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I’d met Erin Chastain twice this week. She was an absolute angel, and my heart broke for her. I’d made her tea and held her hand while she cried. Daniel had humiliated her and shattered her self-confidence and self-belief. I would do what it took to track the motherfucker down.
On Monday afternoon, after James had shown me the blurry photo, I called my mom and asked if she knew where Sophia was living. She said she hadn’t seen her for a few years, but the last she’d heard was that Sophia had moved to California and was trying to get into screenwriting.
Her grandmother would for sure be at the cookie exchange this week, and I could find out more from her.
I’d been so busy I hadn’t even had time to bake my cookies. I’d been half tempted to stop by the supermarket and pick up two dozen, but my mom would have had a conniption and disowned me. She baked everything from scratch and could sniff out a preservative-laden, store-bought cookie a mile away.
Growing up, I often teased her about being born in the wrong era. She was more suited to the 1950s. When my dad left, she hadn’t even known how to balance her checkbook. She soon learned. My dad was another reason I’d gotten into law. I wanted to make sure no man would ever screw over his wife and kids the way my dad had screwed over my mom and me.
Once I shut my apartment door, I threw everything on the floor and kicked off my shoes. While making the cookie dough, I watched A Wish for Christmas on The Hallmark Channel. I loved the feel-good sweetness of their movies but often thought they’d be better if there was some crazy swinging from the chandelier sex involved.
Did people who lived in small towns never get their crazy on? You can bet your ass if I met a sexy, brooding man in a small, snow-covered Vancouver town cutting down trees for the local homeless shelter, I would drop my panties and bend over in a heartbeat.
Once my cookies were ready, I dusted them with powdered sugar. No royal icing or fancy decorations this year. My mom would have to understand.
I threw on my ugliest Christmas sweater, jeans, and knee-length Uggs. Every year, I won the ugly sweater competition, and this year would be no different. I jingled and jangled with every step I took. I practically wore Santa’s workshop on my body.
On the subway, with my cookies safely in a box on my lap, my mind drifted back to James. Not that my thoughts ever went anywhere else these days. A few times this week, I’d caught him examining me. The perplexed expression on his face made me think he couldn’t figure me out. Heck, sometimes I couldn’t even figure myself out.
Those dark, chocolate brown eyes of his left my nipples rock hard. Once or twice, our eyes had locked over the conference table. Every time, I’d been the one to look away. I wasn’t able to endure the intensity of his gaze. He both unsettled and thrilled me.
If I’d been able to get away with it, I would have gone into the restroom and taken care of my horniness. But how professional would that have been? I’d resisted the urge until I made it home. This week, I’d gotten through a few packs of AA batteries. For Christmas, I would have to gift myself with a new, more powerful vibrator.
I turned the corner to my mom’s street, blinked, and rubbed my eyes against the dazzling displays. The entire block looked like Santa’s elves had overindulged in Christmas cheer and then thrown their guts up.
People spilled out of houses, and festive music from Mr. Savino’s filled the air. I sighed happily. I loved every cheesy second.
When I stepped inside my mom’s house, the scent of cinnamon candles curled around me, and the stress of the week instantly evaporated.
“I’m home,” I called out.
My mom bustled out of the kitchen wearing a vivid green sweater covered in tinsel and she wrapped me in a vanilla-scented hug. “About time. You’re two hours late. Everyone’s been asking for you.”
“My boss is a slave driver.”
In the kitchen, old neighbors and friends drank, chatted, and laughed. Cookies filled every available space. At the end of the night, everyone would take one cookie from each box to fill up a Tupperware container.
“You’ll never guess who’s here,” my mom said, handing me a glass of eggnog.
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Ugh. Mom. Just tell me.”
“Not until you guess.”
“Fine.”
This was one of my mom’s favorite games. Whether it was how much something cost at the grocery store to something she found on the street, I had to guess the cost or what she’d found until she finally gave in and told me.
“Give me a clue.”
