 
SAN FRANCISCO SERENADE

By

Ginger Voight

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Ginger Voight on Smashwords

Copyright ©2012

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***

For Steve.

Act One

I always thought the sentiment about leaving one's heart in San Francisco was some cheesy nonsense crafted to sell some records. That was before I actually visited the City by the Bay, and realized–much to my surprise–that you can, indeed, fall in love with a city. There's no other city in the world like San Francisco. It's full of personality and character, with the sort of things and people that you'll never find anywhere else. From the elegant architecture to the eclectic crowds and distinctive neighborhoods, I knew I lost my heart to this enigmatic town the minute I tried to leave it. From the moment we soared high into the air above that easily recognizable cityscape, turning south to head back to Los Angeles, and I wanted to weep like I was leaving a loved one behind.

After that it was a bit like opening a bag of potato chips. I couldn't stop at just one visit. There was way too much to see and I never had time to fit it all in, no matter how obsessively I tried to cram my calendar. I had to go again and again to experience the sophisticated city and all the treasures it hid amidst its graceful sloping hills; from tall, regal high-rises to hip and funky neighborhoods, the food, the people and the sheer experience of it was not to be missed. Whether sailing around the Bay or visiting Alcatraz, or riding the crammed trolley cars or winding down the twisted, snake-like Lombard street, I knew it would take dozens of trips at least to savor every last morsel offered at the San Francisco buffet of awesomeness. I pounced over every single opportunity to go.

After I published my fourth novel, it was business and not pleasure that brought me once again to the "City," and during Christmas, no less. Despite a hectic schedule filled with interviews, parties and book signings, I planned to enjoy my solitary holiday in one of my favorite cities in the world. I booked a suite at a five-star hotel at the top of Nob Hill, and prepared to fill any downtime treating myself to spa time and room service.

Sure it was extravagant, but it was Christmas. This was my little gift to me. It would help me forget the previous year, when I poured my life's blood into my fourth novel, a cathartic endeavor to rid the fading, ghostly remnants of my last relationship.

Success in my career definitely came before success in my love life. It didn't take long to learn that certain people cannot follow one up the ladder of success, no matter how much they might have wanted to. It was harder for some suitors to share their lives on any scale, much less as the ignorable arm candy of someone more notable. Being tacked on as "and Date" in the headlines didn't exactly stroke a man's ego. And if it did, that presented a whole new set of complications.

Fun flings somehow never quite made the transition to serious commitment, even though several tried to muster the fortitude. When I wasn't working, I was able to travel extensively and live the playful, glamorous life my bestselling novels could afford. It wasn't exactly jet-setting, but it wasn't a bad way to live whenever I got to enjoy it. Ultimately the other part of the success, the real work, would always intervene.

Those on the outside of the business assumed I wined and dined between fits of epic creativity that I could muster on command. Little did they realize my muse was a cagey little devil, one I regularly had to harangue and beat into submission for days, weeks and months on end.

Men would grow listless as I spent fourteen hours a day locked in my office, pounding away draft after draft in an obsessive-compulsive need to get each story exactly right. The partying stopped and the empty nights took their place, until inevitably each relationship would peter out somewhere between the mid-plot act point and typing "The End."

David held on longer than most, so his absence was a little harder to ignore. Hence why I had come to San Francisco, to surround myself with beautiful, wonderful things, so that I might forget what I lost.

I sighed as the rented limo slid up to the hotel. I reminded myself once again it was okay to be alone, certainly much better than being stuck in an unhappy relationship. I was a big girl now. I had just turned 30. The best part of my life was still ahead of me, or so women's TV talk shows proclaimed.

The limo driver and bellboy handled my luggage as I made my way across the marble flooring to the front desk. The lobby was sparsely filled with other guests, but the concierge jumped to his feet and greeted me with a smile. "Miss Parsens," he greeted.

"How many times must I remind you, Simon? It's Sabrina."

He nodded as he cupped my hand in both of his. "Of course." He motioned to follow him around to his desk. "So am I to understand that you'll be staying with us through the holidays?"

I nodded. "I wouldn't stay anywhere else. Although I hear that you're booked to capacity, so I'll be sure to keep my diva needs few."

He laughed. He knew me much better than that. "Well, thank you for that. We have plenty of divas staying here already this season."

I leaned toward him with my elbow on his desk. "Do tell. Any interesting gossip?"

"Of the record?" he asked with a teasing arch of his delicately tweezed eyebrow.

"Oh, on the record, of course. It all goes in the books. You know that."

He chuckled. "Same ol' same ol'," he finally grinned. Then he motioned behind me. "Although catching a glimpse of Sasquatch over there might interest a few tabloids."

The smile on my face died the minute my eyes landed on the person Simon was pointing towards. In a million, trillion... gazillion years, I would have never expected to see that familiar dark mane of hair and unmistakable profile. "Is that...?" I started but my voice trailed off. Who else could it be?

"The one and only," Simon confirmed with a smile.

"Vance Gale," I breathed.

For a painful moment the past fifteen years disappeared in a flash. Vance Gale wasn't just a diva. He was an idol. He was my idol. Just seeing him for one split second transported me back to a painful time in my life, when the only thing I had to look forward to was sitting thirteen rows away from the stage where my biggest teen crush crooned his love songs for me.

Well, for me and about ten thousand other people. But every single one of them had vanished the minute he had opened his mouth to sing.

I turned back to Simon, who watched me with an amused grin. In one of my previous visits I had confessed to him about my long-standing celebrity crush while we discussed the inspiration for my steamy romances. Vance had long been a prototype for Mr. Right as I lived out my fantasies by the page.

"Want me to introduce you?"

I giggled like a teenager and blushed like a virgin. "You're kidding, right? Doesn't he have an entourage of bodyguards to protect him from crazy hordes of groupies?"

Simon leaned back in his chair. "Not anymore. You know he retired from the music scene about ten years ago. The band got a new singer and he got a new lease on life. He lives conservatively and well, and pretty much under the radar. He still signs in under an assumed name, but it's not like he wears a disguise or anything when he hangs out at the bar. Fortunately in our establishment, with our clientele, he doesn't have to. I mean, at this point you're probably more famous than he is."

I had to laugh out loud. "I just write smut."

"Bestselling smut," he amended with a grin. "And didn't you just sell the movie rights for 'A Heart Unbroken'?"

I brushed it all off with the wave of my hand. "The tabloids don't care if I'm here," I pointed out. "Besides, with my packed schedule I just want to get to my room and get some sleep so I can hit the ground running tomorrow."

Simon didn't look convinced. "If you're sure."

"Surer than sure," I said with slightly more conviction than I felt. The truth was seeing Vance Gale, if only for a moment, had set my heart aflutter. Despite my own accomplishments, I was reduced to a giggly, blushing fangirl the minute I saw his face. That was just silly.

And I was done being silly.

Simon shrugged, before referring to his computer to get my room number and retrieve my key. Slowly, and inevitably, I stole another glance in Vance's direction. My eyes drank in the sight of him, from the top of his head down the winter coat he wore and the snug, casual jeans, where–yes–my gaze did linger.

He had visibly aged from the last time I saw him, but was still lithe, handsome and recognizable, with an aura that filled the room. That smoldering sexuality had sold millions of records back in the day, so I wasn't really sure why I was surprised to learn that it was doing a number on me now.

It was such a guilty pleasure looking at him I couldn't bring myself to look away, even when his head tilted my direction as if he felt my stare.

He stood maybe twenty feet away from where I sat frozen in the chair, yet he still took my breath away. I was sure he could see the sharp intake of breath that I sucked in, which totally betrayed me for the fangirl I still was deep down. His immediate discomfort was palpable and he quickly looked away to discourage further contact.

I cursed myself as I glanced back at Simon, who approached with my key. This was why I didn't need to be introduced. I knew from the various things I had read, especially fan encounters that had been posted on the Internet, that he was fiercely protective over his newfound anonymity. There was an underlying resentment that, even though he'd walked away from his fame, the curse of celebrity still followed him around like a stray puppy begging for more. Everyone wanted to know why he'd left the spotlight at the pinnacle of his success, yet he had no desire whatsoever to address the question.

He had no desire to be Vance Gale, period.

He had nothing to worry about as far as I was concerned. I had sworn to myself my puppy dog days were over when I finally gave up on David. I had too much self-respect to chase another man, especially if it was for some two minute introduction he'd likely forget by nightfall.

I was Sabrina Parsens, for Pete's sake. My words had reached all across the world. I was hardly a clinging, giggling, pesky groupie.

And yet that was exactly what I felt like when I had the misfortune of meeting Vance Gale at the elevator banks in the hotel lobby. With one quick glance, I knew he had recognized me from before, and wasn't very happy about my close proximity. I offered a comforting smile, but he didn't return it. Instead his dark eyes glanced around the lobby, like a caged rat just waiting for a way out. He turned quickly away and refused to look at me at all, which only made the awkward silence worse. Anyone walking past us would be able to tell he was purposefully ignoring the stranger standing mere feet away from him. He stared at the newspaper in his hand, as if by ignoring me he could make me go away. He even took a few steps away from me, to increase the distance between us. As if he had to.

My frown deepened. I'd been treated like that before, by several men who acted as though the thirty or so extra pounds I carried were contagious. They were only slightly better than the men who assumed my extra weight meant that I was so desperate for male attention that I'd lose all control and jump them if they didn't immediately and forcefully put up a "No Trespassing" sign. No Fatties Allowed.

And of course he was a rock star, who had his pick of beautiful women his entire adult life. That was just how it worked. Other famous singers and musicians were routinely paired with stunningly hot models and actresses at their sides, even if the singers or musicians themselves looked like they'd fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down.

As rock royalty, he could have his pick of the litter, despite his retirement, and despite the fact he had visibly aged from the last time he'd appeared for the public. His behavior made it clear I didn't make the cut, even for simple human kindness.

The subtle sexism of this only pissed me off even further. I hadn't behaved inappropriately. I hadn't even approached him as a fan. I hadn't approached him period.

With the way he treated me now, he could be guaranteed I never would. So I guess his strategy was working.

The minute the doors opened, I stole another glance his direction before I stepped into the car. Though he didn't deserve my politeness, I was willing to hold the door open for him if he ever bothered to look up from the newspaper. I stood there like a doofus, holding my thumb on the button, waiting for him to grace me with his presence, getting madder by the second as I did so. Another awkward moment passed. I cleared my throat. "Going up?" I finally asked.

He took one look at the elevator, one look at me, and then he turned and walked away from both without one single word. I didn't even warrant an excuse.

What an asshole, I thought. He couldn't even tolerate a ride in an elevator with me? What did he think I was going to do? Pin him to the wall and molest him like an animal in heat?

Narcissistic douche bag.

Even after I settled down in the luxurious gold-colored room with the sweeping view of the Bay, I couldn't stop thinking about the cold look in his eyes when he clearly detected the recognition all over my face. I kept telling myself it was his notorious aversion to being approached that immediately put him off and not the extra fifteen pounds I'd gained over the past year.

It had to be, right? He couldn't be that much of a chauvinist pig. Could he?

It wasn't like I hadn't dealt with assholes like this before. I was no string bean to begin with, and the extra pounds I had gained made me even more qualified to write the Rubenesque fiction in which I specialized. I wanted to empower women, to let them know that the fantasy of "happily ever after" wasn't reserved for a special few, who had won the gene lottery and looked like a million bucks already. Over the past ten years I had dated dozens of men, handsome men, successful men, sexy men. All of whom had managed to treat me like a complete valuable person in my own right. They listened to my ideas. They laughed at my jokes. They held open doors and pulled out chairs, their treatment of me as a woman dependent upon who they were as men, not what I happened to look like. In my not-so-humble opinion, that was what made them truly hot. The other Neanderthals, who looked me up and down like I was committing some sort of crime because I wasn't doing everything in my power to attract them, were the ugly ones. Not because of how they looked, but how they lived.

I had graduated to real men, not insecure little boys who needed a pretty girl on their arm to validate them.

I knew all this. I wrote all this. I taught this as my own particular gospel.

So why did a couple of seconds of eye contact with a dismissive stranger make me feel just as awkward and insecure as I used to be in high school?

Ironically enough that was a time in my life when I discovered Vance Gale in the first place. I was lonely and insecure, and he was able to reach through the radio and heal the heart with a song. When he sang about faithfulness, patience and devotion, it was as if he tossed me a life raft in the middle of a hurricane.

While high school boys poked fun at the way I looked in my P.E. uniform, he sang of a love pure and true. I clung to this idyllic image he portrayed. It helped me ignore societal pressure to blend in when my body would ensure I'd always stand out.

In college I met a different class of guys, who appreciated my fuller curves. Real life romances soon filled the gap left by the Radio Romeo I'd likely never meet, much less touch. But even so, I left a little bit of him in every one of my romantic heroes. Some had dark eyes. Some had long hair. Some could even sing.

He had remained my ideal even into adulthood.

It saddened me to learn that he hadn't just fallen off of the pedestal I had always kept him on, he had plummeted. My ideal man would never look at my full-figured heroines with the same kind of panic or dismissal I saw in Vance Gale's eyes that afternoon.

I may not have met Mr. Right by 30, but the years had given me a pretty good idea who he wasn't, and I had never, ever wanted to settle. Instead, I poured all of my hopes and dreams into my books, like any other hopeless romantic, figuring if I built him... he would come. When I wrote about lusty book boyfriends, I stripped away all the real-life crap and filled in the good stuff instead. There were no dead eyes shielding disgust, disapproval or disdain. The heroes I wrote always gazed at their intended with the same sensual intensity that made me fall for Vance in the first place, courtesy to a two-second frame in a music video.

I opened up my laptop to cue said video, one that had pierced a tender, fifteen-year-old-heart like Cupid's arrow. I was saddened to discover a song that had always brought me hope and happiness now only served to make me feel worse. The reality of those eyes meeting mine was nothing like the fantasy I had built up in my mind, proving once again that expectation was the surest way to break my own heart.

And damned if it didn't take all night, too. I didn't even know I still entertained this dream, and it coughed and sputtered on mental hospice for the rest of the evening. By nine o'clock that evening I was so worked up about this perceived rejection that I knew I'd never get to sleep in time to make the early morning radio show where I was supposed to promote my book.

Instead I found myself working through all five stages of grief.

Denial: He wasn't being a dick to me. He was just having a bad day or something. I'm an idiot to take it personally. Grow up, Sabrina.

Anger: Just who the hell does this guy think he is? I'm Sabrina Parsens, not some teen fangirl stalking him at his hotel. I'm a grown woman, not some masher he has to avoid in an elevator. Jerk.

