The Stocking Was Hung
Read The Stocking Was Hung Online
Authors: Tara Sivec
Romantic Comedy
The Chocolate Lovers Series:
Seduction and Snacks (Chocolate Lovers #1)
Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)
Troubles and Treats (Chocolate Lovers #3)
The Chocoholics Series:
Love and Lists (Chocoholics #1)
Passion and Ponies (Chocoholics #2)
Tattoos and TaTas (Chocoholics #2.5)
Baking and Babies (Chocoholics #3)
Romantic Suspense
The Playing With Fire Series:
A Beautiful Lie (Playing With Fire #1)
Because of You (Playing With Fire #2)
Worn Me Down (Playing With Fire #3)
Closer to the Edge (Playing With Fire #4)
Romantic Suspense/Erotica
The Ignite Trilogy:
Burned (Ignite Trilogy Volume 1)
Branded (Ignite Trilogy Volume 2)
New Adult Drama
Watch Over Me
Contemporary Romance:
Fisher’s Light
Worth the Trip
Romantic Comedy/Mystery
The Fool Me Once Series:
Shame on You (Fool Me Once #1)
Shame on Me (Fool Me Once #2)
Shame on Him (Fool Me Once #3)
Psychological Thriller
Bury Me
The Stocking Was Hung
Copyright © 2015 Tara Sivec
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.
Editing by Erin Garcia
Cover Design by Tara Sivec
Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks
Stocking Icon made by Freepik from www.flaticon.com is licensed by CC BY 3.0
Noel
“P
ut him on
the phone, Noel. I just want to say hello to my future son-in-law.”
Rolling my eyes, I signal to the bartender, then point to my empty pilsner glass while my mother adds a little guilt to her demand.
“My baby is stuck in an airport in a strange, dangerous city. Is it too much to ask that I speak to the man accompanying her to make sure he’s keeping her safe?” she questions.
“Mom, I’m in Chicago, not Afghanistan,” I remind her with a sigh as the waitress rushes over to me and quickly refills my glass with another draft beer. She can obviously see the distress on my face and knows I’m two seconds away from losing my shit all over the bar if I don’t get more booze in my system. I should’ve ignored my mother’s call and continued drinking away my problems, but after ten missed calls, six voicemails and four text messages, if I continued to ignore her she would’ve probably called the police.
“Whatever,” she huffs. “Put him on the phone.”
I cringe, lifting the delicious frosty beverage to my lips and downing half of it. I should’ve told her the truth two days ago when everything went to shit, instead of lying about it every time she called. I should just tell her the truth now and get it over with, instead of having to do it in person when I finally make it home and see the disappointment on her face.
“And don’t even try to tell me he’s in the bathroom again. He’s been in the bathroom every time I call,” she complains.
Her words bring the guilt, fear, and sadness rushing back and the beer goes down the wrong pipe when I gasp, causing my eyes to fill with tears as I choke and cough and try to breathe.
“Wait, does he have an incontinence problem? Is that why he’s in the bathroom so much?” Mom questions worriedly while I hold the mouthpiece away from my hacking coughs so she doesn’t think I’m dying and call 911. “You should call a doctor about that. It could be serious.”
After I get my coughing under control, I stare around the small airport bar at all the other sad, lonely travelers stuck at O’Hare due to the snow. The multicolored twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling and the soft sounds of Christmas carols piped through the speakers should make me happy, but it just makes me feel even more emo and depressed. It’s Christmas and I’m unemployed, homeless, and too much of a chicken-shit to tell my mother that my boyfriend of twelve months got down on one knee to propose and I freaked the fuck out, running away screaming because…commitment. How much worse could things possibly get?
“I’ll give you the number to your father’s urologist. His name is Doctor Urinstein, and he’s amazing,” my mother tells me, pulling me out of my self-pity party.
“Dad’s urologist is seriously named Doctor Urinstein? Tell me that’s a joke,” I implore in an attempting to divert her attention away from speaking to my boyfriend traveling with me who is no longer my boyfriend nor is he traveling with me. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth yesterday when she called and asked if Logan preferred corn or green beans?
Probably because she didn’t let me get a word in and talked for five minutes non-stop about how I’d broken her heart by not being able to come home last Christmas, and that the only thing that has kept her from crying herself to sleep every night is the knowledge that I’m finally able to make the trip and bringing a man with me.
Welcome to Guilt Town, population: my mother.
