Home Alone for Christmas Read online

  Home Alone for Christmas© 2014 by Lori perkins

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For more information contact:

  Riverdale Avenue Books

  5676 Riverdale Avenue

  Riverdale, NY 10471.

  www.riverdaleavebooks.com

  Design by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover by Insatiable Fantasy Designs Inc.

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62601-137-3

  Originally Published by Ravenous Romance in the anthology Merry Sexxxmas, 2008

  First RAB Edition December 2014

  Home Alone For Christmas

  We stuffed Karen’s already overstuffed suitcase into the hatchback and tied her skis to the roof.

  She kissed me quickly, and whispered, “I love you for this, Mom.” She ran to the front of the car, where her boyfriend of a year was sitting in the driver’s seat anxiously waiting to get the hell out of New York City and home to his parents in Connecticut, where he could really begin to unwind and celebrate Christmas.

  Josh and Karen had stayed with me for the first day of their Christmas break in my two-bedroom co-op in the West Fifties, sleeping in what I still considered her room, but was now my office-slash-guest room. She had shown him her childhood Christmas of Macy’s windows, skating in Rockefeller Center, FAO Schwarz and Radio City, but I could tell he was more than ready to take her away to his suburban countryside for a holiday of skiing and fucking. Like mother, like daughter, I thought.

  As the Honda pulled away, leaving me completely alone on Christmas Eve for the first time in my entire life, I knew that I would have done the same thing in her high-heeled boots – and I really was glad to see her so happy with a guy her age who seemed to be a lot of fun and really into her.

  But I had made absolutely no plans for myself. And it was just too late to start calling around to my other single friends to see if someone else was home alone.

  I went back into my building, acknowledging the doorman, whom I had already tipped for the season, and let myself into my now subdued apartment.

  I plugged in the Christmas tree and turned on the TV, hoping to find some old classic that would pull me in and help me forget that Karen and I had spent every Christmas Eve together since I left her dad a decade ago. We’d done the Disney Christmas cruise, we’d gone out West, and one year we even went to Paris. Seven hundred channels and there was still nothing on, unless you wanted an ESPN Christmas or A Headbanger’s Christmas Eve ball.

  The sun was just starting to set, so I turned on a light even though I loved the glow of the Christmas tree lights in my darkening apartment. I looked though my assortment of DVDs, hoping I’d find a gem I’d forgotten, but I felt like I had seen most of the holiday ones already.

  And then I remembered that there was a box of VHS tapes in Karen’s closet that had a bunch of really old and quirky Christmas specials I hadn’t seen since Karen was a kid – and some from my own childhood. I was hoping that A Very Brady Christmas was in there somewhere.

  I hadn’t even taken off my coat, but I was really inspired to find that trove of Christmas crap, so I opened her closet and rummaged around until I found the box at the back of the closet and pulled it out. The force of my tugging made its cardboard seams burst, and the tapes spilled on to the floor. A Scooby Doo Christmas, A Rugrats Christmas Special. And then, my heart almost skipped a beat – Alone Again on Christmas, starring Mark Stevens.

  I grabbed the box and hurried into the living room, where we still has a player for both DVDs and VHS.

  I just couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about this nugget from my childhood – actually, my early teenage-hood. I had been in love with Mark Stevens from the age of twelve until fourteen, when I gave him up for a real, live boy named Lenny Schmidt.

  I pushed the tape in and sat on the living room floor, and was immediately transported back to my youth. I knew every word of the lyrics to the theme song, which had been a Billboard hit because not only was luscious Mark Stevens the teen heartthrob of the year, but he was also the front man for a made-for-TV band that cranked out pop hits. I had every single one of his albums – yes, albums – and they, too, were tucked away somewhere in Karen’s closet.

  This movie had entranced me as a young girl. I had seen it six times in the movie theater with equally mesmerized girlfriends when it first came out. My best friend Susie had actually bought me this VHS tape when it came out years later as a token of our long and strange friendship. That last time I had seen it was with her when we were in our twenties, right before I got married.

  The plot was as cheesy as they came, but I loved it. Stevens played a college freshman who scrapes together enough money for the bus ride home for Christmas as a surprise to his warring parents, only to find they have gone away on a second honeymoon. Hilarity ensues as he finds himself home alone with no food, and he doesn’t even know how to turn on the heat or boil water. He blows the power, and is miserable, but is rescued by his now-grown-up and suddenly beautiful next-door neighbor (who he remembers as an awkward girl with braces), who invites him to stay with her family. And he does. Forever. They marry in a few years on Christmas Day.

  I finally took off my coat and sat on my couch, curled under the Christmas throw that I had only put out for decoration. This was comfort nostalgia for me. I was in heaven, as Mark counted his change in his unbelievably tacky clothing from the eighties. Did men ever really wear that layered shirt and pastel sweater look? He had short long hair – that style that signaled the beginning of the Reagan years – just long enough to cover the ears and show some counter-culture inclination, and he had this really endearing way of sort of tossing his mane...