Bargaining: Maybe I'll have Simon introduce us after all. Maybe if he can see that I'm not some stalker, he can relax and we can start over. That can work, right?

Depression: I can't believe I wasted fifteen years drooling over this guy, only to have my heart broken. He's just like all the others. Jerk.

(I may have circled back to anger more than once...)

Acceptance: It doesn't matter what Vance Gale does or doesn't do. I'm Sabrina Parsens, for Pete's sake! Gah! It wasn't like I was here to meet him. I'm here to treat myself to a good time. Who needs him?

(Shoot. Never mind. That was anger, too.)

Annoyed with myself for letting such a thing get to me so badly, I went to bed early. I took a bubble bath beforehand, so I could get to sleep easier. But sleep was just as dismissive as Vance was. I lay in bed and counted shadows on the ceiling. I even cued up a guided meditation video, but all I could think about were those panicked eyes when they met mine.

Finally I hopped back into my street clothes and headed back down to the bar on the first floor. I needed something strong to numb all the yucky stuff this upsetting event had unearthed.

It wasn't too crowded for a Monday night so I was able to find a spot in a darkened corner, tucked away in a plush seat with its own candlelit table. The waitress suggested the bartender's holiday concoction with cranberry juice, vodka, orange liquor, bubbly Prosecco and a festive sprig of rosemary.

I figured one drink would soothe my frazzled nerves and readjust my perspective. I was mature enough to realize that my discontent over Vance's "rejection" had little to do with an old goofy dream biting the dust. It was that I was alone in a big city, still mourning the lost love I had with David. Like all my wide-eyed adolescent hopes about love and sex and romance, Vance Gale was simply a handy place to deposit my lingering discontent.

While Vance had been a lifelong symbol of all the things I wanted, David was the last flesh and blood man I had. Despite trying to whittle him into the perfectly shaped peg that was supposed to fill the hole in my life, I had come to realize that there were things even love couldn't do. I'd invested years into that relationship only to watch it die on the vine like every relationship before it. By the second drink I had finally made peace with the idea I wasn't as over my split as I thought.

That was when I caught sight of that long familiar hair falling down the back of a man sitting slumped at the bar, nursing his own holiday cocktail.

From his posture I could tell he was sending out a silent message to all around him that he preferred his own company and any approach would be unwelcome. In case anyone had trouble interpreting that message, he wore earphones and concentrated on his tablet computer to further discourage contact. The only welcome contact was the beautiful bartender who kept his glass filled with a wink and a smile.

I tried my level best not to watch him, but it was beyond me. Every time the bartender approached, and he was forced to "human," I watched his behavior closely to see if he treated everyone like shit, or if it was just me.

That his gaze lingered on her full ass when she walked away from his side of the bar only reinforced all the nasty little things I had begun to think about him.

I clenched my jaw as I downed the rest of my drink, determined not to take it personally. Despite it all, he was still virtually ignoring the whole bar.

Maybe he was just a big jerk. Maybe he didn't really care about his fans enough to indulge a simple greeting. He wasn't the first asshole in show business. And if that was the case, I could get the notion out of my head that there was anything even remotely wrong with me. He was the one who had issues.

Clearly.

By the fourth drink, I had almost mustered the courage to go over and tell him as much. I worked it all out in my cloudy brain. I'd walk over, tap him on the shoulder and give him a piece of my mind, that started with "Who the hell do you think you are?" and ended with, "I'm Sabrina Parsens, bitch!"

Okay, maybe I wouldn't have gone that far. But it was a fun little inebriated fantasy.

However the minute I looked back to where he sat, I realized with a sinking heart that he had disappeared as unobtrusively as he had arrived. The loss I felt was immediate. Another moment, another missed opportunity.

Inexplicably it depressed me so much I had to signal for my own check to leave. I wobbled a bit, feeling the effects of my holiday cocktail(s) rush straight to my head. I knew I was playing with fire mixing vodka with wine, but they had tasted so good at the time, providing a bubbly high I felt almost immediately thanks to the Prosecco.

I felt even more like a loser as I hobbled toward the lobby all by my lonesome, holding onto the wall just so I could walk in a straight line. I was still down in the mouth as I stepped into the elevator.

As the doors slid shut I reached over to punch the button for my floor, trying not to make any real eye contact with the other person in the elevator with me. I just leaned on the railing at the back of the lift and closed my eyes, hoping the silly thing would stop spinning before I vomited all over the expensive interior.

I never should have exceeded my normal drink limit of one.

"Are you all right?" I heard a man ask.

My eyes opened and landed, much to my chagrin, on the somewhat concerned face of Vance Gale. No doubt he just didn't want to get vomit on his suede jacket, since he was boxed in an elevator with someone he clearly didn't want to be. It was all over the face I once regarded as handsome.

Those days were over now. He had killed them all that afternoon, and I finally had the opportunity to tell him. I couldn't contain my growl if I wanted to. "Like you'd care."

"Excuse me?" he asked, as if surprised to be greeted in such a surly manner. I turned to face him. It was about time that someone told him to take his rude behavior and stick it. And I was just drunk enough to do it.

"I said," I repeated with a slur, "like you'd care." He studied me through narrowed eyes, so I straightened my spine. "I saw how you looked at me in the lobby. Panic-stricken, like I was going to jump you or something. You practically left skid marks in your wake. I'm not a teenager, okay? I'm no groupie for anyone, especially someone who has been out of the limelight for a decade or better."

He was justifiably taken aback by my tirade. "I'm sorry you thought I was trying to be rude...," he started, and I rolled my eyes in response.

"You couldn't get away from me fast enough. And for no other reason than our eyes happened to meet across a crowded lobby. A lobby of a hotel I happen to be staying in just like you are, by the way. We're an equal footing here, pal, and you want to condescend to me like you're doing me some favor if you pay me attention. Fuck you."

His eyes widened the minute the words flew out of my mouth. My eyes widened the minute I realized what I had said. The bell on the door dinged as it slid open, and with barely a minute to spare, I exited the elevator just in time to puke a bright red vomit right into the trash can in the hall.

Vance was behind me in a second. "It's going to be okay," he assured, but I was in no mood.

"Does it look okay to you?" I snapped as I tried to turn away from him. Instead he was even nicer, rubbing my back as he held back my hair for round two.

The door dinged shut and he stayed with me as I tried my level best not to die from embarrassment. Not only did I just lose my shit all over my idol, I was puking up my guts, filling the hallway with the smell of regurgitated booze.

Now that I wanted him to leave, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Let me help you to your room," he offered.

"I don't need your help," I muttered in response.

"Come on," he urged as he wrapped an arm around me.

"You don't even know where I'm staying," I slurred.

He bit back an amused smirk. "You're staying at the hotel, same as me," he repeated. I glared at him. "Come on. You can barely stand. Let me help you to your room."

"I told you I don't need your help!"

I barely got a chance to finish my sentence before I ran back to the trash bin for round three. I heard the elevator open and more guests of the hotel emerge. Their jovial mood died instantly as they were met with the stench of vomit. I couldn't help but notice how Vance used his body to block me from their view, to spare me some (further) embarrassment.

After that, I didn't argue. I leaned on him as he led me down the hall to the privacy of my room. He propped me against the doorframe as he unlocked it with the key I managed to pull from the front pocket of my purse. Before I could lift up to lumber into the room, he swept me up into his arms to carry me straight towards the bedroom.

It was every fantasy I'd ever had of him brought to life. For a second there I forgot to breathe.

He didn't stop until he deposited me onto the large bed. He left me only briefly to get me a wet washcloth, so that I could wash my face. I weakly managed to do so as he fetched some water to place by my bed, where he also left the key. Those stunning eyes met mine. Just for a split second, it was just like the music video that made me fall in love with him. I nearly choked on my own tongue.

"You okay?" he asked again.

I cleared my throat and nodded. "Yes. Thank you," I finally said in a low, shamed and hoarse voice. "I mean... you didn't have to... you know." I trailed off helplessly.

He smiled as he smoothed my damp hair from my face. "Let's just say I've been there. Things will look a lot better in the morning," he said, leaving space in there for me to insert my name.

"Sabrina," I whispered.

His smile deepened. "Get some sleep."

And like that, he was gone.

Unfortunately for me, my impulsive decision to over-indulge came with many consequences that night, including a major headache on top of a queasy stomach. I was up and down so much I barely got any sleep at all, which might have been okay if all I had to do was write. When I wrote I typically logged my workday between midnight and dawn, sleeping until mid-afternoon on a good day. But early morning talk radio producers clearly didn't care if I was traditionally a vampire or not. They had a schedule to keep, despite my normal sleeping patterns or my hangover.

I knew if I stayed in my room for room service I'd never make it from the firm but plush king-sized bed in the bedroom of my suite. I forced myself to get ready and brave the early morning crowds in the restaurant downstairs.

The more I sobered up, the less I wanted to do that very thing. I was mortified by the events of the night before. Granted, Vance was kind of a dick at first, but no one deserved that kind of ass-chewing, complete with projectile vomiting thrown in for good measure.

And of course as soon as the elevator doors opened on my floor I found myself staring right into the increasingly familiar dark eyes of my fallen idol. Why wouldn't I have to face him again after my childish tirade and drunken hissy fit? And of course he would have every right to exit that elevator the second I walked into it, just like the day before.

Honestly I hoped he would.

Luck, as it would seem, was definitely not on my side. He suppressed another smirk, which made me purse my lips pursed into a straight line as I stepped in anyway and tried to give him the same kind of rude silent treatment he had imposed on me at the start.

But of course this was the time he decided he wanted to make friendly chitchat. "You look much better this morning, Sabrina," he commented. I fought off a shiver that he would remember my name.

Of course he would.

"Thanks," I muttered as I looked away.

"Amazing what a good night's sleep will do."

"I wouldn't know," I grumbled as I pressed the button for the lobby, which, of course, was already lit. I growled internally at my lameness as I glared at the door.

Through my peripheral vision, I spotted how his eyebrow arched, but he said nothing more as I lumbered to the back of the elevator. We rode in awkward silence a few floors before the door to the elevator opened again and another young woman entered.

I watched to see if he was as guarded with her as he was with me. Like me, and unlike the sexy bartender downstairs, she carried a few extra pounds and was pleasantly rotund as opposed to sleek or svelte. I unintentionally tested his reaction to see if it was all females who bothered him or only females who looked more like us. I've known plenty of guys like that in my life. This, I decided, would be the last nail in his coffin, no matter how nice he might have been to me the night before.

As usual he kept his head averted to discourage any kind of interaction. What a pompous ass, I decided.

"Oh my God."

I turned to the young woman with a start. I was sure she was going to make the situation worse by fawning over him when he clearly did not welcome such attention. To my surprise she was staring at me in her incredulity. "You're Sabrina Parsens!"

My mouth fell open. I wasn't used to being recognized, much less so emphatically. "I... um... yes. I am."

She dug in her bag and reached for a copy of one of my books with shaking hands. It was my first novel, well-worn and dog-eared, as though she had read it more than once. "You're, like, my favorite author ever," she said as she thrust the book toward me. "I've read this at least ten times and lend it to every girl I know."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Vance observing the interaction with some interest. My head tilted a little higher. That's right, asshole, I thought to myself. I have fans too.

"Before I read this I thought that I'd never find anyone to love someone like me," she confided, getting a little teary-eyed as she forged on. "Your book gave me hope. It let me see that there's someone out there for everyone, no matter what." She held up her left hand so I could see the diamond ring sparkling on her ring finger. "And now I'm engaged. And I owe that all to you."

I shrugged off the praise. "That is really too kind."

She shook her head wildly. "No, you don't understand. The guy who I'm going to marry is the guy who worked at the bookstore where I bought the book. He's the one who recommended it to me. I was a regular and he had a crush, but was much too shy to approach me. That was before your book brought us together. It was destiny."

"Well, thank you, ...?"

"Eliza," she breathed.

I took the book in my hand before reaching in my purse for a pen. Vance leaned over to hand me one he had already handy. The corners of his mouth twitched with amusement, which only served to further annoy me. "Thank you," I said tersely before I signed the book for my very grateful fan.

As the doors opened to the lobby, Eliza threw her arms around me for an impulsive hug, which I returned with my heartfelt thanks and congratulations. As she departed I turned to return the pen to Vance, but he had already slipped silently from the elevator and disappeared in the crush of people exiting the lobby.

With a sigh I pocketed the pen and went to find my hired car to take me for my early interviews.

The day sped by in a blur after that. By nightfall I dragged myself back through the lobby of the hotel and up the elevator to my room. All I wanted was some overpriced room service and an early bedtime.

As the doors opened to the elevator, I glanced cautiously inside. The last thing I needed or wanted was another awkward run-in with Vance Gale, despite the fact that fate was determined to throw him in my face at every opportunity.

Despite how fortuitous that sounded, once again real life could not live up to the stories I wrote for a living.

In my fantasy, my drunken display would have worked as a Cute Meet, where we would have bonded over me vomiting like some teenager who got into her parents' liquor cabinet. He would have stayed all night, taking care of me, possibly humming or singing to me, while I shyly and coyly opened up to him. My vulnerability would peel some of those crusty old layers back, until finally he would soften those rough edges. Not a lot, just a little. He'd sweep me into his arms, with the rough passion of a man in love, and write song after song about the average girl who managed to thaw his frozen heart. There would be no awkward pauses, or uncomfortable silences. It would just... click. Like it was supposed to. Like it was destiny.

This was the true occupational hazard of being a romance writer. My mind always went there. Star-crossed lovers never walked past each other, with words unspoken and kisses denied. They'd stumble across the occasional complication or two, usually while they were falling in and out of bed, to fulfill every longing and every wish on the path toward their inevitable happy ending.

In my story the heroine wouldn't be eating alone in her plush and expensive suite. She'd be in the arms of her childhood crush, being romanced like a queen over the lonely holidays.

No, only in real life would we lose each other in the crowd, heading off to places unknown, with nothing notable to remember about our paths crossing at all. In real life he wouldn't be altered in the least just because for one unbelievable moment, our eyes met and held. I was still a stranger to him, and he to me, and our lives would barely notice the difference.

In real life, he would get tossed in with the other posers who had decided for me that I wasn't worth their time, or even their rejection. They ditched me and they dodged me, and made me feel like a walking talking cold sore because of it.

Real life, I decided, could bite me.

I ordered the meal the minute I entered my room, before I treated myself to a scented bubble bath and slipped into some comfy jammies. I curled up on the sofa in front of the TV to wait for my dinner, trying to focus on the reason I had chosen to spend my holiday here in San Francisco in the first place.