Don’t judge me. You try explaining to your mother that when your boyfriend got down on one knee with a velvet box in his hand, all you could about was being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, catering to his every need instead of being a strong, independent woman. I know it’s not the 1950’s anymore, and I’m pretty sure Logan wouldn’t have expected me to put on a dress and pearls to serve him a martini every night in an apron when he got home from work, but still. It’s not an easy thing to do, let me tell you.
“I once had a gynecologist named Dr. Pussyfoot,” my mother muses. “Lovely woman, very gentle hands.”
Throwing my arm out in disgust, I forget all about the glass of beer in my hand and all of the amber liquid sloshes out behind me.
“SON OF A BITCH!” an angry, deep voice shouts.
I wince, realizing I just spilled beer all over someone and quickly cut my mother off before she can give me intimate details about her last pap test.
“Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I know the flight status,” I explain hurriedly, smacking my now-empty glass on top of the bar in front of me.
“Great. Just great. Now it looks like I pissed myself,” the man behind me complains loudly.
“Oh, dear,” my mother frets. “I’m hanging up and calling Doctor Urinstein right now. You can thank me later.”
She disconnects the call before I can say anything else. With a sigh, I shove my phone into the purse resting on top of my lap and start rummaging around for the napkins I’d kept after my earlier lunch.
“Hold on, I have some napkins in here somewhere,” I mutter, digging to the bottom of the cluttered bag, too frazzled to realize there’s a stack of bar napkins right in front of me.
“Don’t bother. I think you’ve done enough,” the deep, raspy voice mutters.
His words make me forget all about the guilt of lying to my mother and the sadness of ruining yet another relationship because of my fear of marriage.
“Look, buddy, it’s the holidays and everyone is miserable,” I spat out angrily while I continue to search. “It was an accident. I happen to be having the shittiest week of my life, which I’m sure you would know nothing about, so kindly remove the stick from your ass.”
My hand finally finds the crumpled up wad of napkins, and as I pull them out, I shout with victory, swiveling my chair to face the jerk.
“Eureka! Found the nap…kins…” I stammer as my ability to create a clear, logical thought dissipates when I come face-to-face with the man behind the pissed-off voice. Blue-grey eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. A chiseled face with dimples in both cheeks. And…oh shit, a military uniform.
“So, about that whole
‘You wouldn’t know anything about having a shitty week’ thing,”
I say with a bright smile as I thrust my hand holding the napkins out to him. “Can I assume you’re on your way home from a Christmas costume party?”
He snatches the crumpled ball of paper from my hand and starts swiping at the wet stain on the crotch of his camo pants, my hope dying when he speaks gruffly without looking up.
“Sure, if you consider coming home from an eighteen month deployment in Kabul a party.”
Just one thing. Is it too much to ask for just ONE THING to go right in my life?
“Okay then, how about we just agree that you won this round for shittiest week? Or months,” I reply lamely as he tosses the used napkins on top of the bar next to me.
He closes his eyes and sighs, running one hand through his short, dark brown hair. I take that as my cue he’s finished with this conversation and the crazy woman who just spilled half a glass of beer on his pants, so I turn my stool back around to face the bar. Out of the corner of my eye I see him quickly grab a camo backpack from down by my feet that he must have dropped when I showered him with booze. I listen to his boots angrily stomp away, then push the sad little confrontation out of my mind and think about happier things. Like being fired from my acquisitions job at a small publishing firm due to slow sales. And how when I return after the holidays, I’ll be forced to tell Logan the nauseating cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me,” while he awkwardly lingers around and watches me pack up my shit from the apartment I should never have moved into with him only a month after we started dating. I should’ve known he was a clinger when he willingly offered me a bathroom drawer
and
half of the closet Pulling my phone back out of my purse, a distraction to keep me from wallowing in humiliation, I quickly regret that decision when I see a text from my mother confirming Logan’s urologist appointment for Wednesday at ten.
“You need a refill, hon?”
Glancing up from my phone, I open my mouth to answer her, but quickly stop when G.I. Joe returns and flops down on the stool next to me, speaking instead.
“We’ll take two more of whatever the lady was drinking,” he announces without looking in my direction.
“Two Goose IPA’s, coming right up,” she says with a smile before turning and walking away.
Military Man finally turns his head toward me and raises a shocked eyebrow. “Goose IPA, huh? Nice choice.”
He sounds impressed and I like it, even though I shouldn’t like anything about him since he acted like such an asshole about a little accident. The almost-smile on his face is much better than the pissy-frown from moments ago, though I realize I’m sitting here staring at him with my mouth open like an idiot.