She gasps like I’ve kicked a Christmas tree. “Excuse me, ma’am. It’s post–Labor Day, which means we’retechnicallyon the on-ramp to the holiday season. So when I say ‘Happy damn Holidays,’ you say—what?”
“Geez, fine! Jolly police!”
“Good. Now let’s try it again.” She grins like she’s deadly serious. “Happy Holidays!”
“Happy Holidays, Holly,” I mutter, walking toward the coffee bar while rolling my eyes.
One thing I’ve come to learn about Holly since moving here is that she isn’t just festive—she’s full-blown, tinsel-drenched, peppermint-breathingobsessedwith Christmas.
Sure, her coffee bar claims to celebrateeveryholiday—there’s a plastic shamrock on the register for St. Patrick’s Day and a tiny flag for the Fourth of July—but don’t be fooled. The framed photos on the wall tell the truth. This woman lives for December.
People who’ve been regulars at Holly’s for years rave about her December traditions. Every Friday night, she hostsHome Alonemovie marathons, complete with free popcorn, themed lattes, and even a blow-up Michael Jordan-on-a-train display in the window—exactly like the one from the film. She throwsLove, Actuallydress-up parties too, where guests show up as their favorite characters and everyone cries together during the cue-card scene.
One person even told me about herThis Christmaskaraoke night, where Holly sets up a stage and insists everyone belt out Chris Brown’s version of “This Christmas,” along with the other holiday songs from the movie.
I won’t be joining in for that one. I can’t sing to save my life.
“Now that we’ve gotten our greetings and salutations out of the way, can we please get to the reason I’m here? I haveupdates,” I say, my eyes wide.
Her eyes light up. “This sounds juicy and right up my alley for this time of morning!”
“Make it a double, girl,” I say, dropping onto the barstool.
She hands me my drink in a glass mug, the steam curling between us, and leans over the counter with wide eyes and that trademark Holly intensity.
“Okay, girl. What’s up?”
“He’s here,” I blurt out.
She drops her voice like we’re about to discuss nuclear codes. “Who’s here?”
“Grant. Remember the man from Vegas I told you about?”
Her eyes go wide. “The hot older guy you spent the magical night with? Salt and pepper hair with a side of sexy lips, voice like melted sin?”
“Damn, girl, you’ve got a good memory.”
“You don’t forget details likethat,” she says with a knowing nod. “But wait—you’re saying it washimyou saw on the sidewalk that day?”
I nod furiously. “Yes!”
“And he lives in the same building as you?”
I take a long sip of my latte, then let out a dramatic whine. “Uh huh!”
She claps her hands together. “So naturally, he’s dicked you down all over his and your apartment and, what—you feel guilty for shitting where you sleep?”
Poetic, this one. “No,” I say, blinking. “He’s my boss’sfather.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes.”
“So, did you find outbeforeorafteryou had sex?”
“Wedid nothave sex!” I whisper-yell. “Did you hear what I just said? He’s my boss’sfather!I can’t cross that line!”
“Why not?” she shrugs. “I have. Not as hard as you might think.”