise stride, carrying our drinks as we cut through silk and suits.
Paying no mind to the rest of the room,
the heat of his stare trails down the line of my bare back.
Callista turns as we approach, jaw falling open on its hinge. “Damn, that cut? Killer. Very ‘Havana’ meets ‘Old Hollywood.’” She sips from her martini glass with a hum, twirling her finger. “Do a spin for me.”
I do, and she nods,
eyes lifting to Andrew.
“Yeah… That back goes any lower, you’ll need an insurance policy on this guy’s fists.” She admires my dress. “Gorgeous, I tell you.”
I lay a theatrical hand upon my chest.
“Why, thank you.
“And you? Not a day goes by.”
She waves her hand.
“Oh, you’re too kind.”
“It’s honestly unfair to the rest of us peasants,” I mutter playful, turning to Andrew. “Andrew, this is Callista, our powerhouse rock star. Callista, this is Andrew—the actual reason your deal fell through.”
Those are two names I never thought would collide, but here he’s standing in the middle of my world, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
Her hand was on its way to him when the last detail I never shared with her slides in, and it makes her freeze, her hand hovering. “Andrew’s the reason? Andrew what?” She eyes him suspicious.
His chest grazes my shoulder as he leans in, taking her hand anyway. “Just Andrew.”
Then she doesn’t let go, his hand held hostage by her. “You’re the reason the deal is officially six feet under?”
Andrew’s eyes fall to me.
“Nah. She’s hustlin’ you with that humble act. We all know who’s actually runnin’ the show.”
“Mhmm…” Callista hums, eyes bouncing between us as she finally releases him. “And where’d you find him, Allie? You two collabing on something, or is this—”
“He’s my unofficial advisor,” I quickly say, ignoring his eyes hitting the side of my face.
“Figured I owed him a drink for helping me kill the deal. Let him meet the star we fought for.” I grab his bicep.
“Can’t say I haven’t tried, but unfortunately?
This Jersey boy doesn’t fuck with girls from New York. ”
Callista’s brows shoot up to Andrew. “Don’t tell me you were stupid enough to say that out loud.”
He scoffs into his drink.
“You can’t trust a thing—” He stops,
drink halfway to his lips,
then he glances down at me, amused.
“Actually, yeah. I did say that. Once.”
A laugh leaves her. “Guts is what got us here. Alright, Just-Andrew,” she sighs, eyeing him. “You saved me from Clementine, so I’m gonna look the other way on the New York comment. But next time you say something stupid, those pretty eyes won’t save you.”
“Callista,” someone calls out.
She lifts on her heels. “Who’s that? Is that Persie?
No way, that’s Persie,” she says to herself.
“I’m gonna go kick some doors down in that cigar lounge.
” She snaps her fingers before pointing it at Andrew.
“Just-Andrew, be nice to my girl tonight. And Allie, so stoked for the duet. It’s my favorite part of the night! ”
“Yeah, yeah…” I say, waving her off.
She vanishes into the crowd,
leaving a streak of emerald
like the tail of a comet.
Andrew’s staring at me, squinting.
“Unofficial advisor?”
I smirk into my glass, then take a sip.
The small lounge band breaks into a boogie-woogie bassline, the pianist ripping a classic 1950s rock-and-roll glissando, right into Run Rudolph Run.
Andrew’s brows jump.
“Oh, this song’s all you.”
He plucks the glass from my hand,
ditches our drinks on a nearby table,
and spins back to face me,
claiming my empty palm.
He’s gonna make me dance. Isn’t he?
Shit. He’s gonna make me fucking dance.
I shake my head. “Andrew, no way.”
He walks me backward with a devious grin, his other palm pressed against his chest. “Miss Allison Taylor, as your trusted unofficial advisor, I believe it’s only in your best interest to dance with me.”
A laugh rips up my throat with the roar of the band.
On stage, the singer lunges to the front,
snatching the chrome mic stand
and burying himself into the mic,
spilling the opening line.
Then—with a flick of his wrist—Andrew spins me fast at the edge of the floor and pulls me back tight against his chest on a downbeat, looking down at me with a cocky smile.
I try fighting back my own,
shaking my head.
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah. After the bridge,” he says.
Then he reels me into a swing dance, one that floods my cheeks with a helpless heat.
Every spin is laced with late-night adrenaline, every swing is reckless escape, every second of his chest warm against my back is another second I’m regretting our contract.
All the while,
he sings as if he can’t help it,
his voice a whiskey-warm rasp on my skin,
his hand staying at my waist,
his mouth staying near my ear,
and his hips doing subtle, provocative things, low-and-slow drags with the beat.
Nothing noticeable if my body wasn’t in his hands, pressed against him.
I look back at him fast ‘cause—
who the fuck taught him that?
And when the chorus peaks,
he raises his arm with lazy swagger,
guiding me to spin under it,
dropping me into a low dip,
the two of us breaking into laughter.
“Ohh, shit. Allie?”
Ace’s gaze snags on us as he strolls by, then backs up with a wide-eyed double-take.
Digby’s a London tower at his side.
Andrew and I break apart, and I swipe my hair from my eyes, out of breath.
As they approach, Ace looks Andrew up and down, stopping where Andrew’s hand falls away from my hip.
The big-brother siren goes off across Ace’s face. “Whoa—hang on. This your date?”
Heat climbs my neck,
and I jump in to introduce.
“Andrew, this is Ace Souza—producer, friend, beat-making machine, and apparently the man whose chances with at least three women you personally tanked at Thanksgiving.”
Ace’s fist flies to his mouth with a laugh. “Yo, no way.” He turns to Digby and smacks his arm. “This the brah that got me fucked up that night.”
Andrew shakes his hand.
“Yeah. A little distracted tryna keep my eye on this one.” He glances down, catching the nerves burning pink on my cheeks. “But for the record,” Andrew continues, eyes back on Ace. “I cut you off at three drinks. Everything after that? Straight-up pineapple juice, man.”
Ace goes still, standing there, confused.
“Naahhh.”
Andrew sucks air through his teeth.
“Yeah.”
Ace laughs empty. “No way.”
Andrew nods, embarrassed for him.
“Yeah.”
Ace’s laugh dies.
An awkward silence passes,
until Digby breaks it,
holding out his hand.
“Alright, mate? Name’s Digby. Good finally meeting you. Been wanting to say cheers for the spark. That song title? Absolute gold.”
Andrew shakes his hand, processing.
“I’m sorry, song title?”
I knock Andrew’s hip with mine.
“That single Diggs just dropped on Spotify— 5% Survival Rate? That was all you.”
Andrew’s expression blanks.
He’s trying to catch up.
“I’m so lost right now…”
His gaze drifts slow to me,
eyes searching my face.
“5% Survival Rate?” he asks.
“But I’d 100% let you do it again,” Ace, Diggs, and I chorus, hitting Andrew with his own words at once, totally unplanned.
Andrew’s blank expression rewinds, a slow-motion trainwreck piecing back together.
The text message he sent me.
After the Thanksgiving Gala.
Where I left him on his knees,
holding my drink.
His jaw locks up as he turns away—
half-ashamed,
half-betrayed as if I sold him out.
Then he glances down at me. “I hate you,” he bites out through a crimson laugh.
“No worries, mate,” Diggs brushes it off. “Allie keeps it strictly professional, doesn’t she?” He lifts his chin at Ace. “Proper class, I promise you that.”
Ace nods. “On my life, brah. Real lady-like.” He gestures between Andrew and me. “What happens there, stays there.”
Right then—
a cold, slick palm slides over my back.
I tense,