I was there to be pampered, to spoil myself... to forget that I was alone yet again.

Yet every time someone walked past my door, my heart would drop. He knew now where I was staying. That meant he could show up at any moment, spontaneously, for no reason at all. That was what he would do if he were one of my book boyfriends. He wouldn't be able to stay away. He'd need to find me, need to get to know me, need to figure me out, like a puzzle that chipped away at his brain. Ten seconds of eye contact wouldn't be enough for him. He'd have to get closer. He'd have to know more.

But every single person that marched down that hallway kept right on walking. There were no surprise visits. The knock on the door was from room service only, and I tried to hide my disappointment behind a polite smile.

That smile evaporated the minute I sat all alone in my expensive hotel room. I turned on the TV just so I could distract myself from my stupid, stupid fantasies with mindless blather from the aptly named 'boob tube.'

Much to my dismay I discovered that Christmas really brings out the romantic in TV programmers. Channel after channel was one story after another about falling in love on Christmas, each one more formulaic than the other.

Their heroes chased after the heroines. That was just how it was done. That was romance.

This wasn't romance. This wasn't even a booty call. This was me, typically falling prey once again to my overactive imagination.

One day I'd write a book about it, to get right what Fate once again got horribly, horribly wrong.

I finally turned off all the lights, crawled into bed and prayed the strange melancholy would leave me be. Around two in the morning a gentle rain began to tap against the window and finally lulled me to sleep.

I woke up before the alarm that following morning. My schedule for the day featured a major book-signing event downtown. I knew it would linger for hours but I was excited to do it. Most of my career was spent behind a computer, alone in my room, with no idea how my little stories were going to impact anyone. It always amazed me whenever anyone turned out, or stood in line to meet me, or have a photo taken with me, or ask for my autograph. We bonded over my stories and my characters as though they were mutual friends, and it was both surreal and gratifying.

There was always quite a bit of laughter, even a few tears, but mostly just a real human connection that I could never feel sitting behind a cold computer screen. Despite being a tried and true introvert, sometimes that one-on-one connection proved an elixir to my soul

This was one of those times.

I went through a couple of pens in the first hour, flew by in a flash. A winter storm darkened the clouds outside, making it appear later in the afternoon than it was. But I kept signing. I wouldn't turn any fan away, particularly if they made the effort to come down to the bookstore and stand in line to purchase my book.

I found myself digging Vance's pen out of my bag when I had to reach for another one. My heart sank when I saw it. It deflated the joyous balloon I had created around myself with all my fans. But I straightened my shoulders and decided to use it anyway. It was only fitting to take something that had been so disappointing and do something positive with it.

As the stragglers brought up the end of the line I glanced over to estimate how much longer I'd be there, massaging my aching hand. Though he was doing his level best to go unnoticed, my heart nearly dropped right to my feet when I saw that familiar profile and silky dark hair.

It was Vance Gale.

And he was in line to see me.

Frantic questions filled my brain as I assessed this strange new data. What was he doing here? How did he know I'd be here? Why was he waiting in line for me to sign a book for him? Did he know who I was? Was this just a bizarre curiosity after seeing my fan and I interact in the elevator yesterday?

Most importantly... why on earth would he go out of his way to be in this public place to meet a total stranger, when everything he had done up until this point had discouraged that very thing?

I tried to maintain my cool with each passing fan, but this new, puzzling development left me frazzled. Though I had almost three hours of practice, I almost forgot how to sign my own name. My hands shook and I found myself sneaking glances at Vance where he stood nose deep in my first book, which curiously was not the book I was there to promote.

It was the book my fan had gushed over the previous morning.

The plot thickened.

He hung back respectfully while I interacted with the last fan in line. When he finally was able to approach, he had a sheepish look on his face as he put the book down on the table in front of me. "My first book," he said, "and I'm already halfway through it. That was some crowd you drew, Ms. Parsens."

That was funny coming from the guy who used to fill arenas. "So says the rock star."

His grin grew even more sheepish. "Not anymore. I'm just another regular Joe." He motioned to all the promotional stuff around me at the upscale bookstore. "You're the star here."

It was my turn to shrug off the compliment. I opened the book and prepared the pen. "So how shall I sign it?"

He leaned over. "How about, 'to the pompous asshole with no manners'?" I laughed out loud, which made his eyes twinkle in good humor. "I'm afraid you caught me at my worst," he confided. "You were right to call me on it. Although I could have done without the vomiting."

I blushed deeply as I averted my eyes. "Me, too."

"I'd like to start over, if we can." He held out a hand. "I'm Vance Gale. It's nice to meet you."

I took his hand with a more genuine smile. "Sabrina Parsens. The pleasure is mine."

He let go of my hand only to grab the pen. "I tell you what, let's hold off on that autograph until you get to see more of the real me instead of the scarecrow I use to keep the public at arm's length."

"You're the customer," I shrugged with an amused smirk. "It is your pen after all."

He glanced down. "Oh yeah," he murmured with a smirk that mirrored my own. "I wondered where this went. I looked all over for it last night. The bar. The elevator. Places I thought it might be. I just really hoped it'd show up again."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Or you could have just gone to my room."

My breath caught when our eyes met. "How about we start with dinner? See where it goes from there." He offered an arm.

I hesitated for a split second before I gathered my bag and stood to take it.

"Do I get to ask where are we going?"

"Somewhere that doesn't serve alcohol," he grinned.

I laughed in spite of myself. I could tell from the playful glint in his eyes that he was chiding me. "So Mr. Gale, do you always lie to someone you've just met?"

"Almost religiously," he grinned. "I hope you don't mind."

If it were any other man in any other scenario I would have likely told him to get stuffed. But this Vance was surprisingly more appealing than the surly one I had encountered just a day or so before. This Vance Gayle seemed a little more like the man starring in all my fantasies since I was a young girl, and peeking out behind all my book boyfriends I'd crafted as an adult. Suddenly it seemed way more entertaining to see where he might take me than going back to my lonely suite, where I'd no doubt spend another night battling the holiday blues.

He must have felt likewise because he looked very pleased with himself as I took his arm and allowed him to lead me out into the brisk December air.

He pulled out his phone to call for the car, which was one used by the hotel to chauffeur VIP guests around town. While we waited for our ride I was able to study his appearance. He wore a stylish trench coat and expensive slacks, a far cry from the skin tight blue jeans he used to sport on stage. He had pulled his hair into a sleek ponytail, which was tucked down the back of his coat. This was no doubt to keep him more incognito. He produced a vintage hat, which added to disguise. Instead of an aging rocker he looked more like a gangster who had stepped out of a time machine from the 1940s.

Likewise he inspected me and the traditional black pantsuit I wore, given just a splash of color by the purple silk scarf and sparkly costume jewelry that adorned almost each finger and both wrists. I had a Mongolian trim suede coat in the same shade of purple as my scarf, which I buttoned to ward off the night air. When his eyes met mine again I couldn't read his expression, which was disconcerting. It wasn't the obvious get lost sign from the other day. It wasn't the deep concern when he was leaning over me while I was puking my guts up into a trash can.

Instead, they were dark and deep, practically swallowing me into his gaze.

I honestly didn't know what to make of it.

He held the door open for me so I scooted in first and then he slid in beside me. "Are we going back to the hotel?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I thought we could both use a change of scenery, if that's okay." I shrugged. I was game for anything. "You like Italian?" he asked.

We were whisked away to a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in Haight-Ashbury, with darkened booths and candlelit tables covered in gingham tablecloths. It was a lovely mix of Old World and upscale, a place one could get lost in the shadows, forgetting about being in a crowd at all. I could immediately see why he would have taken a particular liking to it.

The manager sent over a complimentary bottle of wine, indicating that Vance was a VIP guest.

He poured me a glass, to which I said, "Are you sure you want to ply me with liquor? You've already seen me at my worst."

He acquiesced with a nod. "Something tells me I can trust you," he said softly. "We're on the same footing, after all."

My eyes dropped as I remembered my tirade. "I'm sorry about that," I started but he shook his head.

"Never apologize for making someone treat you with respect. You were right. I was a dick. I'm a dick to most people. On purpose. It just saves time."

"And you're being nice now because...?"

He chuckled as he poured himself a glass of wine. "Because I suspect I might like your company, Ms. Parsens. Especially after reading some of the passages of your book," he added with a raised eyebrow.

I gulped hard. I knew exactly what passages he meant.

Before I could say anything, the waitress came over and greeted him with a familiar smile. He introduced me like an honored guest, and I suggested he order for us given I had never been there. He didn't even look at the menu as he ordered a full, four course meal with a couple of different entrees so I could try their best dishes.

After the waitress departed, he held up his glass to toast me, and I indulged him. "Salut," he offered and we drank a toast to ourselves and this new beginning. As we were setting our glasses back on the table, the first course of cold antipasti arrived. "So what is life like for a famous and successful writer?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing too glamorous, I'm afraid. Just sleepless nights and rewrites," I confessed between bites of cheese, nuts and olives.

"Tell that to the guy who didn't just stand in line for three hours to meet you," he corrected with a grin. I chuckled and shook my head.

"I work in my pajamas, barely wash my hair and live on Chinese takeout for months on end."

"There's a visual," he joked. "Don't you have anyone to cook for you?"

I shook my head. "My life is populated mostly with imaginary friends that I torture ruthlessly, then have to say goodbye to in the end to make way for new friends."

"Sounds lonely," he commented. "No wonder you wanted a change of pace."

He meant the hotel. And clearly he understood why I'd need such a thing.

"It's not bad," I insisted. "I love my life. Every last crazy chaotic moment. I have to pinch myself every time it occurs to me I get paid to do what I do. I'm in the rare position to profit off of my own pain. I dig deep and work things out on the page. Instead of paying a therapist, people pay me. It's really quite scandalous."

He chuckled. "Well, I certainly can relate to the crazy, chaotic part."

When he didn't look like he planned to expound on the statement, I turned his question around. "So what's it like for a retired rock star?"

"I garden," he informed me with emphatic enthusiasm. "Seriously. We're not talking just a tomato plant here. I'm in the garden hours a day weeding and pruning and watering and fertilizing. I grew a pumpkin this big," he told me, holding his hands wide apart. "Almost won me first prize in a county fair."

"You're making that up," I accused with a smile.

"I religiously lie. Didn't we cover that already?" He gave me a wink, which made me giggle. "Seriously, though. I do garden. I love the nurturing aspect of it. Watching the process from seed to plant. The cycle of life is very reassuring. I plant flowers and herbs and even my own food. I learned from my mother," he said, and I heard the slight catch in his voice. "And even though she's not here anymore, whenever I'm in the garden, surrounded by beautiful flowers and fragrant herbs, I feel her with me."

He looked away and I saw that inherent sadness chase the humor in his eyes away. It was well known that he had a very close relationship with his mother, and that he had lost her many years back. I could tell by the look on his face that it still hit him hard.

This would explain why he fiercely needed to be alone, but also why it was the very last thing he wanted, especially around the holidays, when I knew the sense of loss would be most acute.

This time I reached for his hand. I didn't even think twice. "I'm sorry," I said and his soulful brown eyes met mine. "When did you lose her?"

It was a deeply personal question but it felt right to ask it. He finally nodded as he took a deep breath, bracing himself to answer questions he didn't normally field. "Ten years ago. Christmas," he added.

It was when he retired from music, which confirmed some of the rumors that had spiraled out of control when he left the music business so abruptly.

"We found out she was sick right as everything else was falling apart," he went on, almost as if the words could no longer be contained. "Suddenly nothing and no one else seemed to matter. Everything I had been doing up until that point seemed so superfluous. I quit the band and stayed with her for the next few months so I wouldn't miss a minute. I sang for an audience of one and then finally an audience of none. After that I couldn't go back. What was there to go back to without her? I retired to a house in Marin County and haven't sung a note since."

His eyes met mine, taking note of the tears that he found there.

"I'm really not sure why I told you all that. I guess I do trust you."

It was clear the revelation shocked him. He was notoriously private. For him to share such personal information was a big deal and we both knew it. He looked so vulnerable it was my turn to ride to the rescue. "If you can't trust the person who vomits in front of you, who can you trust? I mean really."

He laughed. "You have a point. Let's hear it for the Cute Meet."

My eyebrow cocked. "You know about the Cute Meet?"

"Was I born yesterday?" he shot back with a smile. "I've seen romantic movies."

"Oh, really?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"I suspect you're lying again."

"Test me," he challenged. "I'll bet I'll surprise you."

I chuckled. He'd already done that, a couple of times over. "Tell me your favorite."

He pondered for only a moment. "When Harry Met Sally," he finally answered. "New York City. The holidays. Trying to wrap up a happily ever after by the New Year's kiss. Great movie. And Nora Ephron. I mean, come on."

I could tell by the look on his face that he was trying so desperately to lighten the mood. It made me sadder for him, that he had to run from legitimate feelings. Maybe that was why he still suffered so.

I dipped my toe in those dangerous waters.

"You know, if you think what you were doing was superfluous, you couldn't be more wrong. Like that movie, your music became a part of people the minute that they heard it. On the other end of that radio or that video was a teenager who had just been jilted by a blind date, by some guy who had told her looks didn't matter only to leave once he caught sight of her where they were supposed to meet. She heard your songs and got the message to never lose hope, to believe in that happy ending. And now she's sitting here across this table, a student to your teaching, sharing that same dream with her own fans. Creation makes things beautiful again. You were a part of that. I never want to hear you say that it didn't matter. Because it did. To me."

He squeezed my hand with his. He looked so touched by my words for a moment he could say nothing at all. Finally he whispered, "That's just what my mom would say." He smiled finally. "Thank you, Sabrina."

I shook my head. "Thank you."

We were interrupted by the next course and during the next two hours we kept our conversation light, mostly because he had a surprising sense of humor I wasn't expected. We laughed a lot, and learned a lot, and by the time dessert came to the table we were fast friends. I knew about his art collection, he learned I was deathly afraid of spiders, and we both chatted about the creative process from our two different perspectives. He confessed that he missed the collaborative effort of being in a band, even with all the now-famous blowups he had had with the other members that had made their breakup front-page news.

On the other hand I was able to enjoy complete freedom during the creation process; it was only when the editors stepped in that I had to be pulled back into the stalls like a crazed racehorse that just wanted to gallop.

Then we talked about the inevitable. "Are groupies still a problem for you?"

He sighed as he pushed what was left of his cannoli around on his plate. "Expectations are a problem for me," he finally confided.

My stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"

"If someone meets me on the street, they bring with them this entire relationship I didn't even know I was in. They have feelings, expectations, that I'm supposed to magically know how to fulfill. They have this caricature in their heads, filling in all the blank holes with whatever fits their fantasies. Needless to say, I disappoint a lot of people, even if it's something as simple as denying the request to sing a song rather than leave a monetary tip for service at a restaurant."

My eyes opened wide. "They've asked you to do that?"

"And more. Worse, I never know what to expect myself, so I fill it in accordingly, based on past history. And sometimes I get it wrong," he said, indicating to me. "You just never know who is in it for you, instead of this fantasy of who they want you to be."

Instantly I felt chastised, though I was fairly certain that wasn't his intent. "Guilty as charged," I admitted. "Occupational hazard. Sorry."

He stared at my hand on the table for a long moment before he finally reached for it, cupping it in both of his own. "Ditto."

As we were driven back to the hotel, we sat in the backseat in comfortable silence. We had already exchanged numbers and personal information, and had even discussed how we could fit in seeing each other again with my hectic schedule over the holiday, which for me at least culminated with a big party on New Year's Eve. Now that I had crossed over the initial trust barrier, it seemed he was no longer content to be alone if he didn't have to be. Honestly I couldn't really blame him. I didn't want to be alone either. And Vance Gale was good company once you got to know him. I looked forward to spending more time with him over the next week.

At the hotel he walked me all the way up to my room. He took my hands in his. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Sabrina," he said with such sincerity it nearly broke my heart. He was so lonely it spilled out from his soul like a depressing fog.

Why hadn't I seen that before?

Impulsively I reached for a hug and he walked into it willingly. We each held on for a few minutes, lingering in the silence of our newfound friendship. "It was nice to finally meet you," I whispered against his cheek.

He hugged me tighter. He repeated, "Ditto," once again, but this time in a whisper.

We pulled apart so I could find my key and open the door. He gave me a little wave as he turned back toward the elevator, and I closed the door feeling that familiar melancholy I couldn't quite explain. It lingered long into the night when, even though I was exhausted, I couldn't fall asleep.

If it was possible, I felt lonelier than before.

All I could think about was the lonely man who had shown me a bit of his soul that night, something I knew damned few ever got to see. It lingered in my subconscious and even managed to seep into my dreams once the dreams came. I dreamed of meeting his mother over a Christmas dinner surrounded by music and candlelight.

It was an impossible fantasy, but it felt right. I snuggled in my bed and tried to return to such a beautiful dream.

Act Two

My dream set me on a new mission that following day, while I was out and about, in between my interviews and public relations engagements. I told my driver what I was looking to do and much to my delight he drove me right to the kind of boutique that could supply exactly what I was seeking.

I was still smiling to myself as I exited to the hotel late that afternoon, carrying a festive gift bag in my hand. I liked playing elf and I was pretty excited to provide an unexpected gift to my new friend. That surprise was nothing compared to what I found when I opened the door to my suite. The golden splendor was now accented by green garland with cranberries and frosted pine cones, which raced along the wall to circle the window facing out over the bay. It was a window that now framed a huge Christmas tree, bare except for the clear lights spread between the artificial Douglas fir.

On the floor beside it were boxes and boxes of ornaments and garland. On the table beside that were gold, glittery flameless candles and a gold-plated bowl full of nuts and fruits.

Christmas was still technically three days away, and yet here it was right in my lonely hotel room.

My cell phone rang almost as if on cue. I glanced down at the caller ID. It was Vance.

"Merry Christmas," he said, and from the playful tone of his voice I knew at once that I had been out-elfed.

"You did this?"

"Did what?" he asked innocently.

I had to laugh. "The tree, you goof."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I could practically hear his smile.

"You really do lie beautifully," I told him with a grin of my own.

"So it's been said," he retorted. "But put yourself in my place. Do I dare risk my first real human contact in a decade thinking I'm a creep, just because I violated the sanctity of her hotel suite, decorating it for a holiday neither one of us were particularly looking forward to?"

I sat on my sofa and glanced over at the gift bag I had brought from downtown. "I dunno about that. I think things are definitely looking up."

"I couldn't agree more," he said in a low voice that shot electricity down to my toes. "So what are your plans this afternoon? Aside from taking over the literary world?"

"Already done," I answered with a cheeky grin. "So my day is wide open. Although I feel like I should be making cookies for Santa or something in this winter wonderland I now occupy."

He laughed. "I was hoping you'd say that. Meet me downstairs in a half-hour."

He didn't even give me a chance to reply, or agree. He disconnected the call and I was left to race around for an impromptu date of sorts that I could have never expected.

I was downstairs in the lobby with five minutes to spare. When the elevator doors opened and I saw Vance's face, it broke apart in a wide, welcoming smile, which was completely different than the other times I'd seen him in this very lobby.

He crossed the marble floor. "Punctual. I like that."

I laughed. "So where exactly are we heading, Mr. Gale?"

His smile deepened. "Don't you trust me yet, Ms. Parsens?"

"Nuh uh," I said with a shake of my head. "I make it a point never to trust men who lie."

"Good policy," he agreed with a nod as he wrapped one arm around my back to lead me towards the door. "I certainly wouldn't trust me if I were you."

"No?" I repeated.

"Nuh uh," he echoed.

"So let me ask again. Where are we going?"

He led me straight to a waiting car. "Where we can turn up the heat," he promised with a smile.

Butterflies did the cha-cha in my stomach until the car finally stopped in front of a local cooking school, where they were holding a "Make and Take" Christmas cookie class. I burst out laughing as we walked through the door. "First gardening, now cooking. Who are you and what have you done to my bad boy rocker?"

He laughed. "I'm the alien cyborg who came down to replace him. Consider it an upgrade. Now come with me if you want to bake."

I followed him to the classroom, where dozens of other aspiring bakers waited for instruction. There were various stations set up around the room, and each one was assigned a special cookie recipe. There was a gingerbread station, a decorative sugar cookie station complete with cookie cutters and festive icing. There were dark chocolate thumbprint cookies kissed with peppermint in the center. We were assigned to the station making almond shortbread thumbprint cookies, with festive orange-cranberry and sugar plum jellies to complete the nutty, buttery cookie base.

Two other cooks joined us at our station. From the looks of it, they were a couple. "I'm Edward," the tall man introduced with a smile. "This is Travis," he added as he smiled at the slighter man at his side.

Vance pumped his hand with a happy smile. "I'm Jerry," he said, lying with ease. "This is my sister, Julie," he added with a wink and a grin as he looked down at me.

The sister comment stung for a moment, but I rolled with it. "Nice to meet you," I smiled as I shook both their hands.

Edward couldn't stop staring at Vance. "You look so familiar. Have we met before?"

Vance shook his head, and I could tell instantly that he wanted to bolt at the barest hint of recognition. Travis must have sensed his immediate discomfort, because he immediately piped up, "Original, Eddie." He turned to Vance. "We're not trying to pick you up. I promise."

Vance just laughed. "It's not that I'm not flattered. It's just that I promised Mom that I'd keep Julie here out of trouble, which is a full time job." He leaned closer. "She cannot hold her liquor," he confided in a loud whisper before he held a finger to his lips.

I glared at him. He just laughed and offered another wink before we took our places in front of the counter.

The instructor and her assistants took over, to give us the instructions we'd need to complete our cookie recipe. We didn't get to talk again until we were in front of our hard-working stand mixers, which creamed together our butter and sugar base, which took a few minutes.

"Really, bro?" I muttered as we spoke low between us. "Throwing me under the bus as some kind of alcoholic?"

"I threw Julie under the bus," he corrected with a chuckle. "As far as I know, Sabrina Parsens is a Mormon teetotaler."

I laughed out loud. "Clearly you haven't gotten to Chapter Nine," I grinned.

His eyebrow cocked. "Chapter nine," he said, making a mental note. "I can't wait to read it."

"Be sure to tell me when you do. That way I'll know when I can no longer look you in the eye."

"That good, huh?" he queried with interest.

"So they tell me," I shrugged.

"So why would you be embarrassed?" he wanted to know.

I shrugged again and looked around. "You know. It's intimate to let someone in your most private thoughts that way."

"Probably really hard for a boyfriend," he supposed. He didn't look at me when he said it, which suggested he was fishing for information. I wasn't about to let him off that easy.

"How so?"

"You writing sexy books, turning on strange men. You must have a list of stalkers a mile long."

Again, I laughed. "It doesn't work like that. I don't turn men on. I mostly turn on women."

"Hot," he grinned, and I swiped at him with the dishtowel.

"There are a lot of men who won't read books written by women, which is why a lot of women write under non-gender specific pen names."

"Men are pigs," he shrugged.

"Preach," I responded. "But fortunately I don't have stalkers. Certainly nothing like you had."

His lips thinned into a frown. "Preach."

I turned the tables on him. "I suppose that's not easy for a girlfriend either."

"The rock life isn't easy for a girlfriend," he agreed. "It's not built for it. If you can make it work, God bless ya. I never could."

I had heard the rumors about his ex. I decided to probe a little further. "The fishbowl is hard for anyone. The more famous you are or the more rewarded for your work, the smaller your life gets, until it can fit on a computer screen for the whole world to see."

"They still see what they want to see," he muttered, which caught my ear.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing," he shrugged. He turned his attention back to the mixer. "You think this is done, or what?"

I allowed him to shift focus back to the task at hand, where we added the remaining ingredients, shaped and dropped balls of our dough onto the prepared cookie sheets, where he used one of the measuring spoons to create perfectly round indentions for our jam. Even the way the dough cracked was on purpose. "You really are a perfectionist, aren't you?"

"So it's been said," he grinned before we filled each little cookie and popped it in the oven next to Travis's and Ed's.

"I've figured out why you look so familiar," Edward said. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like that singer from Sonic Rocket?"

I spotted instantly how Vance's jaw clenched. "Yeah, I've heard that before. Personally I don't see it. And isn't he supposed to be some kind of asshole?"

Both Edward and Travis were taken aback by his reaction, which seemed almost offended by the comparison. "You just reminded me of him, that's all," Edward said before he and Travis decided to mosey over to the next station.

Vance set the alarm on his watch before he muttered, "I think I need some fresh air." Without even looking at me, he took off his apron and headed outside.

I didn't hesitate to follow, though I didn't say anything until we were outside. "Hey. Are you okay?"

He leaned against the wall. "You know, there was a time I couldn't even walk down the street without getting mobbed. The minute people suspected who I was the whole scene just fell apart. Everyone wanted to get close, to get a piece of me. If I wanted to step foot outside in peace, I had to wear disguises or pretend to be other people. You're right. The bigger you get, the more the world shrinks. And there's nothing you can do. It sucked then. It sucks now."

I studied him, from his long hair to his instantly recognizable profile. I knew who he was the instant I saw him. He made no real effort to hide who he was. It dawned on me then he wanted the freedom to be himself because he had spent so much of his life hiding.

But he was Vance Gale. He'd never get away from it. I leaned against the wall next to him. "What can I do?"

His sad dark eyes met mine. "Absolutely nothing. You know what it's like to live with the beast. You can't get away from it. All I've ever wanted to do is make music and be me. And I can't do one without the other."

"So how can you make peace with that?" I asked softly.

He shrugged. "That, my dear Sabrina, is the question. I don't know how to make peace with any of it. When you're famous, people think they know you. They fill in their expectations, like I said before. They think you belong to them. That you owe them. And God forbid you ever dare to let them down."

I sensed he wanted to tell me something, so I just patiently waited. Finally he sighed and let the dam burst.

"I never wanted to retire from music, Sabrina. Ever. I thought I'd make music until the day that I died. It was a part of me. Like breathing." He sighed. "And then the whole world collapsed. My mom got sick. My relationships with the band and my then-girlfriend imploded. I just wanted a little room to heal, a little quiet to adjust... and everyone just misread the hell out of it. They didn't even apologize," he finished quietly.

"Apologize for what?"

His eyes met mine. "Anything." He took a deep breath. "Anyway. What was I saying?"

Just as I opened my mouth, the alarm on his watch went off. I smiled. "Cookies are done."

We went back inside, finished our cookies and packaged them, which gave us time to enjoy the late lunch the school had prepared, along with a glass of wine to celebrate our festive creations. At the end we all got to take with us a variety of cookies that everyone had made, to commemorate our afternoon.

Before we left, Vance took Edward aside so they could speak privately, no doubt so that he could apologize for his dismissive behavior. When Ed called Travis over to take a photo of Vance and him together on his phone, I suspected that Vance had spilled the beans about his true identity. Despite how surly the downside of fame made him, he genuinely seemed to care about the people who cared about him.

That wasn't what the Internet rumors ever said. Suddenly I knew exactly why he was so hurt about it. He wasn't the guy they thought he was...

That I thought he was.

I gave him a big smile when he joined me. "What's on the agenda now, Jerry?" I asked, and he chuckled.

"Don't we have a tree to trim?"

"I dunno," I teased. "Not sure if I should allow a strange man up in my hotel room."

He wrapped his arm around me. "But I'm your brother. You can trust me."

We arrived back at the hotel within about a half-hour, where we parted ways in the lobby. "How about I meet you at your room in about an hour?"

I agreed instantly, never pausing to think that this was virtually a stranger I was inviting back to my room. But he no longer felt like a stranger, especially after that afternoon. Vance Gale was nothing like I thought he was when he sang to me through a television screen. And he wasn't anything like the testy rude asshole I'd met my first day at the hotel.

Instead he was sweet. He was funny. He was smart, compassionate and very good company. We'd had fun together, and I wanted to see where that was going to go.

Never mind that my fantasies were close enough to touch, which was far more intoxicating than I wanted to admit. It was impossible for someone like me to ignore that we were checking off a holiday romantic comedy checklist one by one. We had the Cute Meet. We even got to know a little of our respective back stories.

Now, in a private hotel suite, we got to take that next logical step. We got to test our chemistry.

So, yes. I was a little giddy as I quickly freshened up, getting cozy in my comfy jeans and a soft turtleneck sweater. I kicked off my shoes and instead wore some funky socks covered in neon colored peace signs. It wasn't exactly seasonal, but it wasn't like I had packed anything Christmasy to begin with.

I supposed I'd just have to go out shopping again the next day, this time to elf myself. What the hell, right? It was Christmas.

Vance arrived promptly at the top of the hour, looking casual yet dapper in his dark sweater and slacks. He wore his hair in a tight, neat ponytail and a playful smirk that gathered tiny lines at the corner of his dark eyes. He held out a small giftwrapped box.

"What'd you do now?" I asked, thinking he'd already done so much.

"Nothing sadder than a Christmas tree with no presents," he said as he entered the room.

I shut the door behind him. "What makes you think that there are no presents?"

