Well, shit.

Clark knew the clock wouldn't bring good news, even before his bloodshot eyes focused on the time. New York nights had a way of disappearing too quickly--just like that bottle of champagne they'd ordered around midnight. In minutes Erica would have to hit the shower and hustle to make it to the studio on time amid the snow and last minute holiday shoppers, himself being one.

"Your feet are cold," she whispered in a sleepy voice.

"Compared to whose?" he countered, curling his arms around her.

"You don't really want me to answer that, do you?" she asked.

"You don't have to. I bet I can guess. George Clooney has warm feet, doesn't he? And your buddy Colin Firth? Well, on second thought, maybe not. I think British men as a rule must surely have cold feet." He gave her butt a playful pinch. "Actually, I bet you had a real thing for Hugh Jackman's feet."

"Hugh is Australian," she corrected. "And I'll never tell."

"You won't tell? You mean you're one of those private celebrities?"

"Intensely private."

"Nothing on social media, then? No updates on your exciting, paparazzi-filled life?"

"Nothing of the sort." She shook her head.

"What about interviews? Surely you give a few of those."

"Aside from the one I'm giving today? Definitely not."

"So what you're saying is that you're the kind of celebrity that doesn't kiss and tell?" he asked.

She never had a chance to respond. A second later he flipped her over and captured her lips. He kissed her deeply, happy in the knowledge that very soon he'd be kissing those same lips as her fiancé instead of her boyfriend. Or partner. Or life companion. Or whatever the tabloids were calling him this week.

"Kiss me that way and I'll tell you whatever you want," she confessed.

"You're calling in sick, right?" He pulled her closer.

"You know I can't do that."

"Come on. You don't want to go out there. We've got twenty-four hour room service. Baileys in the minibar for Irish coffee. Christmas movies on every channel. We don't have to step foot outside until the new year. I'll even put on those ridiculous fuzzy socks of yours." He rubbed his cold feet against hers.

"Clark McCullough, stop it!" She tried to wriggle away.

"Stay here. Let's deck each other's halls..." he said in a whisper.

"You're not making this any easier."

She freed herself from his grasp and slipped from the cozy warmth of the bed. In two seconds she was wrapped in a hotel robe, cell phone to her ear. His smile widened as he listened to her side of the conversation, pleased that she'd needed very little convincing.

"Hi Judy, it's Erica. Not a very good one I'm afraid. It was a rough night to say the least. Must have been the Chinese takeout. I know, I know. Could you let him know I'm running late? Reassure him that I'll be there as soon as humanly possible? Thanks, Judy, you're a love."

"Bad Chinese takeout?" Clark raised an eyebrow after she ended the call. "Better not have been one of my joints."

"Of course not. I would never betray you that way." She held up one hand as a pledge.

"Didn't you use the bad Chinese food excuse last time?"

"Give me a little credit. Last time it was Thai." She traded her cell for the hotel phone, never taking her eyes off him as she dialed Room Service. "Yes, good morning. This is Mrs. McCullough in room twenty eleven. We're ready for our breakfast order to be sent up. Yes, same order as yesterday. Thank you."

"Hold up. Did you just call yourself Mrs. McCullough? I know I drank a lot last night, but I'm pretty sure I'd remember if we got hitched. And what's with the southern accent?" He eyed her curiously. God, if she somehow found out my master plan...

"Now don't get your feathers all ruffled, Mr. Confirmed Bachelor. It has nothing to do with you." She tossed her latest script from the bedside table over to him. "See for yourself."

He turned to the first page and scanned it quickly. "Who's Helene McCullough?"

"I'm Helene McCullough," she announced with an air of southern snobbery. "Or at least I will be. Maybe. She's a character--some hayseed turned heiress that Punch wants me to audition for. Someone dug up an old novel, Jackie Collins or somebody, and has turned it into a screenplay. As you know, everything old is new again. Evidently eighties glam is going to be all the rage this year. Big hair. Fluorescent lipstick."

"Shoulder pads?"

"Straight from the NFL. The bigger, the better."

"An heiress, huh?" He flipped through the pages.

"The wife of an international business tycoon, if you must know."

"Business tycoon?" His ears perked up.

"International business tycoon."

His arms snaked around her waist and he pulled her back on the bed. "You know, you happen to be in luck."

"Really? And how's that?" she asked.

"I just happen to be an international business tycoon." His eyebrows bounced up and down.

"International?" She laughed. "Since when?"

"Well, maybe not international, but definitely coast to coast. Surely that gives me some degree of gravitas."