  I put the movie on pause and decided I wanted something festive to drink. It was too early in the day for eggnog, so I decided on peppermint schnapps. I loved peppermint. I had candy canes strategically placed throughout the Christmas tree, and ate one every day when I came home from work until I either took the tree down or ran out of them.

  Sipping my drink and snuggling with myself, I momentarily forgot it was Christmas Eve, until Mark reminded me of my own aloneness with a well-turned phrase from the movie. “It’s never a good idea to be home alone for Christmas.” It made me cry.

  I sat there with hot tears streaming down my face, watching a memory of an imaginary lover from my adolescence, and thought to myself, this is pitiful. I should be eating ice cream. A fat tub of Godiva or Haagen-Dazs was what was missing, so I turned off the movie, grabbed my coat and headed to the local Food Emporium to overpay.

  The place was empty, and that made the store-employee decorations of red and green look that much more forced. Horrible Christmas Muzak played in the background.

  I strode over to the frozen food section and stood starring at the wealth of choices, until I saw the pink swirl of the Eddy’s Peppermint Stick container at the top of the silver case. I knew I had to have it.

  But I couldn’t reach it. Even with my three-inch-heeled boots, I couldn’t manage to get to the top of the case. I stood on the lower rung of the freezer, holding the door open and freezing my ass off, but I still couldn’t get to it.

  Of course, there wasn’t an employee in sight. But there was a rather tall man ogling the yogurts, so I walked over to him and interrupted his quandary over Yoplait versus Dannon.

  “Excuse me,” I said. He turned around, a little startled to be interrupted. He was surprisingly handsome, in that way that older men who were once the hot high school jock had of aging to perfection. His hair was blond turning white, but almost reached his shoulders
, and he still had a light tan, even in December. I felt like I knew him – probably from around the neighborhood.

  “I can’t reach something. Could you help me?” He must have been six feet tall, although everyone seemed as though they were at least six feet tall to me, because I was five feet tall in my stocking feet.

  “Of course,” he said, suddenly really seeming to look me over. I immediately wondered if I still had any traces of lipstick on, and whether I had slurred my words or smelled of peppermint Schnapps.

  I led him over to the freezer, opened the glass door and pointed to the pink container, “Could you please get me that Eddy’s Peppermint Stick ice cream?”

  He reached in and handed it to me in one fell swoop.

  “Is this any good?” he asked, looking at the container.

  “Oh, God, yes,” I said, reaching for it.

  He chuckled. “Anything that can make a woman respond that way is worth remembering.” He handed me the ice cream.

  I blushed, and then tried to cover my tracks. “I just love peppermint.”

  “I do too, but obviously not as much as you do. I wish they made peppermint yogurt. I could go for some of that now.”

  “Why don’t you get some ice cream?” I asked.

  “I’m staying in a hotel, so I just wanted something light.” I realized that I probably didn’t know him from the neighborhood if he was staying in a hotel, which meant I would probably never see him again.

  “Well, thank you for helping me,” I said. And then added, because I was the kind of gal who could just never stop offering her two cents, “The Yoplait Boston crème pie is pretty good, and so is the white chocolate with raspberries.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and ambled off to the yogurts again.

  I turned away from him, but instead of going directly to the cash register, I found myself heading to the candy aisle. When I got to the checkout, I also had some peppermint bark in my hand, but I swore I didn’t remember picking it up.

  And he was right in front of me in line.

  “Oh, hello, again,” he said, smiling. “I took your advice.” He pointed to the white chocolate raspberry yogurt. “This looks pretty good.”

  In the brighter light of the checkout aisle, I could see just how handsome he was – movie star handsome – in a navy blue (I guessed cashmere) coat and light blue checked scarf.

  I was in mom clothes – Gap jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt (thankfully with a V neck), and a shapeless black quilted coat that kept me warm on my way to and from the university, but made me look – well – shapeless.

  I smiled back.

  “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy it, and think of me when you’re eating it.”

  He smiled again, the lines around his rich, brown eyes almost sparking, “Likewise,” he said, pointing at my ice cream.

  Now it was my turn to laugh.

  He waved his hand at me and headed toward the automatic doors.

  I handed the cashier my Food Emporium customer card and she looked at me like I was an elf. “What’s that for?” she demanded, rather than asked.

  “For my purchase,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “The gentleman ahead of you already paid for you.”

  I was stunned, but not too stunned to grab my bag and run after him.

  He was on the corner waiting for the light to turn green. I reached for his coat – it was cashmere - and he turned around.

  “Hey”‘ I said. “That was really nice of you.”

  He looked surprised to see me there.

  The light changed, but he didn’t cross. “Well, I just wanted to give you some Christmas cheer.”

  “You did,” I said. And then added, “Hey, I live around the corner. Would you like to try some of this ice cream?”

  He smiled, and I could tell he was thinking it over, but then he said, “Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude on your holiday.”

  “I would love to share this with you.” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, “but aren’t you afraid I could be a serial killer?”

  “Not in that coat,” I said. And then I added, “but I could be.”

