Kissmas Wishes (Love In All Seasons 3)

“The best I can do is get you on standby for another flight leaving in thirty minutes, it has a layover, but you’ll get to Phoenix before tomorrow. After that, the next flight doesn’t leave for three hours.”

“Three hours?” I shake my head. That means I wouldn’t get to my dad’s place until late into the night. “Thank you,” I tell her, knowing I could’ve been nicer from the get-go. “And Merry Christmas.”

I toss my empty latte in the trash and resolve to be a little bit nicer during whatever is left of this holiday.

And then I run to security.Chapter TwoBradleyWhat a fucking zoo.

Standing at the gate, I run my hands over my beard, really wishing I had just told my mom that coming to her place for the holidays was too much.

The grand opening for my bar is New Year’s Eve and I have a shit-ton of work to do before then, but she insisted I could come for a day and be back in twenty-four hours.

She doesn’t realize I’m working twenty-four-seven to get this place off the ground. Sure, I can handle the interior, getting the place to look the right kind of lumberjack-cool to appeal to Seattle hipsters -- the issue is promoting the opening.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d forked over the cash to that PR firm months ago.

Of course, I thought I could do it all. Turns out, opening a bar and getting the buzz out about it are two very different beasts.

I just gotta get to my mom’s place. I may be a man, but I have a soft spot for my mother, especially on Christmas morning. She loves the holiday, and my brother is coming with his girlfriend, so I’d be an ass not to show.

But with the last flight canceled, and everyone at this gate hoping for standby, I know I am going to have to work my charm if I want that ticket.

I look at the flight attendant, her knee-length black skirt, the run in her pantyhose, her frazzled hair -- clearly she’s as done with this place as I am.

I sidle up to her and smile. “Hey, Santa’s Helper, any word on the standby?”

She raises an eyebrow and laughs. “You think you can sweet talk your way onto this flight?”

“I thought I’d try, and it looks like you could use some holiday cheer.” I hand her a miniature candy cane that a bell ringer gave me when I dropped a twenty in his bucket on my way to the gate. My eyes graze her, and I can’t help but think about her licking my candy cane.

She must like my eyes on her because she takes the peppermint stick and says, “I think we’ve got one ticket left, you ready to fight for it?”

Before I can answer, a tiny mouse of a girl with long hair, big brown eyes and an upturned nose appears. She’s swinging her arms, trying to get the attention of the attendant I’m speaking with.

“I’ll fight for it,” she says, apparently overhearing my conversation. “I need to get on the plane.”

A voice over a loudspeaker calls. “Final boarding for flight 1932 to Phoenix boarding now. All passengers on standby please wait as we finish filling the plane.”

The mousy girl and I lock eyes. Her pink-lipped mouth is set in a firm line. She means business.

“You said there’s one seat left?” I ask.

The frazzled-hair woman nods. “Think so. I’m gonna go check.” She smiles, raising her shoulders slightly. “I’ll let you know.”

I turn to the girl. “I need the ticket.”

She smirks. “Me too.”

“I know you are probably thinking I’ll just hand it over, to be a gentleman and all, but it’s Christmas and I need to get home.”

She nods, her lips pursed. “Well, like the lady said, you’ll have to fight me for it.” She drops her tote bag and raises her fists, moving her right foot back in a fighting stance. “Come on Mr. Bah-Humbug, let’s do this.” Her eyebrows raise and I know she is playing with me, but this day has been way too long.

“So you’re a southpaw?” I ask, crossing my arms, assessing her.

“That’s it?” she asks, fake jabbing me. “I need that ticket. My dad is counting on me. He told me he hung up a stocking and everything. He’s baking a ham. I can’t let him down.”

“You should have gotten here earlier, Rhonda Rousey.”

She drops her arms and picks up her bag. “Let me have the ticket.”

“No way,” I tell her. “You may be ready for a fight, but that flight attendant has a sweet spot for me.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Oh, give me a break. Let me guess, you gave the poor woman who’s been on her feet for twelve hours some pickup line about sitting on your figurative Santa’s lap.”