"You think so?" she asked with a grin.

"I can help you study," he whispered, eyeing her mouth. "With my savvy business sense, that part's as good as yours, Ms. Landry."

"You'd do that for little ol' me?" Erica remained in character, tracing the line of his lower lip with her finger.

"You know me. Anything for the arts."

***

By the time the cab deposited Clark at his destination it was snowing hard. With just a few shopping days left until Christmas, he expected chaos. What he found, to his surprise, was a calm and quiet atmosphere inside New York's most famous jewelry store. He wasted no time getting inside, shaking large snowflakes from the lapels of his overcoat.

"Mr. McCullough!" A tall, thin man immediately called out to him.

"Good morning, Lowell. Sorry I'm late."

"Nonsense. You're right on time."

The two men shook hands and shared a polite exchange.

"Well, I know you're a busy man. Shall we get to it?"

"I'm ready when you are," Clark said.

He followed the manager back to a private room. Two armed guards were already stationed inside, along with two locked metal cases waiting quietly on a large antique table.

"I took the liberty of selecting several styles based on our previous phone conversations and the photographs you emailed. Keep in mind that stones and settings can be completely customized. If you happen to like one stone but a different setting, we can marry the two--pun most definitely intended."

"Let's see what you've got." Clark rubbed his hands together in nervous anticipation.

He spent the next few minutes locked in an internal debate. Selecting an engagement ring was completely foreign territory. Just when he thought he'd nailed it down and made a decision, another ring would catch his eye. After several minutes of this back and forth game, he narrowed the field down to two rings. One in each hand, he studied them in silence for a moment.

"I don't know, Lowell. They're both incredible and both completely different."

"Indeed. One is very traditional. Classic and elegant. The other is extremely modern. Edgy and unconventional."

He sighed. "Maybe I should have just brought her with me."

"And spoil the surprise? Surely you have more confidence than that."

Clark shook his head. "I thought I did, but I honestly can't decide. They're both gorgeous."

"Do you want to think about it? We have elves working round the clock. You can call back at any time. We'll have it wrapped and ready when you are. You can even pull up out front and we'll bring it right out to your cab. How's that for curb service?"

"That's not a bad idea. I do have a few more errands to run then I'm meeting the lady in question for lunch."

"This is a big purchase for a big step. Best not to rush. Finish your shopping, dine with the future Mrs. McCullough, then give me a call later and let me know your decision."

***

Clark hurried into the bookstore, eager to warm himself. Arms now loaded with shopping bags, he cursed himself for not stopping by the suite to make a deposit but it was too late now. He and Erica had agreed to meet up at noon, mark the last few items off her shopping list, and then a late lunch with her agent, Punch Donaghey. It was now ten past and he braced himself for a lecture on punctuality.

He spied a wooden bench near the checkout and wasted no time making his way to it. His hands were still full when his cell began to buzz in his pocket. With a quick shuffle of his bags, he pulled the phone into view, smiling when he saw her photo on his Caller ID.

"Let me guess. You're hiding out in the romantic fiction section. Rippling biceps. Heaving bosoms. Wanton desires," he answered.

"You're already there?" Erica said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"Aren't you?" He glanced around the store.

"Technical difficulties at the studio. We've been in the cab less than sixty seconds."

"How long do you think you'll be?" Clark eyed his watch, trying to decide if he had time to run back to the hotel and unload his holiday loot.

"Well, actually, Punch and I are on our way to a meeting over at NBC. Some execs are interested in developing a series for me. This literally just came together in the last fifteen minutes."

"Really?" Clark could hear the excitement in her voice.

"I honestly don't know how long we'll be. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" He spoke with a reassuring tone. "It just gives me more time to conspire with Santa."

"But we agreed that we're not exchanging gifts this year."

"You wouldn't say no to one little trinket, would you?"

Erica let out a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't if I thought you knew the true meanings of both little and trinket."

"Well, I do know the meaning of hungry so I'm gonna head back to the suite, order the biggest cheeseburger The Peninsula offers, and wait patiently for your return."

"You should make it a double. And order dessert too. In fact, you should probably start with a huge hot fudge sundae and work backwards."

"You've been drinking, haven't you?" he asked.

"I have not!" She laughed.

"You know your trainer would kill you if he heard you speak such obscenities."

"Maybe so, but it's Christmas. Be spirited. Live in the moment. Do something unexpected."

"If you say so." Clark laughed.

"I say so. I'll see you later."