  He smiled that beguiling smile and took my bag. “Lead on!”

  I told him about how my daughter had just left to spend this part of the holiday with her boyfriend, because I wanted to prepare him for the state my apartment was in. He told me he was recently divorced and that his daughter and her mother were in California. He told me he was wishing for snow, as it had been years since he’d seen any.

  The doorman seemed surprised to see me with a man when I had obviously just run out for something, but he was courteous when he opened the front door for us. “Merry Christmas, Miss Sommers,” he said, as though he hadn’t seen me less than an hour ago.

  As I turned the key in the lock, he said, “Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Sommers.”

  I interrupted him, and said, “April. Just call me April.”

  He shook his head. “You’re April Sommers? Dr. Sommers? My ex-wife read all your books.”

  “Well, I’m impressed.”

  He took off his coat, and I hung it in the hall closet. It was soft and very heavy.

  When I turned to lead him into the kitchen, he tossed his hair, and for a moment I knew who he reminded me of.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you sort of look like …” I trailed off. It was just too embarrassing to even think that this hunk in front of me could be. . .

  “Mark Stevens, at your service.”

  We both laughed. It was too funny.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling him by the equally soft cashmere of his sweater. “Let’s get some of that ice cream!”

  We sat at the kitchen table and I served up heaping helpings of semi-melted peppermint stick ice cream. It was delicious.

  And I found I could talk to him as though he was a long-lost friend, but that might have been because I really knew the outline of his life. I knew about his first disastrous marriage to co-star Sarah Blain, and their messy divorce that lead to his cocaine and DWI arrests. I knew about his father’s suicide and his second marriage to his casting agent, who got him back on TV in bit parts throughout the networks and cable channels (he’d been on Law & Order enough times to be almost a regular), and how that marriage had just ended because all her energy was now going into her daughter’s Disney Channel TV show.

  And he knew enough about me to comment that he liked me better with longer hair (the photo on my first book jacket was the only time in my adult life that I had allowed myself short hair) and he had seen me the one time that’s I’d been on national TV on a now-canceled show (he’d been home sick that day).

  Somehow we moved into the living room, where the bottle of peppermint Schnapps was sitting on the coffee table. I poured some into the one glass nearby and took a swig and passed it to Mark. He drank the rest and then just starred at me. I was hoping he was going to kiss me, but he reached over me on the couch and grabbed the video cover of Alone Again for Christmas.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a fan. Should I be worried that you’re going to keep me chained to your bed?” I knew he was referring to the movie version of Misery.

  I leaned over him, so that I was practically on top of him, and said, “Yes. I’d be very afraid if I were you,” and then I kissed him. I kissed him hard. I practically attacked him. It was as though I had thrown every bit of pent-up unrequited desire of my entire life into that one kiss.

  He was stunned, but he didn’t resist. He actually pushed up against me to meet my desire, and then seemed to give in to it. Our tongues were entwined. And he tasted so delicious with all that peppermint. He smelled so damn good, too.

  I was like a wild teenager filled with lust. I pawed at his clothes, rubbing up against his crotch, dry-humping him in a way I hadn’t done since I was in the back seat of a car. His hands were under my shirt, running along my back. My bra popped open and his fingers found my nippl
es. I did the same, running my hands over his chest and tweaking his nipples. I put my mouth to the left one, and he let out some sort of moan. I kissed him to shut him up. And then I tweaked the right one, and he groaned into my mouth, which was unbearably sexy.

  I pulled at his belt and opened his fly. He had taken off his shoes when he came in, so it wasn’t hard to pull his jeans down. He was wearing these form-fitting boxer briefs, and I could see the ’shroom of his cock bulging up against them. I stroked it through the flimsy material, and he groaned into my mouth again.

  His hands had found my zipper, and his fingers were inching their way into my lips, which were already slick with juice. When he got his finger inside me, I was stunned at how aroused my clit was. I was on fire.

  My jeans were gone and I rubbed against him. We were only separated by the material of our underwear.

  Suddenly, he pulled away.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have a condom.”

  “I do,” I said, and quickly scurried beneath the tree, where I found the gag gift my darling daughter had given me for Christmas – candy cane condoms.

  I slithered out of my underpants, and pulled his off of him. I put the condom in my mouth and rolled it onto him, just as I had practiced decades before. It was like riding a bicycle.

  And I just slid right on to that engorged candy cane of his. We were rocking and bucking in astounding rhythm. His cockhead was the perfect size to reach my G-spot, and I was getting that double sensation of clit and G-spot stimulation. I knew I wasn’t going to last long.

  He seemed to know exactly where to hit me, and when to accelerate and when to change the tempo. I was on the verge. And through it all, he managed to continue to kiss me and stroke my nipples and my hair. I licked his neck. He smelled of peppermint.

  He groaned, and thrust deep and hard into me, and I knew he was coming. I felt as though he had burst through a dam inside me and I was off. It was like an internal waterfall had been unleashed. I rode that wave and almost felt as though I was blacking out.