OLIVIA
I finish curlingthe last strand of my hair before sliding it to the side in a low ponytail. I apply a light layer of mascara, lipstick, and add the new diamond studs my parents gifted me to my ears. They’ve always spoiled my sister and me. This year was no different. We got cash, diamonds, and designer bags. I’m not complaining, but I don’tneedthose things. I’d be happy just spending quality time as a family. No parties, no gifts, but my mother would never allow that.
Last year, I sold two LV purses she’d gotten me for Christmas to pay for new crochet hooks and enough yarn to last me a lifetime. Of course, I’d never tell her that. It’s not like they’re strict with my spending, but she does monitor it, and I didn’t feel like hearing her belittle my ‘silly little hobby’ when the craft store charge popped up on the credit card again.
I tug my dress from its hanger and slip it on, running my hands over the soft, velvety material. Even though I’ve been dreading this party, a tiny flutter of excitement spreads through me as I slip my shoes on. I love dressing up. It’s one of my favorite things to do. When I look good, Ifeelgood.
I’m dying to see the ballroom all decked out. My mother oversees the decorating—with the help of the professionals she hires—and every year it’s more extravagant than the last.
I was right.
The club has been completely transformed into a winter wonderland. There are snow machines outside at the gazebo, shooting flurries of fake powder in every direction, coating the once green lawns in sparkling white. Every inch of the outside of the club is covered in lush eucalyptus garlands, adorned with twinkling lights and thick red bows on the windows.
Inside is even more captivating. A massive tree sits at the back of the room, each branch covered in white lights, ribbon, and huge glass ornaments in every color. Flawlessly wrapped gifts crowd the space underneath, and thick white drapes hang from the center of the room, stretched to cover the ceiling. The round tables are covered in gold tablecloths. Tall floral centerpieces rest in the middle, filled with fresh ferns and red-and-white blooms.
“Wonderful job, darling,” my father says to my mother as we take in the space.
“Yes, it’s stunning,” I say. I know she didn’t do any of the labor herself, but I’m sure a lot of this was her vision.
Light string music plays from the stage as we make our way to the front. I set my small clutch on our table, grab my phone, and excuse myself to the restroom.
I glance at myself in the full-length, gold-trimmed mirror. I really do love this dress. It’s beautiful and elegant, but there’s a hint of sexy, with the deep V down the middle and the small slit up the thigh. I wonder what Penn would think of me in this.
I chew on my cheek, scanning the room to make sure I’malone. Before I can ask myself what the hell I’m doing, I click the camera app on my phone. I snap a few photos and inspect each one, thankful the lighting in here is decent, and open our text thread. He texted me a simple Merry Christmas this morning, but we haven’t talked since. I attach the picture without a message and hit send before I can chicken out.
My parents have disappeared from the table, likely making the rounds. I take a seat next to my sister. Abbie and I have never been very close. She’s closed off like our mother, but she’s career driven like our father. Her days are spent with him at the club, thriving no doubt. She’s always loved it there. Even as a child, she’d beg him to take her to work with him. None of that interested me. Weekends for Abbie included driving golfers around the course or working events. Sometimes I was forced to work events too, but when I wasn’t, I was home—a ball of yarn and hook in my hands.
Once the three-course dinner wraps up, I’m so full I could explode. I’m glad I went with a dress that has some stretch to it.
The waitress is clearing our plates when my phone buzzes on the table. My mother sends me a sharp look, so I slide it discreetly into my lap and read it.
Penn:
Holy fuck. Are you trying to get me hard while I’m having Christmas dinner with my mom??
A small gasp slips out, and I peer up to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, no one is paying me any attention. I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I was going to get from him, but butterflies take flight in my stomach.
Olivia:
Just thought you’d want to see the dress I chose. Apologize to your mom for me.
I smile to myself, and his response comes instantly.
Penn:
I will. I’m sure she would love to hear how her son excused himself from carving the turkey so he could fuck his hand to a picture.
Dear God.
My entire body flushes with heat, my throat suddenly drying up. I flip my phone over, hiding my screen, and take a drink of water. It’s suddenly five thousand degrees in here. I tug at the material of my dress, fanning myself.
How am I supposed to respond to that? I should be insulted. It’s such a crude thing to say. It wasn’t even a sexy picture. But I’m not insulted. I’m…Jesus, I don’t even know what I am. Excited. Flattered. Burning up from the inside out.
God, now I’m picturing that—him, in the bathroom, staring at his phone, working himself over and over until he spills into his hand.Good Lord!
My heart beats wildly as I picture the scenario. An ache begins to stir in a place that’s been pretty neglected for the last six months.
The buzz of my phone has me nearly jumping out of my skin.
