Crystal chandeliers drip with red silk ribbons and gold mistletoe, casting sultry shadows across displays that feature more lace than a Victorian wedding dress and less coverage than a bikini contest.
Why are all these women making those noises?Cricket mewls from her perch on a velvet Louis XVI chair, her green eyes tracking the chaos with feline superiority.Half of them sound like they’re choking, and the other half sound like they’re... well, never mind.
I think they’re excited,Rookie gives a soft woof, his golden tail wagging as he navigates between Louboutin heels with his teddy bear, Mr. Jolly Beary, strapped to his back like a fuzzybrown paratrooper.Although I’m mostly excited about those bacon-wrapped things on the buffet table. I think I’ll help myself. Or I’ll whine and beg until one of these nice ladies tosses me a handful.
“Rookie, no begging,” I tell him, though honestly, with everything else happening, a little food theft seems like the least of my worries.
I’m about to head over to him when Bunny Prescott decides to take center stage with a sharp whistle.
Bunny glides to the middle of the room, her chin-length blonde bob styled in loose waves that catch the chandelier light.
She looks hot-to-trot today in an emerald dress with strategic cutouts and clinging fabric that suggest rather than reveal, but what they suggest could light up half of Maine. Her mischievous blue eyes sparkle as she surveys her domain.
Bunny also happens to be one of my very best friends. She’s eccentric, quirky, and filthy rich—pretty much everything I’m not. She’s a member here, I’m the event planner, but we still seem to get along as if those pesky tax bracket differences didn’t matter.
Look at them all squirm,Bunny thinks with far too much satisfaction.These uptight socialites with their pearl-clutching and fake gasps. Half of them are dying to buy one of these deliciously naughty nighties, but too proud to admit it. This is better than Christmas morning.
“Ladies, ladies!” Bunny’s voice carries across the room. “If I could have your attention for just a moment!”
“And here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
Let’s just say the country club set isn’t exactly the target market for naughty nighties, no matter how upscale theymight be. I’m not sure what I was thinking, letting Bunny talk me into hosting a lingerie trunk show at the club, and so soon to Christmas no less.
The chatter dies down, though the music continues its seductive rhythm.
“Welcome to our Christmas Couture & Cocktails Extravaganza!” Bunny’s smile could melt icicles. “I’m absolutely thrilled to introduce our incredible designers who’ve traveled here to share their specialized holiday collections.”
She gestures toward a brunette vision in red silk. “First, we have the incomparable Vivienne Velour from Midnight Velour Intimates. Vivienne creates pieces that make Christmas morning unforgettable—and I do meanunforgettable.”
A round of titters circles the room.
Vivienne steps forward—dark hair in a sleek chignon, mysterious smile, wearing black silk that whispers secrets with every movement. “Thank you, Bunny. My Midnight Under the Mistletoe collection is designed for those special moments when Santa isn’t the only one coming down the chimney.” A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by nervous giggles and a few scandalized squeaks. “In Paris, we understand that love is an art form.” Her French accent adds an extra layer of sophistication to the scandal.
“Tonight, I share some of my favorite pieces for creating the most memorable Christmas moments.”
The room temperature seems to rise ten degrees.
“And over here,” Bunny continues, clearly enjoying every second, “we have the fabulous Diva Divine Temptation from Temptation Station. Diva specializes in...educationalaccessories for those who want to learn new ways to deck the halls.”
“Educational,” I repeat weakly. “Right. Of course.”
Diva Divine—platinum blonde hair piled high in an elaborate updo, wearing a dress that suggests gravity doesn’t apply to her bosom—waves from behind a display that features items I’m pretty sure weren’t covered in any home economics class. “Christmas is about giving joy, darlings. And sometimes the best gifts come with instruction manuals!”
“Diva offers private consultations for those seeking to elevate their holiday celebrations in far more creative ways.”
I’m pretty sure my boss is going to find a creative way to fire me.
Kick Lawson actually fans herself with a cocktail napkin.
She makes a few more steamy introductions, and every single one of them makes me want to drop into a hole.
“Of course,” Bunny continues, “we must thank Henry’s Holiday Lobster House for providing our absolutely scrumptious appetizers and the divine Millie Ashford from The North Pole Confectionery for our dessert table that’s sweeter than Santa’s workshop!”
My brother Henry waves from next to his girlfriend Tipper and a light applause breaks out.
Millie Ashford waves from her dessert table, looking slightly overwhelmed in a navy dress that suggests she rarely leaves her kitchen for anything that doesn’t involve flour. In her sixties, with a round, kind face and her graying brown hair pinned up in a tidy bun, she has the warm, soft look of someone who’s been baking since before microwaves existed.
“At least the food isn’t scandalous,” I whisper to Cricket, who flicks her tail in what I’m guessing is feline agreement.