He hung up and sat for a moment, still feeling cold and not ready to return to the snow covered streets in search of a cab. Warmth and comfort in dark Colombian form sat less than fifty feet away beneath a familiar green and white sign. Bingo!

A young barista with multiple ear piercings snapped a lid on his Venti and handed it to him with a smile. He looked at the name she'd written on the side of the cup and couldn't help but laugh out loud. Gordon Gekko. The reference to the power hungry mogul from the eighties movie Wall Street was laughable. Savvy, brilliant in business? Perhaps. But cutthroat he definitely was not.

"Uh, I think you overestimate me." He gave her a smile

"Maybe you underestimate me." She winked in response.

With a knowing nod, he dropped a ten dollar bill in the shared tip jar and wished her happy holidays. He stopped just a few steps from the coffee counter and reached for his cell phone. He scrolled through his contacts to the most recent entry--the one for the jewelry store--and placed the call for the most important purchase of his life.

"Lowell Peterson, please," Clark said.

He watched the door as he waited on hold, amazed at the sheer number of patrons flowing in and out of the bookstore. I'll be lucky to make it out of here alive.

"Lowell? It's Clark McCullough. Listen, it turns out she likes to eat dessert first. Yes, very unconventional, I agree. Let's go with the modern, edgy number."

He ended the call and drew a deep, cleansing breath, thankful to have marked this extremely special item off his shopping list. Well Santa, you're all done. I guess it's time to relax! He smiled and surveyed his surroundings. It had been too long since he found himself alone in a bookstore. Books were his passion, though the majority of his current reading material centered around business, leaving him little time or energy for anything recreational. He strolled around, sipping his coffee and checking out the titles. He wandered into the children's section of the bookstore. There, among a sea of books and stuffed animals, sat pint-sized literary lovers, chatting and reading and dreaming holiday wishes. The scene before him brought on another smile. He maneuvered his way through the maze of miniature readers until he found another adult-sized bench. He took a seat with a sigh, eager to rest his feet and engage in some holiday people-watching.

Through the seasonal noise he could make out the faint yet distinct voice of Diana Krall singing a well-known carol. Instantly, her voice triggered a response. His heartbeat increased and an image came into focus with haunting clarity--an image as clear as raindrops on a glass pane. He could see her standing barefoot on the porch. She'd held her body with graceful ease. She was refined yet approachable. Her eyes shone and when she'd extended her delicate hand with an offer of lemonade, her wedding ring did too.

His mind then jumped to another vivid memory, a specific moment when this particular singer sang another song, one that was jazzy and sensual and slow, and he danced with this dangerously beautiful woman on a starry summer night.

Suddenly the air around him grew warm. Too warm. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. He quickly shed his coat and took a few deep breaths. He tried to center all his attention on the children moving in and out of view around him but it didn't work. She still found her way into his mind. It happened more times than he cared to admit.

He hated himself for it.

He collected his things and tossed the remains of his coffee in a nearby trash can. He took a different route back to the front of the store, hoping to avoid the swelling holiday crowd. Rounding a corner, he turned sharply and froze. Everything around him came to an abrupt halt as though he'd hit an invisible brick wall.

Several women stood gathered around an enormous display table, talking excitedly about the best seller in their hands. A banner hung above their heads, an oversized replica of the cover art. Copies of the book were stacked neatly in high columns. When his legs came back to him, he joined the other browsers and picked up a copy. He studied the cover, tracing the outline of the author's name with his finger. Again his mind was carried away and he saw the images once more. A cottage. A typewriter. A woman.

Oh, but she was so much more than just a woman. Even though what they shared was just a tiny sliver of time, it created a lifetime of memories. Secret memories at that.

His shopping bags now littered the floor around his feet. He flipped the book over, anticipating a picture of her beautiful face--ready to connect with those eyes. But the back cover held only quotes from various authors and publications, all offering high praise. His palms sweaty, he turned the first couple of pages. And there it was: another brick wall. Overcome by conflicting emotions, he was slightly dizzy, wishing there was another bench close by. Silently he read the short but telling dedication, a secret one, just for him.

For C.M.

Three is a magic number.

An enormous knot jumped from his stomach up to his throat. His heart was pounding so wildly that he was certain the other shoppers around him could hear it. A thousand questions ran through his mind but he only craved the answer to one. Why? He imagined her sitting in the cottage, dark hair pulled back away from her face, typing the lines that filled the span of about three hundred pages.

Just the first page, Clark. Only read the first page.

He exhaled heavily and turned to Chapter One. He was unsure what his eyes would find in the words before him... and even more unsure of how his heart would react.