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“I think it might need a bonfire.”
Chelsea laughs. “I think the flocking stuff is flammable. So … I’d suggest being far away if you do burn it. I promise, I did look it up beforehand. It won’t ruin your suit.”
“So, you planned this?” I ask, turning to give her a look.
Her smile is shy. “More like … I hoped. And when I hope, I plan.”
Where Chelsea’s outfit represents the song “Silver Bells,” I am “Frosty the Snowman.” I’m not fully covered in flocking. Just a spray-snow dusting. At least Chelsea didn’t stuff my suit with pillows to round me out. I’m more of anartisticsnowman.
“Here is your hat and your corncob pipe,” Chelsea says with a giggle.
An artistic snowman with someliteralaccessories.
I set the top hat on my lap and tuck the weird little pipe next to my pocket square. “Don’t I need a button nose?” I ask drily.
Chelsea taps me on the nose. “You’ve already got one.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely.” Before I have time to react, she leans over the console and places a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. It’s all I can do not to pull her back and kiss her for real.
My plans to take things slowly with Chelsea are balancing on a precarious edge. It’s a challenge when what’s unfolding between us feels both new and incredibly familiar.
If I’m able to make it until midnight without kissing her, I deserve sainthood.
The valet opens her door, and she gives me a flirty smile as she climbs out. “Come on my sexy snowman. We’ve got a new year’s to ring in.”
Inside the hotel, Chelsea takes my arm, leading us up a grand staircase and down a hall toward the sound of loud music. There’s a line outside the door and a man with a clipboard checking names.
“I like you with a top hat,” Chelsea says, grinning up at me. “Helps add a little needed height.”
I snort. “Am I not tall enough for you?”
Chelsea taps her lips in mock thoughtfulness. “I usually make it a point to date guys who are over six-five. For you, though, I’m willing to make a concession.”
“I can always dm Tom Cruise and ask where he gets his lifts.”
This has Chelsea laughing as we reach the guy at the door. He gives us both a no-nonsense look and Chelsea tries to swallow her giggles with little success.
“I’m with Sam,” she says. “I should be on the list.”
I barely have time to wonder who Sam is and what’s his relationship with Chelsea when a woman with long, brown hair barrels through the doors.
“Chelsea?” she asks.
“Sam?”
The two women squeal and hug each other like long-lost friends, though it clearly seems like they’ve never met. The security guy gives me a look that tells me he’s already done for the night. He waves us inside.
I follow Chelsea and Sam as we enter a medium-sized ballroom disguised as a club with flashing lights and thumping bass. As soon as we’re inside, Chelsea turns and grabs my arm, tucking herself into me, which immediately settles my rising tension.
“Mason, this is Dr.—sorry, this is Sam. Sam, Mason.”
I offer a hand to Sam, who’s beaming. “You’re Mason.”
“I am.”
“It’s really,reallygood to meet you, Mason. I’m so glad you came.”