He cast me a glance before he walked over to the tree, where he saw my gift bag sitting there all by its lonesome under the heavy low branches. "What'd you do?" he echoed.

"You think you're the only elf staying in this hotel?" I grinned.

"You're certainly a much cuter elf," he agreed as he placed the box under the tree next to the gift bag.

I warmed to his flattery as I walked over to the sofa. "So what other holiday surprises do you have up your sleeve, Mr. Gale?"

As if answering my question there came a knock at the door. He motioned that I go ahead and sit as he went to answer it. A bellboy rolled in a brass tray laden with Christmas goodies. Vance tipped him and sent him promptly on his way before rolling the tray over to where I sat.

There was egg nog chilling in an ice bucket, a plate full of homemade cookies and fudge, next to a stack of Christmas DVDs. He also thought ahead for a little protein to counter the carb overload with a cheese and sausage plate and some mulled wine. "This is some spread," I complimented as I reached over for a wedge of cheese.

"It's my first Christmas to entertain," he confessed as poured me a mug of wine. "I figured it better to have lots of options rather than not enough."

"I like the way you think," I mumbled between bites, which made him laugh. "Remind me to invite you back for the Fourth of July so that we can have burgers and s'mores."

"It's a date," he agreed as he held up his mug to toast. Our eyes met and held for a tiny moment longer than necessary, which made us both look away. He cleared his throat and reached for a DVD. "What shall we watch first?"

On the top of the stack sat one of my favorite Christmas movies, a comedic re-imagining of Dickens' classic Scrooge story. "I love to laugh. Let's start with that one."

He agreed and he set up the machine on the TV sitting just across from the couch. We let the movie play as we set out to trim the tree. Our tree.

I examined every crystal ornament in the light, casting colorful prisms against the wall. "Your taste is exquisite," I complimented.

"Thank Simon," he dismissed with a smile. "I told him I wanted a spectacular tree. He ran with it from there."

"So what would your tree look like?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I haven't trimmed a tree in ten years. Couldn't bring myself to. The only ornaments I had were my Mom's, and I just didn't think I could bear to look at them. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

I let him talk because he seemed to need to. Instead I hung the ornaments along the branches as I listened.

"She had all these delicate glass ornaments," he said wistfully, waxing nostalgic as he hung ornaments of his own. "Every shape and color you could imagine. It was loud and noisy, just like her." He chuckled softly. "Every year she'd douse the thing with tinsel. And she wasn't the kind to gingerly hang it over every bough just so. She'd fling that stuff everywhere with a jovial laugh I can still hear if I listen hard enough."

I stopped what I was doing to watch him. I wasn't even sure he knew I was there anymore. He was somewhere else; somewhere his beloved mother could still visit him. His memories.

"It was just pointless after she died. I knew it would never be the same, so why bother?"

Finally I spoke. "Because it's Christmas."

He looked my way with a startled expression on his face, like he had never quite considered that was a complete argument on its own before. "What about you, Ms. Parsens? What's on your Christmas tree?"

I shrugged. "I think I'm like your mom, mostly. I like it loud. I have all sorts of funky ornaments. Some aren't even Christmasy at all. I used to buy ornaments whenever I traveled, so that I could have a memento of the places I'd been or things I had done. That's my only real tradition."

"Is there a tree decorated at home?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't feeling the holidays this year." He waited for me to continue, so I did. "My ex, David, and I kind of broke up last Christmas. I mean, we didn't make it official until after New Year's, but we both knew it, no matter how much we tried to deny it."

He gave me the same space to reminisce as I had given him. I found it was easier to talk about than I had thought it would be. "We went to this quaint little B&B on the East Coast for the holidays last year. Vermont. Skiing. Cold snowy nights around an old pot-bellied stove fireplace. Totally Norman Rockwell. And we trimmed the tree, like this. And we pretended everything was okay, but it wasn't. It hadn't been for a long, long time."

"Why not?" he asked at last.

I shrugged. I'd wrestled with that question all year. "I think he wanted someone normal."

"How boring," Vance said with a teasing smile. I smiled back.

"When I was working he never saw me, and when we were out in public, no one ever saw him. Face it. Not a lot of men want the attention that goes with 'and Date.'"

"And you probably don't want the ones who do," he filled in. I nodded.

We started on the beaded garland, working together to wrap and drape the exquisite bands around the large tree. "We kept up pretenses until the New Year's kiss, where it was clear that the flame was out. And that was that."

"Do you miss him?" Vance wanted to know.

"At first," I admitted. "This was my longest relationship. It was hard to wedge it apart. That was why I ended up here, to make this Christmas as completely different as possible. I just felt like I needed to start over."

We stepped back from the tree, which was now completely decorated. "So how'd we do?" he asked softly.

My eyes met his. For a second, my breath caught. In that moment I knew that it was worth losing David if that meant I could be right there with Vance at that moment.

It was more at home than I had ever felt.

"Mission accomplished," I said softly.

He took my hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. Then he led me to the sofa, where our feast, and the rest of our movie, waited for us.

We settled next to each other under a throw blanket. Since it was a movie I had seen dozens of times before, we didn't need to pay much attention to it to enjoy it. This was a good thing, because I could hardly think of anything at all as I sat cuddled next to Vance. I felt the heat of his body next to mine, and with each shift to get more comfortable we ended up closer and closer together until we sat flush side by side.

I wanted to blame the rush of warmth through my body on the wine, but every little part of me that touched him caught fire, as if every cell knew that it was a major freaking deal to be sitting beside Vance Gale, a man I had dreamed about as recently as the night before. That was his throaty laugh that sent tiny chills over my heightened senses. That was his cologne I could smell coming from a body still strong and healthy even into his 40s.

Never in my wildest adolescent dreams would I have ever thought I'd be there, like that, with him. This was a man who had always been behind a velvet rope, and now I sat practically in his lap while we watched movies in the low light of a private hotel suite.

It was the stuff of fantasies for any girl who had ever lusted after a rock star. Somewhere in me was that same awkward fifteen-year-old who blushed when our eyes met with shared laughter over the movie. Those dark, intense eyes weren't looking into a camera anymore. They were looking right at me.

And, being slightly older than fifteen, I already knew that the interest I saw there was real. Maybe it was because we were lonely and fending off the holidays with a convenient friendship. Or maybe it was simply a matter of two people who shared a mutual attraction, alone and secluded where that attraction could easily be acted upon.

Whenever he looked at me, however, it really didn't seem to matter. Suddenly I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. I wanted to be there in that moment with him.

But as God as my witness, I didn't know quite what to do when his arm slid across the back of the couch. I stared at the screen although I had ceased to care what was going on there. I felt my blood thunder in my ears as electricity singed each and every nerve ending. I felt his hand on my shoulder and whether he pulled me into the crook of his arm or I just found my way there on my own was unclear. Yet in a second I found myself comfortably situated right in his embrace as we cuddled together under the blanket for the climax of the movie.

It ended with a rousing and uplifting song, which made me glance up at him to see if he'd actually find his voice to sing it. Instead there were tears glistening in the corner of his eyes. My soul ached for the pain he still harbored losing his beloved mother. Without any conscious thought on the matter my hand reached up to caress his cheek. It inadvertently captured one of his tears.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

He gave me a brave smile as he pulled me into the circle of his arms. He held me close and whispered in my hair, "I am now."

I said nothing as I wrapped my arms around him. Silence spun around us as we stayed locked in that comforting embrace. The longer he held back his tears, the more it forced mine.

It was such a weird sort of bonding, born out of pain and loneliness and longing. We held onto each other for the things that we had lost and the things we saw missing in the other. It was so comforting and so healing neither one of us could pull away, even once the DVD went back to its menu. We just let it sit there like white noise, while we let whatever was happening take its course.

Finally he planted a tender, lingering kiss against my forehead. "I should go," he whispered.

"Why?" I wanted to know. It was the last thing I wanted.

After a very long pause he finally admitted, "Because of how much I want to stay."

My heart stopped. All it would take would be a word, a kiss... and maybe he wouldn't leave me to struggle through yet another lonely night. We could make love right there by the Christmas tree, by candlelight. If I were writing this story, that's exactly how it would play out in graphic detail.

All I had to do was admit how much I needed him to stay.

I looked into his eyes and my heart stopped. What I saw there was raw and true, and far more real than anything I'd ever seen staring at me from a television screen. Maybe he wanted, or needed, me to insist that he stay, that it was all right... that I wanted him too.

But all I could do was stare into those bottomless brown eyes. I was struck mute by the idea that the man I had loved as a teenager wanted me now as a woman.

He gave me another smile as he transferred a kiss from his fingers to my lips. He rose and pulled me to my feet. With every step towards the door I wanted to scream at him not to leave, to please stay, but the words were locked somewhere below my throat. At the door he turned around to look at me one last time and said, "Tomorrow... dinner?"

I nodded. There was no way I would miss that for the world.

In fact that night was even more sleepless and listless than the night before. I honestly felt like a child waiting for Christmas morning. It had nothing to do with the mysterious box under the tree; it had to do with the way his eyes softened when they looked deep into mine. Even in my most earnest teen fantasies I could never imagine how thunderstruck my soul would be as he enveloped me in his gaze... or his arms.

I still felt the hint of his arm around my shoulder, his breath against my hair. Never before had anyone had such a profound effect on me. Though I had never been much for one-night-stands, if he had kissed me I knew I wouldn't have been able to let him go.

It was an intense feeling, certainly one I had never experienced, and we didn't even do anything except cuddle together and watch a movie.

My heart skipped a beat when I realized I was going to see him again. This man was full of surprises. Who knew what the next night would bring?

As it turned out, I had an answer as early as eight o'clock that following morning. He ordered room service to be brought to my room so that I could enjoy a luxurious breakfast complete with a bouquet of Christmas roses to brighten and refresh my suite.

Also included on my silver breakfast tray was a printed itinerary. I was to dress and catch a ride downstairs by nine o'clock, and, after a mysterious block of time, meet Vance for lunch in Chinatown around noon.

The San Francisco air was crisp that December morning so I dressed in fashionable layers with a stylish pair of suede boots rounding out the ensemble. I was downstairs as instructed. I asked the driver where we were going, but he was decidedly hush-hush on the matter. Within minutes he had driven me to the door of one of my favorite boutiques, one that the concierge had recommended to me on a past visit.

It was clear that Simon had become Vance's partner in crime.

I smiled to myself as I exited the black luxury car and entered the sweet smelling boutique full of fun, funky fashion for full-figured gals like me. The salesgirl met me almost at the door. "Miss Parsens, it's so nice to have you visit our store. My name is Julie. I'll be helping you today."

She took my coat before guiding me around, allowing me to peruse their newest fashion arrivals. Whenever I said I liked anything at all, she'd discreetly take an article in my size and sling it over her arm, adding other garments at her discretion to complete the look. There were casual ensembles, more professional suits and even some semi-formal wear.

Within a half hour she was heavily laden, and instructed me to follow her to one of the fitting rooms.

I tried on the first outfit and exited to get Julie's opinion, only to find Vance casually seated on the plush chair just outside. His eyes lit up as he rose and walked over to where I stood, mouth hanging open, in complete shock to see him there. "Wow, you look amazing."

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said with a sparkle in his eyes. "What am I doing here?"

I laughed. "This is really too much. You're being way too good to me."

He took my hand and spun me around for a better look at the outfit. "There is no such thing as being too good to a beautiful woman," he said. "Show me the next one."

My heart raced as I tried on the next outfit. The way his eyes traveled over me with warm appreciation lingered on my skin like a velvet caress. It was almost more intimate than a kiss, and got even more sensual with every passing outfit. My hands shook as I opened the door and appeared before him again.

Again his eyes lit up and he insisted I spin around so he could get a good look at the clothes. He patiently waited with good humor as he insisted I model each article Julie had put aside for me. I saved the sparkly semi-formal dress for last. When I finally came out of the stall in nothing but bare feet and a mid-length cocktail dress he didn't even speak.

He turned to Julie. "She'll take that one."

I laughed again. "And where am I supposed to wear this, Mr. Gale?"

He came to where I stood and took my hands in his. "Don't we have a New Year's Eve party to go to?"

His words took my breath away. Of all the ways he might interject himself into my plans, going to such a high-profile party, especially in light of being recognized the day before, was not on the short list of what I might expect. I had no idea what he'd surprise me with next.

Julie took all the garments from the dressing room before I changed back into what now felt frumpy and ordinary. I joined Vance where he stood at the counter, paying for the dress that now hung in a garment bag next to the register.

Afterwards we headed in the same car to Chinatown for lunch. Again he found the hidden jewel that was understated and private. The staff waited off just to the side to serve our every need, which gave us excellent service but privacy at the same time.

It honestly felt like I had gone to sleep somewhere around the drunken elevator ride and woke up in one of my own stories. I was speechless by how easily this man was sweeping me off my feet. He had taken total control of the date, just like he had taken control of the trip.

And he wasn't done. He ordered the driver to take us to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden State Park, where we walked among the sculpted gardens. He kept my hand in his as we wound around the grounds, telling me about the different plants that grew there. I took scads of photos. Vance surprised me by taking my phone from my hand so that he could snap a few of me as well.

"Consider them press photos," he grinned when I tried to protest.

"Please," I rolled my eyes more than once. "I don't do press photos."

"You should," he told me as he lined up a shot. "You're too beautiful to edit out of your own life, Sabrina."

"You were right about one thing. You are an expert liar," I said as he joined me.

He held up the phone to show me the phone he had taken. "Who's lying?"

Our gaze caught and held. Finally I wrenched my eyes away as I headed into the gift shop.

I could hear the smile in his voice. "What?"

"I'm just convinced that this must all be a dream," I said. "Somehow I fell asleep two days ago and I haven't woken up since. You being a dick to me. That I get. That's real life. This? It's like one of my own stories coming true."

We stopped by the display of Japanese ornaments for the tree, all the colorful Maniki Neko cats that beckoned all the good things in life, like love, health and prosperity. I took one from the stand to examine it closely. Before I could stop him, Vance snatched it from my hand and headed straight for the counter, with me trailing behind.

"What are you doing?"

His smirk was irresistible. "Carrying out tradition." He paid for the ornament before he handed me the bag. "For our tree." His eyes softened in that way that melted my heart just like butter. He tangled his fingers with mine as he led me back out to the gardens. "Your stories should come true, Sabrina. They're damned good. And Chapter Nine. Whew," he breathed. "Damn. That's all I can say."

I laughed and shook my head. "You're ridiculous."

He stopped us right in the middle of the path. "Of course I am. Life's too short to take seriously. So let's pretend it's a dream. And let's pretend like we don't have to wake up."

