Dipped In Holly

HOLLY

I look at myself in the mirror and start to list off everything I don't like about myself, each a perfectly acceptable reason for Josh to have left me tonight, five days before Christmas, at his friend's Christmas party. I don't even have any of my own friends out there. He's left me alone in this fucking bar.

"You have a crooked nose," I tell myself in the mirror as my mascara continues to pour over my cheeks. "He definitely didn't like your rolls and stretch marks. He would always make fun of your freckles and the scars your acne left behind. Are you really that surprised?"

My dirty-blonde hair hangs in waves over my shoulders, and my normally grey-looking eyes are a brighter blue from crying. At least they look pretty. Swings and roundabouts.

I choke back a sob. Five fucking years of my life wasted with someone who was fucking his secretary for two of them. My sob turns into a laugh. Oh my God, do all of his friends know? Are they all out there right now talking about how pathetic I am to have not noticed?

A knock comes from the door, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

"A minute!" I shout at the locked door, my voice coming out a bit wild even to my own ears. Jesus, Holly, chill the fuck out. To be fair, I'd be pissed, too. I am in a communal bathroom, and I've hijacked the entire thing for myself. I wipe away the streaks of mascara from my cheeks and roll my eyes at my ruined makeup.

That, combined with the outfit I'm wearing, really makes a great impression. I can't wait to make my way home by myself dressed as a slutty Mrs. Claus, complete with thigh-highs, a miniskirt, and a corset top that is about to break my ribs after all the sobbing I've just done.

Another couple of knocks, louder this time.

"Can't a girl get five minutes to have a mental breakdown in peace?" I yell as I stomp toward the door and swing it open, coming face-to-face with a man. My eyes travel down his body and back up until I meet his eyes again. It's like he's chiseled from fucking stone.

His hair is salt-and-pepper, along with his short beard that outlines his sharp jawline. He's wearing black jeans and boots, with a flannel button-up. The sleeves are rolled up, exposing his tanned and very muscular forearms. His hazel eyes watch me take him in for a moment before he speaks.

"Few customers complained the bathroom door was locked," he says, looking behind me like he's going to find someone else in here with me. My entire body flushes as I realize he probably thought I was fucking someone in here.

"Who are you? The boss of the bathrooms?" I ask him, pushing past him and into the hallway, trying to hide my quickly reddening cheeks.

"Well, I'm the owner of the bar, so I guess I'm technically the boss of the bathrooms, yeah," he says, his chuckle a deep rumbling sound that makes my stomach flip.

Fuck, I think to myself. Of course he's the owner.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, turning around to face him now that I'm under the cover of the dim lighting in the hallway. It's at the back of the bar, filtering out the majority of the music and conversation from the front. "Girl stuff," I say, cringing at how that came out.

He crosses his arms, and his head tilts as he looks me up and down, making me suddenly feel extremely aware of just how slutty my slutty Mrs. Claus costume really is. His lips form a smirk that is pure sex.

"Okay," I drawl. "I'm gonna take off." I take a step backward, and he follows the movement with his eyes. I turn around, but suddenly, his hand is around my arm—his extremely warm, calloused, strong hand. It's wrapped around my bicep, and as I turn around to look at him, he drops it like I burned him.