The Mix-Up (Southern Hearts Club #3) - Melanie Munton Page 0,64
Year’s—me, Allen, and Ryder. This event has been scheduled for months, but with all the…distractions…over the last several weeks, I honestly forgot all about it.
“He’s not coming to the expo?” I ask Ryder in a panic. “Can’t they reschedule the surgery until after the New Year?”
His brow furrows as he takes in my reaction. “The surgeon had something open up that day and doesn’t have any availability for another two months.”
Which means it’s just going to be the two of us for two full days in New York City.
For New Year’s Eve.
“Is that going to be a problem for you, Gretchen?” His tone is challenging. Daring me to say yes.
I meet his infallible gaze. “That depends.”
“On?”
“On why you brought me here today.”
He leans back, tapping his finger on the table. “I saw that you were having a bad day. Figured you needed to take your mind off things.”
“I don’t see you taking any of your other employees out for happy hour.”
His finger stills. “There’s a lot of things I don’t do with my other employees.”
I order another vodka gimlet.
Between that comment and the pregnant pause that follows, the admission about having sing-a-longs with his nieces, and the realization that we’ll be alone in NYC for two days together, a good therapy hour sloshing is just what the doctor ordered.
I’ve heard that The Colson Group’s Christmas parties are epic. Since this is my first Christmas with the company, I decided I would have to judge that for myself. But I will say, The Westin’s penthouse ballroom in downtown Charleston looks pretty fucking epic to me.
Overlooking the river, the penthouse bar and rooftop patio are decked out with wall-to-wall twinkling white lights, frosted garland, ginormous floor vases full of glittery sprays, and numerous fully-decorated Christmas trees that are at least twelve feet tall. It’s gorgeous. It’s breathtaking. It’s…
Romantic.
No, it’s not. It’s hideous and dreary. It’s doesn’t look anything like a dreamy Hallmark movie.
“Sweet baby in a manger, Gretch,” Quinn groans, sipping from her glass. “You’ve got to try some of this eggnog. The cinnamon on top makes all the difference.”
I hold up my glass. “I’ll stick with my Santa’s Got a Brand New Bag punch, but thanks. You know I don’t drink eggnog.”
Harper approaches us with Sloane right behind her. “No, this is where it’s at,” the blonde says, pointing to her drink. “Peppermint schnapps, Irish cream, and Kahlua. The bartender calls it ‘And a Schnappy New Year.’”
“You’re all wrong,” Sloane cuts in, holding up a glass filled with a white liquid. “I’ll be dreaming of this White Christ-marita later tonight. Coconut milk, tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. Feliz Navidad to me.”
“Hold up,” I bite out, offended. “Is no one seriously going to try my punch? I worked hard on this recipe, dammit. And I made a shit ton of it.”
They all shoot each other uneasy looks.
“Gretch, even the bartender is warning people away from that punch bowl,” Sloane says in the same way you would placate a child.
“Yeah, he’s saying it should come with a label that has the number for poison control on it,” Quinn adds.
I scoff, disgusted. “Some mixologist he is. Like liquid nitrogen ever hurt anyone.”
They all stare at me blankly.
I roll my eyes. “I’m kidding. People with heart conditions can drink this stuff, I promise. And it won’t show up in a piss test.”
“You mean like the Pot Punch you made for St. Patty’s Day that contained cannabis products?” Harper grumbles. “It was basically liquid weed.”
“Oh, that was killer,” Quinn says, high-fiving me.
“Thank you, Quinn. At least someone here isn’t a complete pansy. Besides, you know you loved that shit, Barbie. You went on and on about how the Midori in it made it all green and so, so preeeetty.”
Sloane and Quinn smother their laughter behind their glasses.
It’s so cute when Harper glares. “Yeah, I was so high that I made out with a cardboard cut-out of a leprechaun.”
“And you showed him a night he’ll never forget,” I retort. “You were his pot of gold, babe.”
When she eventually loses her battle with her smile, I blow her a kiss.
“Where are Carter and West?” I ask after glancing around the patio.
It’s Charleston, so it’s not terribly cold tonight, even in December. But there are heated lamps spread around the patio that provide just enough warmth to make it cozy.
Sloane snorts. “Waiting for drinks at the bar that, and I quote, ‘don’t have a girly, Christmas pun in the name.’”
“Well, aren’t they just little snowballs of fun tonight.”