I could hardly argue against his plan. The hole left by David was suddenly filled with new excitement. Maybe it was a rebound romance that was only supposed to last over a holiday. I could either analyze it to death or enjoy the ride.

Suddenly I really, really wanted to enjoy the ride. I wanted to close my eyes and let the roller coaster take me where it willed. I was ready to throw my arms up in total abandonment to the rush of excitement it gave me.

I gave him a more genuine smile then as I grasped his hand in mine. He brought it to his lips and kissed my fingers softly. "You're the boss."

He pulled me closer. "That's more like it." A kiss hung between us, but I knew he wouldn't risk something so intimate in such a public setting. "Let's go."

"Go where?"

His smile was infectious. "Everywhere."

He took me ice skating in Union Square, which consisted mostly of me holding onto him for dear life as I wobbled along awkwardly beside him. We lingered at Fisherman's Wharf well into the evening, watching the holiday boats light up and the crowd twitter with collective excitement for the approaching festivities. We drank hot chocolate and walked slow, taking in all the sights like a couple of tourists, which is how everyone else was content to treat us.

We got back to the hotel in time for a late dinner, where we lingered over spiced brandy in the darkened booth, sitting close together without daring to touch. As the hours of the day waned our conversation faltered. What had been fun and lively and playful now seemed like nervous chatter in the place of what we really wanted to say. When the music began to play he simply took my hand and scooted me out of the booth to join him in the spare dance floor in the darkened corner of the room.

The minute I melted into his arms I knew I was a goner. His hands were on my back, pressing me against him. I could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne fill my nostrils as I leaned my head onto his shoulder. I locked my arms around his neck and swayed with him to a song that almost acutely described the longing we couldn't bring ourselves to articulate.

Just like every other romantic story I'd seen or written, I had to speculate whether he felt anything at all what I was feeling.

Though it had only been a few days, for me it had been a half a lifetime more than that. I had started falling for this man when I was a mere teenager. Finding out he was so much more three dimensional than the guy who used to stare at me from posters hanging on my wall only made it that much worse. He was unexpectedly kind, he was almost surprisingly funny. Most of all he had an old soul, one that understood what mattered in this world weren't the possessions one acquired or the hearts one collected.

When he held me I felt more than desired. I felt treasured.

I glanced up at him to see what he was thinking, and if those thoughts at all mirrored mine. I toppled headlong into those velvet brown eyes that drank me in. I watched, mesmerized, as his head bent toward mine.

When at last his mouth covered my own I felt the last of my resolve crumble. It was foolish to rush into anything, much less an affair with a virtual stranger doomed to last over the course of a week or two. But as I succumbed to his kiss I knew it was too late. I couldn't stop this runaway train if I wanted to.

And that was the point I totally didn't want to.

My arms tightened around him as I kissed him back. It was tentative at first but our passion caught fire. Both of us forgot we were in a public bar in full view of the other patrons. We didn't even come up for air as the song silenced. Instead we stood there, tightly woven in our own little circle, lost in a kiss that was almost bigger than the two of us.

As the next song began to play, a faster tune, we finally broke apart and tried to catch our breath. For a long moment we stared into each other's eyes, saying everything and nothing at all. Finally I whispered, "Come up to my room."

It was the invitation he had once asked me to clarify. Now, I was more than ready to do just that.

He groaned slightly as he glanced down at my lips. I could feel the response from his body that it was everything he wanted to do. "You can never know how much I want to," he whispered as he rested his forehead against mine.

"But?" I whispered back.

He clutched me tighter and closed his eyes. "I don't have any promises left to make, Sabrina."

I touched his face and made him look at me. "I'm not asking for any promises, Vance. I'm not asking you to fill some lingering expectations. I'm a big girl. I know how this works."

He sighed as he caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. "Then explain it to me. Because I'm lost," he whispered. "To you."

I reached up for another kiss. This time I parted his lips with my tongue and explored his mouth brazenly. He moaned deep in his throat as he clutched me to him. When I pulled away I whispered, "It's no more complicated than that. I want you."

He pulled me into a tight hug. I could tell he wanted me too. But I also knew it had been a very long time since he had let anyone close. And for that reason alone I pulled gently away and led him back to the booth. I didn't even bother to sit back down. I just took his hands in mine. "Tomorrow it's my turn."

He smiled. "Your turn for what?"

"To spoil you," I said. "Be ready at nine," I instructed as I leaned up for a goodnight kiss. It lingered as a chaste peck, but we both knew it was far more than that by now.

When I entered my hotel suite I found dozens of cheerfully wrapped boxes under my tree, where I hung my new Lucky Cat ornament, which I hoped would prove lucky indeed. It made me plan my day as Santa with even more determination.

It was Christmas Eve, after all.

I was going to make sure it was one of the best Christmas Eves that Vance Gale had ever experienced.

Act Three

I called Simon that following morning, who got to work his magic for me this time around, including organizing a wine tour from San Francisco to Napa Valley. We boarded the limo bus with a group of older tourists, none of whom recognized the much younger Vance, nor cared.

It was perfect.

We made it to the vineyard in Sonoma before noon, where we were treated to a tour of the grounds, complete with a picnic lunch. He surprised me once again with how much he knew on the subject of fine wine, once again proving himself a wise and entertaining companion.

I could listen to him talk for days on any subject. He was a crash course in refinement.

As we walked among the gardens, he took my hand in his. It was sweet and romantic, and it made me feel special. I hooked my arm with his with a smile. "Enjoying your morning?"

He grinned. "Very much. I had never been here before. Sonoma, yes, but not this particular winery. I know a great museum we can visit if you want," he started, but I shook my head.

"It's my turn to spoil you," I insisted.

His voice was soft. "You already do." He stopped me on the path so that he could cup my face in both hands, before he bent to kiss me softly. I thought I might go up in flames the minute that warm gentle mouth covered mine once more.

"Would you like us to take a picture of you?" asked one of the older couples who had joined us for the tour.

I felt Vance tense up only briefly before he offered the generous woman a smile. "I would," he said before he handed her his phone. He then turned me into his arms for a full cuddle from behind. Just feeling his body that close to mine was enough to do me in, but then I saw the picture. Never in a million years did I expect to see a photo where Vance Gale was holding me close – but there it was.

This time I reached for a kiss, and he didn't deny me.

Inevitably we ended up breaking from the tour just after lunch, where I took him to the art gallery I had already planned to visit. He knew the curator, and the both of them offered keen insight on the exhibits. I learned more in a couple of hours with them than I had learned in any art classes I had taken in college. Vance educated me on several pieces and styles, an enthusiastic teacher for an earnest student.

Like he had done the day before, I made a mental note of the things that delighted him throughout our day together and made sure those things were wrapped and sent back to the hotel to await Christmas morning under my tree.

Like everything else we had done it had been an experience in laughter and deepening friendship, maybe even the first stages of falling in love.

I couldn't wait to see where it would go from there.

There was just one thing left to do, and it involved the rented limo waiting for us back at the vineyard, which would take us back to the city.

Vance looked tired but happy as he turned to me. "What a phenomenal day," he said. "Thank you for giving me new memories for Christmas."

I cuddled close. "I'm not done."

He laughed. "What more could there be?"

"It's a surprise."

He pulled me into his arms as we snuggled together in the darkened back seat of the luxury car. "This is enough, just being here with you."

Our eyes met. Once again his mouth descended on mine, with a hunger that suggested he had been waiting all day for that. My heart fluttered with excitement as his kiss warmed my lips, demanding full submission almost immediately. With one hand he tangled his fingers in mine; with the other hand he slid his fingers into my hair to tilt my head back against the seat. I gasped slightly from the possessive gesture.

But despite the growing hunger I felt between us, he seemed perfectly content to make out like kids on the way back to the city. All too soon the bright lights of our hotel invaded the darkened oasis of the back seat of the car, bringing us back to the world of the living. I pulled him out of the car and we walked arm and arm towards the elevator.

"So what's next, Miss Parsens?"

"We have to get cleaned up," I instructed. "We're going to church to ring in Christmas properly."

He seemed taken aback by the suggestion, but deeply touched at the same time. He hugged me close. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That was my mother's tradition. Every year without fail. Except...except for the last one."

I touched his face with one hand. "She was there," I told him softly. "And she is here tonight too. No one is lost to us, Vance. Our memories hold them close no matter how far they've wandered. That's why we have to do whatever we can to hold onto them. No matter what."

He cupped my face in both hands. "I guess I just needed the reminder," he said. "Thank you, Sabrina. Again," he added.

I nodded and kissed him softly. "See you downstairs in an hour."

He was thoughtful and quiet when we met again to ride to the church. He looked solemn in his black sweater and pants, his hair pulled back away from his face. I wore a similarly conservative outfit, except my sweater was a lot more colorful in festive hunter green.

We arrived at the church close to midnight and fell into step behind a throng of the faithful who already joined in line. We found a pew toward the back of the candlelit church. A glorious organ towered behind the altar, and a large choir decked out in ornate white robes began to sing the familiar hymns of the holiday.

All around us people joined in, but I noticed that Vance stood with his head bent as if in prayer. When a tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye I took his hand into mine. I began to sing for the both of us. As the mood grew more reverent the choir began to sing Silent Night.

To my surprise, and my sole pleasure, I heard Vance softly sing the first verse. His voice cracked, clearly unused for many years, but it was as rich as I remembered. Instead of being smooth as silk, it was textured like velvet. By the time he got to the chorus I openly wept.

It was the greatest gift he could have ever given me. He had not sung a note since his beloved mother passed. And now, somehow, he had found his voice again.

He seemed as overwhelmed as I was. He didn't say much, and his teasing manner was subdued as he clutched my hand tightly throughout the rest of the service. He didn't even say too much on the way back to the hotel once it was over. He just drew me into the crook of his arm and rested his chin on the top of my head.

No words were needed in the comforting embrace we shared. It was as though any spoken word would stop the healing that was taking place between us.

Once we got to the hotel I didn't have to ask him to come to my room, he led the way. In the elevator he punched my floor number but said nothing at all as he pulled me in close so that he could wrap his arms around me. It was as though he wanted nothing more between us, not even the air.

I pulled my keycard out of my wallet as we exited the elevator, and he took it from me to open the door for us. The minute it shut behind us with a subtle click he cupped my face in both hands to place a tender kiss on my lips. It was tentative and exploring, but it was no longer questioning.

Instead he savored every single second.

His hands were in my hair and he whispered my name as he planted kisses on my lips, the tip of my nose, across my cheek and towards my ear and neck. "I never met anyone like you," he said. "It's like the last ten years I've been waiting for this... for you... for us."

I slipped out of my coat and let it fall to the floor. "You don't have to wait anymore," I assured him before I took his hand. He pulled it to his lips, where his kiss lingered. Finally, he stepped closer and swung me back into his arms, just like the very first night. I gasped as I looped my arms around his neck. He reached for another kiss as he carried me towards the bedroom the suite. There was no more hesitation. The minute he deposited me on the bed, he shrugged out of his own coat and sweater before joining me where I lay.

He captured my lips for another kiss. It was though he couldn't get enough. I shared his hunger and I pulled him down on top of me. I pulled the band from his hair and it fell around me in a silken curtain. He was finally the man I remembered from so long ago, but oh so much more. He was fully three dimensional instead of some living poster cutout from some magazine cover. He was a flesh and blood man who, for at least this one night, wanted to be with me more than anything else in the world.

I flipped him onto his back to sprinkle kisses of my own across his face, along his neck, and every inch of flesh I would bare as I slipped each button free from his shirt. His fingers wound in my hair as my head sunk lower along his torso, creating a hot trail with my tongue over his satiny flesh. He whispered my name as my mouth danced over sensitive skin, which encouraged me to go further, explore more. He slipped from his shirt and tossed it into a corner as I focused on the tender skin of his abdomen near his unfastened pants.

The more I teased him with the tip of my tongue the more crazed he got. Eventually he pushed me back on the bed to return the favor.

Only when he bared the flesh from my shirt, he took his time exploring the full and generous curves, teasing me relentlessly along the tight and hardened peaks of my breasts through my bra. I sat up just enough to tear the shirt from my body, and then unhooked the bra so he could finally have access to the body that literally ached for him.

When his mouth closed over one nipple I arched toward him like an eager virgin. I felt his fingers hook into the waistband of my pants as he slowly revealed me like a work of art he needed time to fully appreciate. There wasn't one square inch of me that he didn't kiss or taste or touch as the last of my clothes fell away. His hair spilled around me, covering me like an ebony sheet, as he kissed his way back up my body. My legs crossed behind his waist to bring him in closer to me. I needed to feel him inside me. I wanted him to claim me, body and soul.

But Vance took his time. He memorized my body with his hands, with his mouth, and with his tongue. I lay underneath him whimpering for more but he seemed determined to take his time. He had waited a really long time to love a woman. He was on a mission to do it right.

For all I gave to him that day he returned every favor. He tenderly brought me to ecstasy first with his masterful fingers, then with his inquisitive tongue. I was nearly in tears from the pleasure. By the time he slipped out of his clothes and fit himself against my body I couldn't even speak. He entered me slowly, with a long gasp of pleasure. "My Sabrina," he whispered.

My fingers curled into his back as I arched against him. I wanted to beg him to make love to me but the truth was he had been doing that from the very moment he handed me his pen in the elevator. Every gesture opening himself up and letting me into his life was making love in the most sacred way possible. What he shared with me he had shared with no one. He was literally making love happen.

And I knew this because I knew, the second he filled me completely, that I loved him. We had been two strangers. Now we were one.

I wanted to tell him that but I couldn't say anything at all. I was lost in a sea of pleasure that swept me from wave to rapturous wave. I responded only with my body, which made his movements more urgent. He had amazing control but I watched it crack as he felt me writhe beneath him. His hand wound in my hair as he dropped hot kisses against my mouth.

When he came he was looking deep in my eyes, that same look that had stolen my heart when I was a teen.

And now it was mine, forever and always.

He collapsed into my arms and I wrapped myself tightly around him. He was my gift. I wasn't about to let him go.

He perched himself on his elbows and looked down at me. "You were so worth the wait," he whispered before trailing the line of my cheek with one delicate fingertip.

I had to smile. "So were you."

He bent for another kiss, which led to another... and then another. I flipped him onto his back to get even with him for torturing me so. Gleefully I listened to his pleas for more, but he was on my timetable now. By the time I straddled him it was his turn to lose control under me. This time both of our cries echoed in the quiet room as we made love through the early hours of that beautiful Christmas morn. We weren't in any hurry to see what Santa had brought us under the tree.

