Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Mr. Billy Big Baubles can buy me as many dresses as he likes.
Merry fricking Christmas to me.
THE NAUGHTY LIST - EMMA CHASE
An Erotic Short Story
I don’t know how many times I’ve looked out this window, at this same view—but it never gets old. The rounded slopes of fluffy snowdrifts that line the road, the gobs of white hanging from branches and streetlamps like melted marshmallow, the diamond sheen on the sidewalk, and the feathery flakes that drift down endlessly from the sky, dotting the air.
It’s magical. Beautiful. Especially now.
I catch the reflection of the room behind me in the window—all gleaming oak tables, and warm walls of paneled wood. Bright orange flames glow in the fireplace below five hanging stockings with names sloppily written in silver glitter. Pine-green garland and mistletoe are strung all around, and a tall, real Christmas tree stands along the wall with colored lights and shiny balls. Finally, there’s Walter—the moose head above the mantle—with red velvet bows on each antler, that I tied myself.
The Christmas season has always been my favorite time of year, but three days before Christmas Eve at the Black Diamond Bar? That’s a whole other level of Norman Rockwell, Funny Farm, It’s a Wonderful Life, kind of awesome.
The only thing missing is some cheesy Christmas music—the kind my roommate and fellow waitress, Heather, and I lobbied hard for. And got vetoed on.
So Love Song by Tesla comes from the jukebox in the corner. But it’s okay—it’s a good song.
As the pretty opening guitar notes play, however, I’m more focused on the conversation coming from the bar.
“Snow gnomes are fucking evil.”
“What the hell is a snow gnome?”
“Little guys, red hats, pointy ears, they hang out in gardens. You know—snow gnomes.”
Stealthily, I watch my boss behind the bar.
Jace Winters.
Cue the heart-eyes and internal swoonage. Just thinking his name makes me weak.
He’s got thick dark hair, a full strong mouth, gorgeous straight white teeth and a dimple when he smiles. The dimple wrecks me. I want to lick it—then work my way down from there.
And his hands . . . they’re my favorite. I follow them with my eyes as he wipes down the bar. They’re strong hands, rough and large. Capable and controlled. A man’s hands.
I watch Jace. A lot. Because that’s me, Evie Sanders—mild mannered, twenty-five-year-old waitress by day—sneaky, hopeless, almost-stalker . . . the rest of the time.
It’s kind of pathetic.
Jace narrows his eyes at Zack—the wiry, tattooed guy across from him.
“You mean elves?”
“Nah, man—elves are clean shaven, gnomes have beards. Everybody knows that. Creepy bastards. Their eyes follow you. Like they’re just waiting to fly across the yard and grab you with their fat sausagey fingers so they can sink their razor-sharp teeth into your throat.”
Zach’s a writer. Vivid imagination, highly talented, fairly weird. He lives most of the year in LA, but comes up here for a few months to hibernate so his creativity can percolate without distraction.
“Up here” is Alpine, Colorado, a cozy nook of a town known for its pristine trails, exhilarating slopes, quaint shops, and above all . . . privacy. Aspen is the place rich people go to party, get glammed up and be seen. Alpine is the place people go to ski, kick back and disappear.
“Wait—that’s actually good.” Zack toys with the metal ball piercing on his lower lip. “Elves vs. Snow Gnomes, the Winter Wonderland War. Give me a napkin, I gotta write this down.”
A burst of cold air and a few frantic snowflakes swirl in as the door opens. Charlie Butters—the local owner of the snowplow company, Plow U Right—walks in, with his six-year-old son, Charlie Jr. beside him. They take off their hats and hop up onto two barstools.
“It’s really coming down out there,” Big Charlie says and sighs. “It’s like money from the sky, but still—hell of a day.”
A minute later, Jace slides Charlie’s regular end-of-the-day drink—an Irish coffee—in front of him.
Charlie Junior pulls off his mittens with his teeth—they’re stitched with SNOW BLOWS across the knuckles.
“What’s it going to be today, kid?” I eat up the way Jace’s forearms bulge as he crosses his arms. “A Shirley Temple or a hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate, Jace. Better make it a double.” Little Charlie sighs—the mirror image of his dad. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
The Black Diamond’s hot chocolate is another thing Alpine is known for—created and custom made by the owner himself. He uses real melted chocolate and whole milk. It’s not as thick as Italian hot chocolate, but still luscious and rich. The mug of steaming goodness is capped off with a mound of handmade whipped cream sprinkled with cocoa powder, marshmallows and crushed peppermint granules, and served with a flaky, chocolate-dipped wafer.
It’s like drinking a Christmas miracle.
He slides the chocolate masterpiece in front of Charlie Junior and the kid dives in.