The Naughty List: A Christmas Romance Page 2

  “No kidding.”

  “Well, it was before I started working at Lemmy’s and realized how many ways it could be defaced.”

  “Looks like today is your lucky day then.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I can fix that for you. I make the best French toast on Earth.”

  I laugh. “I like how you went for planetary domination and didn’t even have the humility to keep it to your borough.”

  “That would be dishonest,” he says. “You’ll see.”

  “I’ll see?” I furrow my brow. “What are you going to do? Make French toast for me?”

  The corner of his mouth curls up as he flashes his eyebrows. “If you play your cards right.”

  “Oh shit. I wasn’t nervous before, but now I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “Won’t be the last time tonight.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “It’s only fair that I warn you of my intentions.”

  “Which are what?”

  “To make sure you don’t go hungry tonight… for anything.”

  My chest tightens, and I down the rest of my prosecco as the car pulls up to the curb.

  Anthony puts his hand on the door handle and looks at me. “Do you always accept dinner invitations from strange men?”

  I feel the back of my neck get hot. “Only around the holidays when all the real weirdos come out.”

  He smiles and my guts clench.

  I press my lips together. “Do you always take strange women to such fancy restaurants?”

  He knocks his drink back and returns our empty glasses to the cabinet.

  “Well?” I ask, searching his dark eyes.

  He leans so close that my heart stops beating. “Only when I’m after a lot more than a kiss goodnight.”

  T H R E E

  I am having the time of my life. Considering all the work I’ve been buried in lately, I haven’t had a single second to actually sit back and enjoy Christmas, and it’s impossible not to at this place.

  The entire restaurant is tastefully decorated with fancy garland that looks like Martha Stewart made it herself, and shiny red and gold ornaments hang from every dimly lit chandelier. Best of all, classical Christmas music is piped through invisible speakers, adding charm to the normal cutlery on plates and customer murmuring I usually associate with restaurants.

  The waitress gives Anthony a look that says she totally would as she hands us our menus, and I lean across the table to whisper. “I love it here.”

  He smiles. “Just wait until you look at the menu.”

  I sit back and take his excellent suggestion to heart. The menu is one page and each of the six courses is listed in order.

  The first course is Marco’s Merry Eggnog. A smile stretches across my face. I’ve always wanted to try eggnog and something tells me Marco isn’t going to let me down.

  I glance up and see that Anthony is perusing the wine list before I continue.

  My mouth starts to water as soon as I read the description of the second item, a goat’s cheese and beetroot tart with mulled wine jus.

  The third item is stuffed lobster tail- another first for me- and I can’t help but think that Christmas has come early.

  “You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Anthony says, his dark features looking more chiseled than ever with the candlelight flickering against his sinfully cut jawline.

  “There’s good reading in this,” I say, lifting the menu.

  “Is red wine okay with you?”

  I nod and wonder if there’s anything he could ask me right now that I wouldn’t say yes to. I blush and look back down.

  The fourth course is steak. It’s a cut I don’t recognize, but there’s a man at a table in the corner who appears to be closing his eyes while he chews it, and I feel optimistic that it’s going to be delicious.

  Anthony waves a server over and orders some sort of wine by the year. I keep my attention on my menu so he doesn’t see my eyes go wide and pray that I don’t embarrass myself in his company.

  I mean, I already doubt he’ll ever ask me out again since I’m obviously being punked. But if I can at least fool the other diners into thinking I’m not completely out of my element, I’ll be very proud of myself.

  The fifth course is a cheese plate. I recognize the name of one of the listed cheeses- Vintage Cheddar- and struggle to keep from rocking on the edge of my seat at how excited I am to try the other three: Cashel Blue, Cooleeney, and Cranberry Wensleydale.

  Finally, my eye drops to the dessert course. It’s the only one that requires a choice be made, and they both sound so good I assume I’ll have to flip a coin.

  It’s only once I reach the end that I realize there are no prices anywhere on the menu, and I know that can only mean one thing: I’ll never be here again so I better enjoy it.

  “Is there something that grabs you on there?” Anthony asks, sitting back in his chair.

  “This menu couldn’t grab me any more if it actually put its hands around my throat.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Is that something you’d be into?”

  I blink like it’s an acceptable way to buy time.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” he says.

  I feel my shoulders relax. I’m already so turned on by the menu that I could probably be seduced by anyone with a pulse right now. I need to pull it together.

  “Which dessert do you think you’ll go for?” he asks. “Mama Marco’s Berry Crumble a la Mode or the Holy Dark Chocolate Trinity?”

  I press my lips together so I don’t drool on myself. “I’m not sure. They both sound amazing.”

  “Let’s get one of each,” he says. “Then we can try them both.”