Instead we took our time with the real gift of being together. We dozed in each other arms after watching the sun rise, but I already knew no dream could ever come close to my new reality. We were together – for an hour, for a day... for a week. I was going to enjoy it while it lasted and then treasure the memories of it for a lifetime.

Loving Vance Gale was my dream come true.

I woke to his gently stroking my hair, staring at me from where he propped his head on the pillow next to mine. He smiled. "Merry Christmas."

I smiled back. It was indeed. I curled toward him, snuggling in the soft bedding that wrapped around us both like a luxurious cocoon. "Did you get everything you wanted?"

He reached for a kiss. "And much, much more. I must have been a very good boy this year."

My hands danced along his sinewy body, dipping under the covers. "I'd say you were a very good boy," I said with a giggle as I scooted closer. His body was already reaching toward mine.

We spent the next hour touching, kissing, exploring and loving each other as completely as we both knew how. It was no longer about sexual need, although our need was as raw as any hunger. We were two lonely souls insatiable for the touch of another. Each touch branded us, every kiss connected us. Whenever he entered me I could no longer remember where I ended and he began. I felt through his fingers and saw through his eyes.

It was a most magical Christmas morning.

By the time we went to share a bath there was no modesty. We were as comfortable around each other naked as we had ever been clothed. But the coolness of the December day warranted reaching for robes by the time our Christmas brunch arrived via room service. We fed each other among giggles and kisses, and then finally figured we'd open up the bounty of gifts now sitting in a colorful mountain under the tree.

With each gift we grew closer and closer. Each tiny thoughtful treasure was meant to fulfill the other's desire. He surprised me with crystal snowflake necklace and I gave him that surprise from two days before: a musical note Christmas ornament inscribed, "To Vance, whose voice was a gift to the world."

He took me into his arms for a long hug. He was overwhelmed by the gesture. Then he started to sing a song from the past, one that had meant so much to me. He cuddled me close as we sat near the tree, but I forgot everything but the soothing sound of his voice as he sang words of love I used to hang my heart upon when I was just a girl.

As the last note faded I kissed him, to thank him for the best gift of all. Though all his presents were so thoughtful and generous, the gift of hearing him sing topped them all. As he caressed my face he sang yet another song, only this time I joined in. I was no singer by far but just hearing our voices blend felt like making love on a whole other level.

We sank down onto the blanket on the floor together as we sang to each other, lost in each other's eyes, then in each other's kiss. This time our union was much more explosive. I nearly cried as I came. I was lost to him body and soul.

From the raptured look on his face, I knew he felt likewise. He collapsed over to my side. "What are you doing to me?" he asked as he tried to catch his breath.

I could have declared my love there, and I wanted to desperately. But as the mistress of fantasy, I knew it was best left exactly that... a fantasy. We had already had the requisite discussion about birth control, and that's where I sensed reality needed to stop for our unexpected holiday romance.

Instead I snuggled against him. "Giving you new Christmas memories."

He liked the sound of that. He cuddled me close and we spent the afternoon watching a Christmas movie marathon, feeding each other the cookies we had helped make and making out like two teenagers who had just discovered how to kiss.

As the sun rode high on our perfect Christmas day, we talked about once again joining the land of the living, though neither of us was particularly motivated to do that. I wasn't ready to share him yet so I effectively distracted him from going to his own room to get some clothes. "Chapter Nine didn't require any," I grinned, and he proceeded to tickle me into submission.

In the end, though, we did head out. Vance had one last trick up his sleeve – a little hideaway in the Presidio, where we could be outside among the humans, and among nature, without much risk.

I followed him down across what was left of an old fort, over a fence that didn't do much to barricade against visitors, and finally to the bluff overlooking the west side of the Golden Gate Bridge. With the Pacific to our left and the Bay to our right, it was like we really were standing at the gateway to the world. The wind whipped our hair around, free to attack us at will without all the tall buildings to protect us. I shivered instantly, despite the coat I wore, and he was quick to cuddle me as we sat on an old log facing the ocean.

"How'd you find this place?" I asked, though my teeth chattered. He laughed and pulled me closer, before pointing towards the northern end of the bridge. "I live that way," he said. "I used to come here when I couldn't get out of the city, just because it was closest. And quietest," he added, though, with the roar of the wind, it wasn't that quiet.

But despite the noise and the cold, it was the most peaceful place I'd ever been. It was like being on the edge of the planet. "It's beautiful," I said.

"You're beautiful," he responded, before he bent his head for another kiss. "Thanks for sharing a bit of my world with me."

"Thanks for asking," I said. I figured not a whole lot of people got to accompany him to this place.

"Teri didn't like it much," he said.

My eyes swung back to him. It was the first time he had talked about his ex, though I knew those wounds cut deep. I was too afraid to speak, fearing that he'd stop talking. Like pulling a bandage off of a wound, he pressed on.

"She liked the rock and roll life. She loved the parties, the attention. The money," he added. "I wanted to keep things sweet and simple and she was a full throttle kind of girl. She needed a full throttle kind of guy."

I held my breath. This was where I learned if the rumors were true. It broke my heart when she confided, "There are plenty of full-throttle guys in Sonic Rocket."

I took his hand in mine. "Oh, Vance."

He shook his head, as if it didn't matter anymore. It was clear as the bright blue sky above us that it did.

"I came home early, to tell her about Mom. We had just learned her diagnosis. Found her in bed with another man. My bed. My bandmate. My brother and my friend." His voice trailed off. "She blamed me. He blamed me. And for a while I thought they were right. I was obsessed with the music. I was distracted with my mom. I hated fame and all the trappings that came with it, the stuff they loved and lived for. I was always on the outside looking in, but they never quite saw it that way." He sighed. "And now she's made millions of dollars, famous in her own right, thanks to her tell-all novel that painted me as the neglectful ingrate who took it all for granted. That's the Vance Gale of record, one that is sure to never disappoint. Expect me to hurt you. I probably will."

"That's not who you are," I corrected. "Why didn't you tell the truth, Vance? People would have believed you."

"Would they?" he said. "Face it, Sabrina. People see what they want to see, no matter how much or how little you give them. So why should I care?"

"Why do you care?" I asked. His eyes met mine. "You hide behind this asshole façade but that's not who you are. You're a kind man. You're a good man. You just need to give people a chance to get to know that."

He sighed as he held me closer. "Not everyone is like you. You remind me a lot of my mom. She was always my biggest fan. She made me promise I would keep going, to keep making music. She said that being happy was the best revenge. But without her to hear me sing, there hardly seemed a point."

I wove his fingers in mine. "There's a point." With only the wind to accompany me, I started singing one of his biggest hits, the one that made me fall in love with him as a starry-eyed kid. He watched me for a moment, taking it all in. I wasn't sure how he felt about it until verse two, when he finally joined in. My heart swelled with joy as he sang those familiar lyrics to me, a VIP audience of one.

After it was over, he rewarded me with a soft kiss. I lost myself in his eyes as he whispered, "I want to take you across that bridge, Sabrina. Come with me. See my world. Even if you can't stay."

I caressed his face with my hand. "You're the boss," I repeated again. He delivered an even hotter kiss. We practically chased each other back to the car so we could get back to the hotel.

We dozed a little and cuddled a lot. We whispered in the darkness about our dreams and our fears. I told him about the death of my own dad when I was just a kid, and how that had scarred me for life with deeply rooted abandonment issues.

He talked about a love affair he had had when he was still famous. It ended badly when he discovered she had been unfaithful to him with one of the members of the band. Since then that same person had trashed him in the media as an ingrate who had never appreciated being a part of the group. Likewise Vance's ex-girlfriend made a pretty penny off of her tell-all book about a groupie who got just a little too close to a distant, perfectionist asshole she could never please.

No wonder he had wanted to take things slow with me. How could he ever really trust anyone else again? He just wanted to be left alone to live his quiet life. He wanted to garden and go to the local market without anyone making a fuss. So many people had branded him an egotist who had left the band in a lurch after everything went sour with the other band member. It had really been because he wanted to be with his mom before she passed, but the press, and those who had so cruelly betrayed him, painted him as the selfish asshole.

It was easy for a majority of the fans to take sides against the guy who ultimately fractured a successful and popular band at the height of their popularity.

"Why didn't you set the record straight?" I asked gently. His reputation had been skewered in those early days after he retired, creating a situation so toxic he probably couldn't have returned to music even if he wanted to. Fans were genuinely pissed at him, but they only knew half of the story.

"Like I said, it was all superfluous. Nothing mattered, much less people who had used me, lied to me and broken my trust. The only ones who mattered even less were the ones who could so quickly believe the worst about me. It was all a big illusion where facts just get in the way. That was a game I no longer wanted or needed to play."

He confided his mom was the one person who had never let him down. Without her he had spent the last ten years feeling truly alone. The whole sad story made me want to promise that I would never betray him or disappoint him, but the time didn't seem right.

We talked tentatively about the future. He wanted me to stay with him so I could see his home, meet his horses, and stroll through the garden that served as a living memorial to his mom. I suggested he go with me to Chicago, the next stop on my book's press junket. He balked immediately. It was one thing to navigate San Francisco, a town he had known all his life. It was another to be on the arm of a famous author who still had to make appearances for the press.

This was a sweet holiday romance. Real life waited, and it was clear that what we needed or wanted most from the other may not even be possible. He'd had his time in the sun, while I was just starting my career.

But nothing mattered when his hands were on my body, or I slipped away in the warm velvet seas of his brown eyes. For that moment we were exactly what we needed. Each kiss mended those deep scars just a little bit more. We spent yet another night forsaking sleep so that we could kiss once more, or touch just one more time.

We held the world at bay until the next morning. I had yet another interview and he used the opportunity to go get a change of clothes. He linked his hands behind my back for one more embrace before we started our day apart. "As much as I would like to stay here buck naked with you for the next week, we should probably get out of the room at least once," he said with a playful smile.

"Your loss," I said with an equally cheerful grin. I slipped my shirt to one side to show him the sexy underwear I wore underneath. "I can't wear that in public."

He growled playfully as he snuggled my neck. "It's sexy just knowing that I get to take that off of you later," he said against my ear.

I was still smiling when I arrived for my interview, with the entertainment correspondent at the local TV station. I just wanted to get this over with so I could get back to Vance. He was wrong; we didn't need to ever leave the hotel room. We had ten years of loving to catch up on and only a week left to do it.

Both of us were due to check out New Year's Day.

He had already woven himself into my existence. Even now, without him anywhere near, I felt the warmth of his mouth against my lips. I longed to feel him in my arms.

I was crazy in love with him and I wasn't quite sure I'd know what to do without him, so I was going to put off worrying about it as long as I could physically touch him and love him and claim him as my own.

"Miss Parsens," the interviewer greeted. He was young and way too pretty, with an even smile that never quite reached his eyes. "It's so nice to have you visit us here at The Scoop: San Francisco."

"It's nice to be here," I said dutifully and prepared for the barrage of questions that required nothing more than some carefully rehearsed automated responses.

So tell us, Ms. Parsens, where do you get inspiration for your steamy tales?

Tell us, Ms. Parsens, how do you handle writer's block?

Tell us, Ms. Parsens, is it true that your next novel has already been optioned for a film?

I had answers for all of them. I had answered them dozens of times before.

"I hear you've been enjoying our fine city with a native," he said. "So what's the scoop? Are you having a romance with singer and rock legend Vance Gale?"

His unexpected question left me thunderstruck. "I'm sorry... what did you say?"

He motioned to the screen behind him, which showed a picture of Vance and I from the hotel bar, when we shared our kiss on the dance floor. Alongside was a headline from a tabloid, asking if Vance was finally returning from the dead.

"Our sources say that you've been staying at the same hotel over the holiday season. Looking pretty cozy here with some serious PDA. Does this have anything to do with the rumors of his making a musical comeback? Is he ready to come back into the spotlight?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," I said stiffly. I wasn't used to this kind of ambush reporting, mostly because I had never been involved in any kind of relationship that would warrant it. All my significant others had been unknowns, who weren't even blips on tabloid gossip's radar.

With Vance, who had exited his public life quite tumultuously, it was a whole other ballgame.

"This isn't you in a passionate embrace with Vance Gale, the former lead singer of Sonic Rocket?"

Anger flooded through me. I was pissed to be pounced like a gazelle on the desert plain, and extremely protective of my new lover who would find this whole interview intolerable. "I am only here to answer questions about my book," I told him. "Otherwise I have no comment."

I pulled the wire from my microphone pack and threw it down on the table separating me from the host, who kept firing more questions about Vance and my new relationship. I stalked off and pushed past producers who were trying to get me to go back on set.

I told them all where to go and kindly offered assistance in getting them there.

As I jumped back into the hotel car I called Vance from my phone. From the sound of his voice when he answered, I knew that he knew we'd been outed. Turned out that he had been watching the live interview and found out about our tabloid appearance the same time I did. "Vance, I'm so sorry," I said, even though I had really nothing to be sorry about.

"It's not your fault," he said softly. "I knew better than to do something that stupid in public like that."

That hurt me to hear more than I wanted to admit. Did he really think our sweet little affair was stupid? Before I could ask, he muttered, "They're never going to leave me alone," with such sadness that it scared me.

"It doesn't matter what they say or what they think. I know the real you. Maybe if I said something–"

"No," he cut me off sharply. "I'm out of the limelight for a reason. And that's where I want to stay."

My stomach sank. "So what are you saying?"

He sighed. I could feel him weigh every word. "Sabrina," he started and from the tone of his voice I knew a goodbye was imminent.

Of course a goodbye was imminent. This wasn't one of my stories. This was a real life affair with real life complications that often shattered any kind of happily ever after. Fiction had to make sense, it had to follow structure; it had to offer a payoff for every setup.

Real life was chaotic and disappointing and heartbreaking. That was one of the reasons why we all read books with happy endings. Life offers precious few on its own. I held my breath and tried not to cry as he continued.

"This Christmas has been amazing... so much more than I could have ever dreamed. You gave me a gift beyond measure, one I will treasure for a lifetime."

"But?" My voice was barely a whisper as I strangled the question through my constricted throat.

"But you belong in a world I no longer want any part of. I can't just be with you. I'm with you and I'm with Sabrina Parsens, a bestselling novelist. It's apparently front page news. And I'm no longer a front page guy. Honestly, I don't think I ever was."

"Vance," I started but he was quick to interrupt.

"You are a beautiful, amazing woman," he said. "And I have loved every minute I spent with you. I will treasure it always."

