Robyn Neeley - Christmas Dinner

“I really . . . hate . . . the . . . bus . . .” Amanda mumbled and took a seat. Her Nissan’s dead battery that morning forced her to take public transportation. “I’ll never get there.” She tapped her foot impatiently, watching fellow passengers slowly board. She should e-mail her new assistant, Lacy, and let her know she would be a few minutes late for the fourth of a series of unimpressive interviews for her new co-anchor. A stranger sat down in the empty seat next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the man buttoning up his shirt.

“Morning,” he chirped.

“Morning,” she mumbled back, looking out the window to avoid his gaze. He couldn’t seriously be getting dressed. She tapped on her phone, texting Lacy. “OMG . . . You will never believe what the man sitting next to me is doing.”

“Let me guess,” the man said. “You’re probably typing ‘WTF’ to a friend right now.”

“Assistant,” she corrected him, without looking up from her phone.

“Sir, your tie is on the floor.” An older woman sitting behind them tapped the man’s shoulder and pointed toward the ground.

“Oh, geez. Thank you, ma’am.” He picked it up and draped it around his neck. “I had to run to make the bus.” He studied Amanda. “Hey, do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

She watched him put on his tie. It matched her royal blue suit perfectly. He was attractive with short black hair, blue eyes, and wire rimmed glasses. She also had to admit the suit he was piecing together made him even cuter. “No. I don’t think so.” She added, “Well, you may recognize me from television. I anchor the local NBC news. That is, if I ever get there.” She sighed impatiently.

“Sure! That’s it. Say, you’re quite good. That piece you did earlier this week on the mayor’s inauguration was really something.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She was currently working on another story on that elected official which was far less flattering. She began scrolling through her messages in hopes of avoiding any more chitchat.

Five minutes later, the bus turned the corner onto her station’s street. “Well, this is my stop. Excuse me.” She jumped up. The stranger quickly stood and stepped backwards, allowing her to slide out. Her bag accidentally hit him. “Sorry. Nice to meet you . . . um . . .”

“Tate.”

“Tate,” she repeated. Where had she heard that name before? She didn’t know anyone with that name. “Well, have a good day.”

“Thanks. I intend to. Hey, I’ll see you on the news,” he called out as she walked down the aisle.

Amanda laughed sarcastically. That had been the morning of Tate’s interview. He had known who she was all along on that bus ride and had been playing her. Typical.

Since he’d become her co-anchor, they’d had a tolerate/hate relationship. Mostly he got on her nerves. Where she was genuinely passionate about the work she did and logged long hours, he seemed to breeze in every day—often just before they went on air—without much ambition.

Despite this, their ratings skyrocketed shortly after he started. Viewers really liked and trusted him. She tried to not let his pompous indifference get to her, but yesterday’s humiliation set her back.

The driver-side door swung open. Tate slid in. “Let’s sail, Vicki Vale.”

A blast of cold air followed him, smacking Amanda straight in the face.

She rolled her eyes at the latest of a long line of reporter nicknames he called her. She reached for the cup of coffee. “Thanks.”

“Hey, you looked deep in thought. What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking about . . .” She glanced away. “Never mind.”

“C’mon. You can tell your boyfriend .”

“Well, if you must know, I was thinking about the first time we met.”

“First time we met?”

“You know. On the bus. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, right. The bus.”

She studied Tate’s face. How odd. He almost looked relieved. “You were going to your interview and sat next to me and pretended you didn’t recognize me.”

“I remember. What a great day.”

She laughed. “For you, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Tate started the car and turned up the heat, angling the vents toward Amanda. “Say, you should really try to cut down on the caffeine.”

“Are you kidding? If I could, I would have it injected intravenously. It’s my lifeline.” She took a large gulp, gave a smug smile, and shifted the vents toward him. She hated heat blowing directly on her.

“Have it your way.”

“I will.”

He had changed out of his suit into casual clothes. He now wore a maroon half-zipped sweater decorated with Christmas trees. A white t-shirt poked out underneath.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your sweater.”

Tate glanced down at his chest. “What? My Aunt Bridgette gave me this sweater last year for Christmas. You don’t like it?”

“No. It’s not that. It’s just the Christmas trees. Let’s just say you’ll fit right in with my . . . Forget it. It’s fine. I guess I’m just not used to seeing you in anything but a suit and tie is all.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t seen me in.” Tate winked. “Or out of.”

Amanda snorted. “Ha, ha. Can we just go, please? I’d like us to see my family before Easter.”

Tate backed out of the parking lot. “So, tell me how are you going to explain your bringing home a boyfriend you’ve never even mentioned?”

Amanda ran her hand up and down her coffee cup, her fingers absorbing its warmth. “I’ve been thinking about that while you were putting on your Santa’s helper sweater,” she teased. “We’ve got to get a few facts straight.”

“Facts straight?”

“About us, silly.”

“You mean about our courtship? Say, have we slept together?” He chuckled.

She ignored him. “There are just a few details about you that we need to agree on.”

“About me? Okay, so what did you have in mind? Won’t they just be happy that you brought a man home and are not pining away for Brad?” He reached over and pushed number two on his radio, sending it back to the alternative rock station.

“Let’s start with the rules. You will no longer refer to me as Nancy Drew, Katie Couric, or any of the women from The View . Got it?”

“Got it.” Tate took a sip of his coffee. “No silly nicknames.”

“Beyond maybe—and let me stress maybe —a little hand holding, there will be no other public displays of affection. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“So, will we be sharing a room this weekend?”

Of course he would go there. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She hated to admit it, but their relationship would probably be more believable if they shared a room. She shrugged. “I guess we have to, but you get the floor.”

“You’d really put me on the floor?”

“I’d give you a pillow.” She laughed. “Maybe a blanket.” She turned and glanced out the window. Yesterday she’d wanted to strangle him and tonight they would be sleeping in the same room. What was wrong with this picture?

“Why are Brad and his fiancée staying with your parents?

“My mom said their apartment caught on fire. They had nowhere else to go.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes, it does.” For me, too.

A few awkward seconds ticked by. Tate broke the silence. “Okay so back to the public displays of affection. What happens if, say, you just happen to be standing under the mistletoe—then can I kiss you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But wouldn’t it look strange for us not to kiss? I mean, we wouldn’t want to arouse suspicion.”