  For the first time, I believe he really will get a kiss from me tonight, mistletoe or not. “Do you eat like this every night?” I ask, spreading my napkin in my lap. It’s so beautifully embroidered I consider stealing it and using it as inspiration to redecorate my entire apartment. After all, there’s no chance of me spilling on it tonight for how motivated I am to make sure every last bite of this meal makes it securely past my lips.

  “Only on Thursdays,” he says as a server arrives with our wine.

  He presents the label to Anthony, who nods once as if everything is in order. “Holly will do the honors,” he says, extending an open palm towards my wine glass.

  “I’m really not an expert,” I say as the waiter pours a small sample into my glass.

  “Neither am I,” Anthony says. “Just give it a swirl and a smell and then taste it.”

  I do as he says, feeling his eyes on me as I let the fragrant smell of rich berries fill my nose. When I take a sip, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head.

  “Does it taste like cork or vinegar?” Anthony asks, raising his brows.

  I shake my head. “No. It tastes like being barefoot in Tuscany with the sun on your face.”

  “Excellent,” he says, smiling at me before turning to the waiter. “Please, pour on.”

  “I thought about faking it there,” I say after the waiter leaves. “Since I usually spring for box wine.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m not picky.”

  “What’s in your fridge right now?” he asks.

  “Franzia.”

  He squints at me. “Chillable red?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Maybe we’ll have a glass of that later.”

  My eyes bounce back and forth between his, and I begin to realize that this is not a man who loses focus. “I agree, though, that it’s a better strategy to start with the good stuff.”

  “Can I let you in on a little secret?” he asks, swirling the wine in his glass.

  “I bet you could let me in on a lot of secrets.”

  “Wine is only ever as good as the company you enjoy it with.”

  I tilt my head. “Is that so?”

  He nods and takes a sip, lickin
g his lips subtly- but not so subtle that I don’t notice. “I’ve tried some of the most expensive wines money can buy,” he says. “And I’ve had coffee mugs full of Franzia that have tasted better.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Anthony. I’m glad you asked me to dinner.”

  “And I’m grateful you had the good sense to accept my invitation.”

  It feels like the evening is moving in slow motion as my first few sips of wine relax into me, and despite how terribly impractical it is, I can feel myself being charmed by this guy, can feel my guard collapsing and my heart opening it’s naively optimistic doors.

  It’s an odd sensation because it’s not what I was expecting. Yes, I believed correctly that his sexual confidence would keep taking me by surprise, but I didn’t think I would like him as a person, that I would find myself noticing the smile lines around his eyes and the way he called the servers by their names. I didn’t think I would be considering him in a way I hadn’t considered anyone in a long time.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” he says, raising his glass.

  “To what?” I ask, eager for my next sip.

  “To never faking it,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

  I crane my neck forward, confused.

  “Earlier you said you almost faked it when you were tasting the wine,” he says, “And I want you to know I really appreciate the fact that you didn’t do that. I have to deal with fake people all the time, and it exhausts me.”

  “Okay.”

  “So let’s not fake it with each other,” he says. “Ever. For any reason.”

  “Just to confirm, you want me to toast to keeping it real in the most unreal situation I’ve ever been in?”

  “What’s unreal about this?” he asks. “You’re at a restaurant with a man who was so enchanted by you that he felt compelled to ask you out without knowing whether your entire closet is full of clothes that jingle. Surely this happens to you all the time?”

  My mouth curls into a smile. “Not as much as you might think.”

  “Then this must be my lucky Christmas,” he says, sipping his wine without taking his eyes off me. “Because I was just about to ask Santa to bring a beautiful woman into my life when you stepped into my path.”

  “Then good thing I did because you would’ve been very disappointed to find out that kids over twelve aren’t allowed to sit on Santa’s lap at Burke’s Department Store.”

  “Is that so?” he asks, his eyes sparkling. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  I shrug. “That’s the way the gingerbread crumbles.”

  “Speaking of gingerbread, I don’t really eat like this every Thursday,” he says. “That was a joke.”

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t believe you anyway.”

  He raises his brows.

  “You’re far too fit for me to believe you eat six course meals every night.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” he says. “The truth is that this is one of my favorite places. I just don’t have an excuse to come here nearly enough.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because food is like wine in that it’s only as good as the company in which you share it,” he says. “Which means this place is wasted on most people I know.”

  “How can you be sure it won’t be wasted on me?”

  “I can’t,” he says. “But what a wasted life this would be if we never took any risks.”

  F O U R

  I can’t tell whether it’s the food or the lighting or the way Anthony is looking at me, but I feel like a fantastic version of myself right now.

  By the time I finished my boozy eggnog, I’m nice and relaxed, can feel myself laughing a little louder, and even Anthony comments on the attractive flush in my cheeks.

  And I am loving every minute of it. Like Cinderella at the ball, the farthest things from my mind are the diner, the little kid who told me this afternoon that he thought elves were supposed to be skinnier, and the fact that my rent is due next week.

