On Sale for Christmas

Seriously? It'd been bad enough when our moms were pushing us together. Now even Gus was trying to play matchmaker. And part of me wondered if Ben had arranged for that, too. The thought made me antsy. Especially when the bell jingled again and in walked a tall, dark, and buff santa named Ben, carrying a big silver box tied with an ostentatious red velvet bow.

"Merry Christmas, Specialist," Gus said with a little salute.

"Back atcha, Gus," Ben replied, then leaned forward to plant an audible smooch to my cheek. "Morning, Becca."

Ug. A smooch. I'd been smooched in public by a guy wearing a black ski vest over red and white flannel. And I might've objected if it weren't for the fact that Ben smelled so great, and just the feel of his lips on my skin made me shiver.

With one hand on the small of my back he guided me to a chair and called out our order. "Two white hot chocolates, Gus."

Gus reached for the whipping cream and white chocolate chips. "Coming right up!"

"Hungry, Becca?" Ben asked, mischief lighting in his eyes. "We can get breakfast. I dunno. Some fruit. Berries maybe."

Oh, I was hungry. But not for food. "White hot cocoa and fruit?"

"Fruit's good for you," he asserted confidently. "Totally cancels out all the sugar and crap in the cocoa."

"I heard that!" Gus groused from across the diner, just before the silence of the place was replaced by the laughter of a bunch of new customers flowing into the space.

"For you," Ben said, sliding the box across the table to me.

Crap. A Christmas present. And I didn't get him anything. Because, why would I? Gifts were something sweethearts exchanged. They came with expectations. They meant something. He clearly wanted this to mean something and things started falling together in my mind. The waiting to have sex. The date for cocoa where people could see us being all cozy. The nostalgic pitch from Gus. And now the present.

I hadn't wanted to listen, but Ben had told me again and again that he'd been crushing on me for years. Now that we were fooling around together he must have thought we had a shot. He wanted a relationship. Which made me a horrible person for leading him on. "Okay, listen," I said, taking a deep breath. "We're not doing this. I mean, you're a really nice guy, but—"

"Becca—"

"You're sweet," I said, sliding the pretty silver box back across the table at him. "And you're sexy. Really sexy. Like, panty-melting sexy. But this is just a hookup, ok?"

Ben frowned, sliding the box back to me. "Becca—"

"This isn't a thing. It's a fling," I said, in a panic, recoiling from the box. "After winter break, I'm going back to the city. I don't want a long distance relationship. This is fun, but this can't be more than fun. I'm not into the whole small-town romance thing. So we're not exchanging meaningful gifts. You can't give me something romantic and expect—"

"Becca, just open the fucking box."

He looked so grumpy, I was afraid he might cause a scene if I didn't open his present.

"Fine." I yanked open the velvet ribbon without care, shredding the silver paper, and snapping the tissue paper aside. Uh oh. What I saw inside was definitely not romantic. Leather mini dress. Black thigh highs. Platform lucite shoes. I squinted, then slapped the lid shut. Yeah, so not the kind of gift I wanted anybody else seeing!

These were clothes that a call girl might wear—clothes he picked out for me. Clothes he might want me to model for him, and that thought kicked up my pulse all over again. I stared at the box, then sheepishly back up at Ben. "Um…for our reindeer game?"

Ben still had his arms folded over himself in annoyance. "Right."

Oops. I bit my lip, making an apologetic face before glancing back at the slutty clothes in the box. "Where did you even get these?"

"Internet. Express shipping. Pretty sure the dress will be a decent fit but the shoes were a shot in the dark."

"You wanted to meet here so that our moms wouldn't be looking over our shoulders when you gave this to me?"

"Right again," he said, stiffly.

He was still annoyed.

There was nothing for it but to apologize.

But before I could, Gus slid two steaming mugs of frothy cream onto the table, each ornamented with a candy-cane stir stick. Ben started to take out his wallet, but Gus stopped him. "You're money's no good here, Ben."

"What about mine?" I asked, though I wasn't exactly flush with cash.