I held my breath as I waited for the goodbye. He seemed as reluctant to say it as I was to hear it. And I couldn't even get mad about that. He wasn't trying to be a dick anymore. He hated doing things to hurt or disappoint people.

But the fame hurt him worse.

So I gave him one last gift. I let him go first, so he wouldn't have to.

"Goodbye, Vance," I said before I disconnected the call. I hated myself for crying all the way back to the hotel.

Act Four

I spent the next few days in a haze. I called my publicist and canceled every last engagement I could get out of. The only one I couldn't bow out of was my own launch party on New Year's Eve; otherwise my publisher would have owned my ass royally. It was a huge PR package that had flown in ten of my superfans from around the globe to share the holiday with me. It would have been a public relations nightmare to cancel at the last minute, especially over something as ridiculous as a broken heart.

At the time when I agreed to the damn thing I was certain that it was better than being alone for New Year's Eve, which I had figured would remind me of my breakup with David. I had no idea that I would run into a childhood idol and fall promptly into the sack for a whirlwind romance that was absolutely and completely out of character.

Now I was bitterly and utterly alone, not because David wasn't there but because Vance would not be at my side where I knew he should be. He was the perfect peg; I knew it the minute he held me for the first time, carrying me into my hotel room when I was too drunk to walk. He stitched himself under my skin like a tattoo and now everything, even that stupid party, would remind me of him.

The only thing I had suitable to wear was the dress Vance had purchased for me, and since I could no longer leave my room without lingering paparazzi snapping shots of me, it wasn't like I could just go and buy another one.

And I wasn't particularly in the mood to shop online.

Simon apologized profusely for the breach in security that allowed for that damning photo to be taken in the first place. He confided that Vance had already checked out in the middle of the night and very likely retreated back to his home in Marin County where it was safe. It tore my heart in two to know he was no longer at arm's reach but I had known from the start that our union was doomed to be brief.

I just hadn't expected the end to come as quickly as it did.

Despite how badly it hurt, I knew in my heart that he was absolutely right. He was no longer a front page guy. He wasn't ready to go to the parties and the press events that came with my career, and I wasn't quite ready to retire and tend a garden.

What a cruel twist of fate. I finally found the one for me and there was no way it could last beyond a couple of days. We met too early... or too late. We really were two star-crossed lovers, two ships destined to pass each other in the night like some stupid cliché.

If I had written this story, my fans would have burned me in effigy, and I could hardly blame them.

All that was left now was mourning what could have been. I knew I would come to treasure the time I got to be with him, which was so much more than I ever dreamed I'd have when I spent all those lonely nights as a teenager staring at the posters on my bedroom wall. I finally signed his book, "Thank you for the Christmas of a lifetime," and had Simon send it to his home. Then I braced myself for the transition of learning how to live my life without the heart he happened to take with him when he left.

I missed him in ways big and small. I missed the smell of his cologne, the sound of his laughter, the way his eyes would crinkle up in the corners when he smiled. I missed the way his hand was warm against my cool skin, or the sound of his breathing as he slept next to me. I missed his zest for life, which he demonstrated in all the little ways he'd enjoy such mundane things like the taste of good wine, the sound of children laughing or a simple melody from a familiar song.

He liked things so simple, in fact, that any hint of complication scared him away from truly living the life I knew deep down he wanted to live. He was right. The guy I met that first day at the hotel wasn't the real Vance Gale. That was his scarecrow. He'd used that persona for a decade to scare off anyone who could hurt him. But once he opened up, he blossomed just like a flower in his very own garden. That was the real Vance Gale. And I missed him so badly my soul ached.

That he was locked up in his own prison was the saddest revelation of all. He didn't want to live in the shadows; he had resigned himself that it was safer there. He navigated it but he didn't enjoy it. He had enjoyed being with me, so much so he let his guard down enough to be captured by the paparazzi that intimidated him so.

But there was nothing I could do about it now. He wouldn't even answer my calls when the loneliness got the better of me and I tried his number just to hear his voice.

I was greeted by funny recorded messages that welcomed callers to leave a message. I smiled through tears as I listened to him say, in character, that I had reached Luigi's Bake-Your-Own Pizza Emporium, but that no one could answer the phone because another patron had caught themselves on fire. I laughed and I cried. By the time it beeped, I couldn't speak. I left no messages and he never called back.

As the days passed I sensed he never would. I only had known him for a few days, a Christmas romance that could help him remember how it felt to be loved, without all the complications and expectations that normally came along with it. We had essentially taken a one-night-stand and turned it into our own romance story, a fantasy we both fulfilled with a stranger who happened to be at the right place at the right time.

But he didn't feel like a stranger to me. Instead I felt like I was missing an arm. I sat in that hotel window, by my festive tree, and stared at the bay he loved. That was a part of me now. And I still loved him. I physically ached whenever I thought about him. I stopped sleeping in the bed the night I let him go. Instead I slept on the sofa in the living area of the suite. I stared at the tree he'd given to me in lieu of sleep at night, rendering me a brain-dead zombie being kept prisoner in one of the most luxurious cells ever.

I kept checking my phone hoping that he had called but it remained a silent reminder that I was alone and virtually unloved in the most festive season of the year, despite fans, family, friends and acquaintances. Nothing filled the hole he left. I found myself watching those videos that reminded me of how it felt to be in his arms and lost in his eyes but it left me feeling lonelier than before.

Simon took pity on me more than once. He would bring my supper for one to my room, sitting with me while I pushed the food around on the plate. I knew he felt responsible, but it wasn't his fault. "It's just bad timing," I finally told him. He offered me a rare hug.

By the time I prepared for the party I needed the human contact as much as I dreaded it. The fans would remind me that life has a higher purpose than just spending a week with an idol, something I knew could never last anyway. It was time to stop wallowing in self-pity and go back to the life that had been just fine a mere week before.

I was successful. I was financially secure. I was showered in accolades for the one thing in life I wanted to do more than anything. I was a very blessed woman. So what if I didn't have a man? Or, more to the point: the man?

I was a whole, complete person all on my own. I could walk into that room with my head held high and be a gracious hostess for the fans who had helped make me the success I was.

They deserved better than a bitter and petulant crybaby.

Simon called in a hairdresser and cosmetologist to help me prepare for my big night. I could have sent for another dress but in the end it seemed fitting to wear the one Vance bought me. He was right. It was a beautiful Christmas memory I could treasure always.

I arrived to the other hotel via limousine and was escorted into my party by two handsome men in swanky uniforms. I was announced like a queen and applauded as I descended down the steps to mingle with my guests of honor. Though there were only ten, I gave each one a significant chunk of time so that I could learn more about them. I heard how they met and fell in love, or how they still looked forward to finding The One, which they believed they could find now simply because of my books.

Too bad I couldn't say the same.

There were hugs and there were tears, most of all there was laughter. Festive champagne punch flowed easily, putting everyone in high spirits for the final hours of the year. Male models infiltrated the crowd as the music was kicked up a notch. A couple of readers even got me out on the dance floor. It lightened my mood so much I kicked myself for staying in my hotel room like a scared rabbit for the past week. I just hadn't wanted to face the inevitable embarrassment of being dumped by Vance Gale.

Surprisingly no one cared about that at the party. Perhaps they had already been briefed that the subject was off the table, because I made that pretty clear to my publicist in a screaming fit unlike she'd ever heard.

Vance was still mine to protect in a lot of ways. I knew I'd never let him down, even if we couldn't be together.

The publicist had smoothed things over after that sham of an interview, making it clear my personal life was not up for discussion in any interview now or in the future. That didn't stop the requests from pouring in, but I had declined them all. There was no need for a music publication to interview a romance novelist, nor any national gossip mags or TV shows.

Thanks to a blurb saying that Vance had disappeared after checking out of the hotel, interest in me quickly waned once it became clear I wasn't going to give any press on the matter.

The blogs weren't so kind. Fan sites were meaner still. Things were said about a plus-sized author who wrote plus-sized fiction who was trying to cash in on his image for the publicity. Surely he didn't have any sexual interest in someone like me, who clearly didn't fit the mold for a rock star girlfriend. They posted one of my social media shots from the Japanese Garden, one of the few shots of me I truly loved, just because I could finally see myself through Vance's eyes, since he was the one who took the photo. It was positioned side by side with a photo of the ex-girlfriend and model, one who was so pretty and, if the comment section was any indication, many considered way too good for him. She was heralded as a saint for holding onto their relationship years after it was clear they'd never be happy together.

That was her official story anyway. No one knew she'd torn his heart to shreds when he caught her in bed with the lead guitarist from the band. Instead they based their judgment on things they could see. No one could understand how he could go from her to me, unless he was just really desperate for the publicity himself.

Pretty soon everything he had done or said, or I had done or said, was flipped around like we had done everything to get their attention, rather than discourage it. Despite their best efforts I refused to rise to the bait. They were so cruel to him and to me but in the end their bitter lies and sour conjecture couldn't change what we shared. And it didn't matter one bit whether they believed it or not. I carried those memories like the precious treasures they were.

All I could do was hope he'd always do the same; that I'd always be worth the risk he took, despite how badly it had all ended.

The band played music well into the evening as we wined and dined away the last day of the year. Excitement rose as the clock ticked closer to midnight, and my publicist positioned me at the main table on stage so that we could announce the New Year to our guests. The press gathered along the stage to take the requisite photos for the event, which had featured some other notable names from the romance genre, mostly local authors who belonged to the writers association in the area that had hosted the affair.

Unless you were in the industry there was nothing that press-worthy about the event, so I didn't expect any appearance of the sharks that had tried to attack when the affair became public. As such people were able to let their hair down and enjoy themselves.

I was on my third glass of champagne by the time we got to the ten minute warning for the countdown. I normally didn't drink that much but the artificial high was convenient. It dulled the ache of Vance's absence and helped me smile and enjoy the crowd. When the band began to play that familiar song, my favorite song of all time, it almost didn't even hurt. No matter what came before or after – for one moment in time that song had been for me.

What more could a girl ever ask for?

As I braced myself for the sound of another voice singing my song, I nearly choked on my next sip of champagne when I recognized that deep, velvety voice booming through the room from the microphone on stage. I whipped my head around to see Vance, standing there in those familiar tuxedo tails, dressed to the nines with his hair hanging free along his back.

He sang the first verse to the crowd, many of whom were all atwitter with this surprise appearance from a former music superstar. Many sang along with him, which I could tell from the look on his face meant more to him than they realized.

He had missed being on stage. He had missed connecting with his fans. I could tell by the way those lovely eyes wrinkled with a big smile he couldn't contain as he sang to each lovely girl in the front row. Then, when he got to the chorus, he glanced over to me. My heart lurched up in my throat when he held out his hand so that I would go join him.

My legs shook as I glided over to him in a daze. I grabbed onto his hand so that I could remain on my feet and not faint right off the edge of the stage. He curled his arm around my back and pulled me close to sing the second verse.

And, just like when I was fifteen, he turned his head to sing that chorus right to me and made me fall in love with him all over again.

I was speechless as the crowd thundered with applause when he hit those vocal acrobatics at the end of the song. He bowed toward them in genuine appreciation for their enthusiastic response to what I knew was his first live performance in a decade.

And it was for me?

"What are you doing here?" I said into his ear.

"Isn't this how the movie ends?" he said with that smile I loved so much.

I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight, which made the crowd go even crazier. When he pulled back he lifted the microphone and turned back to the crowd. "When I left the world's stage ten years ago, I never thought I would ever come back. I didn't think I could trust anyone to fully have my back after my mom died. I felt betrayed by friends, forgotten by fans, and it was just a lot easier–and safer–to disappear off the grid entirely."

The crowd listened in rapt fascination as the lucky press to capture the event snapped photos and video.

"Then I met somebody who told me that I needed to get over myself. She told me that all those things I thought were meaningless mattered to people, to real people, to good people. She made me believe again. It was kind of a Christmas miracle, really. She put me in my place by holding a mirror up to the selfish jerk I was, then proceeded to show me I could still laugh, I could still breathe, I could still sing. And... most importantly... I could still love."

My breath caught. What was he saying?

"Sabrina," he said to me, still using the microphone for the world to hear, "You didn't just save Christmas. You saved me. These last few days have been the hardest, and most unnecessary, of my entire life. I tried my best, but I can't imagine a future without you in it. No matter what it holds. No matter what it means. I don't want to be without you again." He turned me to face him. "Forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" I repeated through my tearful laughter. "I love you."

We heard the crowd begin their countdown behind us. "Five... four..."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said as he tossed the microphone down and pulled me closer. "Because my story couldn't have a happily ever after without you in it."

"Three... two...."

Our lips met right at the stroke of midnight in a kiss that shattered all the ones we'd shared before. The place exploded around us in singing, laughter and applause as confetti poured from the ceiling with festive balloons and banners.

As the kiss ended I looked up at the man who now completed a lifelong puzzle. "What do you know?" I mused with a contented smile. "We got our happy ending."

"No, baby," he corrected as he pulled me up against him in a possessive embrace for the world to see. "It's a happy beginning."

I closed my eyes as I held him in my arms, my heart having finally found home at last.

###

About the Author

Ginger Voight is a screenwriter and bestselling author with more than twenty published titles in fiction and nonfiction. Her nonfiction works cover everything from travel to politics, while her works of fiction range from romance to the paranormal, as well as dark "ripped-from-the-headlines" topics, such as those featured in her book Dirty Little Secrets.

Ginger discovered her love for writing in the sixth grade, courtesy of a Halloween assignment. From then on, writing became a thing of solace, reflection, and security. When she found herself homeless in L.A. at the age of nineteen, she wrote her first novel in longhand on notebook paper while living out of her car.

In 1995, after she lost her nine-day-old son, she worked through her grief by writing the story that would eventually become The Fullerton Family Saga. In 2011, she embarked on a new journey: to publish romance novels starring heroines who look like the average American woman. These "Rubenesque romances" have developed a following thanks to her bestselling Groupie series. Other titles, such as the highly-rated Fierce series, tap into the American preoccupation with reality TV, giving her contemporary stories a current, pop-culture edge.

Ginger isn't afraid to push the envelope with characters who are perfectly imperfect. Rich or poor, sweet or selfish, gay or straight, plus-size or svelte, her characters are beautifully flawed and three-dimensional. They populate her lavish fictional landscapes and teach us more about the real world in which we live, through their interactions with each other, and often through gut-wrenching angst. Ginger's goal with every book is to give her readers a little bit more than they were expecting, with stories they'll never forget.

For more, please visit gingervoight.com. Follow Ginger on Twitter (twitter.com/gingervoight) and "like" her author page on Facebook (facebook.com/gingervoight) for all the latest news on her public appearances and new releases.