  It’s a dream come true, and the handsome man smiling across the table at me is the cherry on top. Why he’s decided to treat me to this when he could be entertaining any woman in the city is beyond me, but I am not about to pinch myself for anything.

  “What did you like better?” he asks, topping up my wine. “The lobster or the steak.”

  “I couldn’t possibly choose.”

  “If you had to,” he says. “You’re on a desert island and you can only get one meal delivered?”

  “Is this a hypothetical desert island?” I ask. “Because I really like the sound of this place.”

  “Unfortunately it is.”

  “I suppose I have to go with the steak then so I have the energy to teach myself how to catch my own lobster.”

  He laughs. “Good answer. I like a woman that wants it all.”

  “You?”

  “I’d probably forget the number to call after that eggnog to be honest.”

  “I know, right?!” I say, my eyes growing wide. “That stuff was rocket fuel.”

  “I hope you saved some room for dessert. You’re probably going to have to eat two of them.”

  “Why? Is there something wrong with your sweet tooth?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m just guessing it’s easier to satisfy than yours.”

  “I’m happy to share.”

  “You say that now,” he says, leaning back in his chair with his wine glass in hand. “But you might change your mind once that dark chocolate passes your lips.” He stares at my lips after he mentions them and my stomach flips.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything,” he says, his eyes daring me to be bold.

  “Why are you still single?”

  “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” he says. “You first.”

  I sigh. “I’m not entirely sure why I’m still single. I mean, between the awkward shifts I put in at the diner, my always smelling like coffee beans and syrup, and the fact that I’m hopelessly devoted to a job that pays zero of my bills, I am a fantastic catch.”

  His eyes smile.

  “So I suppose it’s just that I’ve been unlucky.”

  “Unlucky?”

  I shrug. “Yeah. What other explanation is there for the fact that I meet tons of guys who all have one or two lovely qualities but always seem to be six or seven colors short of a full rainbow?”

  “You have a lovely flair for the dramatic,” he says. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’re an actress.”

  A warm flush spreads through my chest.

  “Though it does surprise me that you haven’t had better luck getting more stimulating roles.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That means a lot considering the fact that my current audience- your nephew included- haven’t been entirely convinced by my performance as an elf.”

  “That’s because kids don’t recognize magic anymore.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I blame Harry Potter.”

  “Please explain,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and double checking that my cheese plate is in fact as empty as when I last checked.

  “Harry Potter set the bar so high- and the special effects that kids have come to expect from movies and video games are so fantastic now- that the magic of budget costumes and make believe is too rudimentary for them.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “It’s tragic really,” he says. “Take Miracle on 34th Street, for example. I used to love that movie as a kid. I used to lie awake at night wondering whether I might meet the real Santa when my parents took me to his village over the holidays. Frankly, I feel bad for kids today who don’t know that kind of genuine, naïve wonder.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “My mom used to joke that Santa was the perfect babysitter because he didn’t even have to be there to get my sister and I to behave.”

  He smi
les. “So you had an active imagination at a young age?”

  “I had to have one,” I say. “We weren’t exactly the Joneses.”

  “The Joneses?”

  “What I mean is, my first Gameboy was made of cardboard.”

  “Understood,” he says.

  “Your turn,” I say. “To tell me why you’re single.”

  “I’m single for the same reason you are,” he says. “Because I’m picky.”

  I cock my head.

  “Which sounds like the same reason you are,” he says. “As opposed to lack of luck, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I never thought of it like that before.”

  “Being picky isn’t a bad thing,” he says. “If anything, it’s a sign of intelligence.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Of all the decisions we have to make in our lives, is there any more serious than who we chose to share a bed with every night, to wake up with every morning, to share meals with every day?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You suppose right.”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “But I don’t want to be one of those women with a ridiculous list of deal breakers. You know the ones. The ones who meet a fantastic guy but he’s an inch too short for her favorite heels so she kicks him to the curb. I’m not sure people that narrow minded even deserve to find love, as horrible as that is to say.”

  “But you’re not narrow minded, are you? Or you wouldn’t be here with me right now.”

  “True on both counts.”

  “I wish we’d had this talk earlier so I wouldn’t have had to bother putting these lifts in my shoes.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “That was a joke,” he says, tilting the wine over his glass and watching the last trickle of tannins pour out.

  The waitress arrives with a dessert plate in each hand, and Anthony doesn’t miss a beat suggesting she set the chocolate one in front of me and return with two dessert wines.

  “Quite the presentation,” he says, looking back and forth between our desserts.

  His berry crumble has already started melting the scoop of vanilla flecked ice cream leaning against it, and the berries scattered around the edge of the plate all look like they’ve been individually dusted with powdered sugar.