“You’re right, buddy,” I say, swinging my legs out from under the fuzzy blue blanket I slept under last night and heading for the dog food in the closet.
I wince as I realize I’m still in my red dress, the one my friend Kayley talked me into buying at the upscale resale shop. It was two hundred dollars, even used, but Kayley justified it by insisting I could wear it to the wedding and her big New Year’s Eve party at her resort a few days later.
Every year, Kayley shuts down Aspen Heights Retreat for two days and hosts a private party for all her friends. We arrive the morning of the thirty-first of December, party like a bunch of board game and cornhole loving dorks all day long, then change into fancy clothes for a New Year’s Eve gala. The next morning, there’s a big, yummy breakfast, and the guests not too hungover for physical activity go cross-country skiing on the trails behind the resort.
It's a magical time and something I look forward to all year long.
It also has a reputation for being a night when wishes come true. Four years ago, at the party, Jessica Rex learned her article on the mating habits of bobolinks was going to published in Scientific American, a break that led to her getting tenure at her university. Two years ago, Paul Spear finally convinced Tracy, his girlfriend of five years, to say yes, even though she’d had a hellish first marriage and was determined never to say “I do” again. But now they’re deep in wedded bliss and expecting twins in the spring.
And last year, right before the dance, Kayley got a phone call from the mean old man who owns the mountain next to her resort. After years of nasty letters and refusing to consider her generous offers to buy him out from under a crumbling homestead that was no longer safe for human habitation, he finally agreed to sell the property.
Once ski lift construction and the new lodge are complete, Kayley will be able to offer her guests downhill skiing opportunities on property, as well as cross-country access.
I’m not usually a person who believes in lucky charms—Gram always taught me we make our own luck—but if there’s even a chance that the New Year’s Party magic might rub off on me, I have to give it a shot.
But I won’t leave everything to luck. I’ll bring spreadsheets, too. And graphs.
A PowerPoint presentation couldn’t hurt…
Brain buzzing with determination—and my head feeling much better now that I’m not upside down—I take a quick shower, change into my favorite flannel thinking pajamas, and settle in for a day of damage control.
I’ve just fetched my laptop from my office and opened the PowerPoint program when there’s a knock at the door. Thor goes wild, barking and wagging his tail so hard it becomes a full body wiggle, leaving no doubt who’s on my front porch this morning.
Thor loves Elliot more than anything except dandelion heads and those creepy chew toys made out of bull penises that Gram insists on getting him every year for Christmas.
Stomach clenching with panic—I’m not ready! He can’t be here! Not yet—I snap my laptop shut and run a quick hand over my still damp bun, cursing myself for skipping my contacts, mascara, and lipstick. I wouldn’t usually care what I look like in front of Elliot—we lived together, and he’s seen me first thing in the morning, sick as a dog, and in every gross state in between—but I don’t want to look like a shlubby, hungover loser.
No one wants a hungover loser as the mother of their child.
“Just a second,” I call out, my heart racing as I dash for the main bedroom. Jerking off my glasses, I swipe on a coat of mascara and swipe on some lipstick, before jamming the specs back on my face. I pinch my cheeks, smooth my hair into a slightly less messy bun, and race back into the combination living room and kitchen, where Thor is still going nuts by the front door.
“I know, I know,” I say, urging him to one side with my knee as I reach for the door. “It’s so exciting to have company first thing in the morning, isn’t it?”
I open the door to reveal a queasy looking Elliot in dark jeans, a deep blue sweater the same color as his eyes, and a fancy wool peacoat that probably cost more than my kitchen renovation.
But even in designer clothes, he looks unusually frazzled, thrown.
And I have a pretty good feeling why.
Thor leaps on him, momentarily banishing the haunted look from Elliot’s eyes as he rubs his fingers into the dog’s scruff and growls, “Thorin Oakenshield! How’s my favorite stressed out buddy?”
“Less stressed now that you’re here,” I say, forcing an easy smile even as my thoughts race.
I have to stop this. I have to keep Elliot from saying whatever he came here to say before it’s too late.
I open the door wider, inspiration striking as I say, “Come in. I have a sampler cheesecake with your name on it and was about to make a fresh pot of coffee.”
His entire face lights up. “The cheesecake sampler? From the Kountry store? The one they sold out of before I could buy ten to stick in the freezer?”
“The same,” I say, beaming as I close the door behind him. “And there’s a turtle slice with your name on it.” I reach for his coat, but when my hands settle on his shoulders, he jumps half a foot in the air.
“Amazing.” He squirms away with a weird little disco move and shrugs out of the coat with a laugh. “I’ve got it. I know where the closet is. Don’t want to keep you from that cheesecake. Or coffee. I could use another cup. My head’s a fucking mess this morning.”
“Same,” I say, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.
It’s okay that things are a little awkward. That’s to be expected after the foolish way I handle things last night. But Elliot and I have too much history for weirdness to rule for long. I just need to get us both back on familiar ground. “But I felt much better after a shower.”
“You look much better,” he says, then stammers, “I mean, you always look good—great, even—but you, um… You look normal again. Like Nancy.”
I smile, deciding to take that as a compliment. I look like Nancy, his best friend who he can trust not to do crazy things like dance on the fire pit or beg him for his sperm. Of course, I still fully intend to beg him for his sperm, but this time I’m going to do it in a sane, safe, and grounded way that will make it easy for him to say yes.
“And you look like you might need a turtle slice and half a pumpkin spice slice,” I say with a grin.
He groans happily as he settles into one of the stools at my new kitchen island. “Yes, please. I can’t say no to Kathy’s cheesecake. Not even going to try. I exhausted all my willpower last night to keep from putting those reindeer in Luke’s bed.”
“A shame,” I tease as I put the kettle on to boil and fetch the cheesecake from the fridge. “Luke would have loved a bed full of reindeer.”
Elliot grins. “You know, he actually might not have minded all that much. He’s so different now that he’s with Holly. He’s the one who insisted on putting our tree up after Thanksgiving dinner. He even hoisted Holly up on his shoulder to put the star on top.” He shrugs. “I think it was just an excuse to fondle her butt, but still…”
I laugh. “You Ratcliffes. Butt fondlers from way back. Remember that time you grabbed Gretchen’s ass at the bar in Soho?”