Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.
Here's my story for the 2016 DE holiday A2A exchange, written for sauriemilia's awesome prompt:
Two strangers (Damon and Elena) missed their respective trains and are stranded in the station on Christmas Eve. Without other options than to wait until morning they decide to make the best of their situation by improvising a celebration. If you manage to get smut involved then who am I to judge? ;)
This one was a ton of fun to write. Hope you like it! Happy Holidays! :)
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
A grandmotherly type on the bench to Damon's right scowls at him, and he shrugs an apology. Sometimes there's no other way to accurately express how screwed you are.
Removing his sunglasses, he squints at the board of arrival and departure times again. Shit. He hasn't had a hangover this bad in years, and there's no hair of the dog in sight. He probably should've passed on that final round of shots—and the five rounds before it—at Enzo's party last night, but he's never been one to back down from a challenge.
He rubs his eyes and refocuses on the board. If he's seeing things correctly, his train left . . . two hours ago.
With a resigned sigh, he hitches his bag over his shoulder and glances around for the customer service desk. He finds it quickly enough thanks to the line of people a mile long, all wearing disgruntled expressions mirroring his.
Attempting to travel on Christmas Eve wasn't his wisest choice, but then again, he's always been a little shaky in the good decisions department.
Taking his place at the end of the line, he spends the next forty-five minutes in agony as the little brat in front of him passes the time by screaming and wailing until the pounding in Damon's skull is nearly unbearable. He's tempted to wrap his scarf around his head to muffle the ear-splitting noise, the resemblance to Marley's ghost be damned.
In the midst of all the racket, he picks up on a lone woman's voice that stands out from the others, mostly because it's calm. Unflustered. Oh, she's disappointed, no doubt, but she isn't yelling at the clerk or making unreasonable demands. It's just . . .
Quiet acceptance.
Craning his neck so he can see over the people—and their hats—in front of him, he spots her. Well, the back of her, anyway. Her red, knit beanie is pulled down over long hair the color of dark roast coffee. Jesus, could I ever use some of that right about now. The ends are wavy, probably from being out in the snow. Her scarf is striped, red and white, like a candy cane. Festive. Matching red mittens and a black pea coat complete the ensemble.
She turns away from the counter, but before he can catch a glimpse of her face, the monster child stops shrieking long enough to kick him in the shin.
"Son of a—" He bites his tongue at the last second, narrowly avoiding a showdown with the mother, who glares at him over her shoulder. Merry Christmas to you, too.
It's a miracle he makes it to the window without throttling anyone. He grimaces at the clerk while rubbing the sore spot on his leg. "Kids these days," he grumbles, and the woman behind the desk offers him a tight smile. "I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but are there any other trains to Chicago today?"
She types the information into the computer, her long, manicured nails clicking away at the keys. "I'm sorry, sir. The last one left—"
"Two-and-a-half, three hours ago?" he ventures.
"Yes."
Figures. "Is there one tomorrow?"
"Bright and early."
"Great." Not. As a notorious night owl, he doesn't tend to function properly until the clock reads PM.
Heaving a sigh, he fishes out his credit card and slides it across the counter. One overpriced ticket later, he plunks himself on a bench to text Stefan. The hangover excuse will lead to an ass reaming he definitely doesn't need, so he puts his imagination to work.
Train was attacked by a horde of malicious squirrels. Leaving tomorrow morning instead. Should be there in time for dinner. Tell the rugrats Uncle Damon will see 'em soon.
He tucks his phone in his pocket and goes on the hunt for a cup of lifesaving coffee. On the way there, he passes a gift shop, a fast food place, and a small convenience store. It's not a bad place to spend the night, he muses. He's certainly weathered worse.
Ten minutes and a steaming cup o' joe later, he's scouting out a spot to make camp when a flash of red catches his eye. A red beanie, specifically. Ms. Cool and Collected from the customer service kiosk is sitting on a bench a few rows over, fingers furiously tapping at her phone screen. If only she'd look up—
Ah, there. Brown eyes. Chocolatey brown. Pink cheeks. Soft lips.
Okay, so he might be guessing on that last one, but they seem like the type he could kiss for days. Theoretically.
Without realizing it, he finds himself sitting at the end of her bench. She continues texting, oblivious to his presence. He takes advantage of her intense focus, stealing covert glances between sips of coffee. At least his head doesn't feel like it's going to explode anymore. He's tempted to strike up a conversation. He's a chatterer by trade, a socializer who loves uncovering the intriguing details of people's lives. It's practically part of his job description, after all.
He drums his fingers on his knee as he searches for the perfect icebreaker. Not the weather, or the Yankees, or that guy over there wearing light-up antlers and a Rudolph nose. She deserves better than that. Faking a yawn and stretching so he has an excuse to peek at her again, he realizes he's putting an awful lot of effort into deciding what to say to her.
Since when has smooth talker extraordinaire Damon Salvatore ever been at a loss for words?
Since now, apparently.
###
Satisfied that her mom and Jenna are up to speed on her missed-train debacle, Elena sets her phone aside. She managed to kill a whole . . . twenty-two minutes. Umpteen million to go. Tugging off her hat and scarf before she starts sweating, she does her best to ignore the guy who just sat down a few feet from her. She remembers seeing him briefly in the customer service line. It's not easy to forget eyes like those.
She fluffs her damp hair, feeling self-conscious as his gaze lands on her again. Did she forget to zip up her pants or something? She's not a supermodel or a celebrity. He shouldn't be that interested in her.
Him, on the other hand . . .
With his unruly mop of black hair, striking, pale blue eyes, snug jeans, and leather jacket, he's basically a walking advertisement for slipping between the sheets. It should be illegal to be so nonchalantly attractive. She can't see his shirt from this angle, but it probably says, Don't Bring Me Home to Your Mother.
Okay, the staring thing has got to stop. She unbuttons her jacket and turns abruptly, catching him in the act.
"Do I have something on my face?"
He has the good grace to look embarrassed, but only a smidge. "No, not at all." He smiles, and she can't really recall why she was annoyed in the first place. "What brings you to this fine establishment on Christmas Eve? Miss your train?"
Smooth. "Yeah, unfortunately. You, too?"
"Guilty." His phone beeps, and he checks the screen, smirking at whatever he finds there. "Sorry. My brother's not real happy with me. After a glass or two of spiked nog, I can usually be persuaded to play Santa for my niece and nephew, but that's gonna have to wait until tomorrow."
"You? Santa?" she asks in surprise. "I'm having a hard time picturing it right now."
"You wound me," he sniffs, feigning a hurt expression. "Damon Salvatore, by the way. Smartass, Southern gentleman, and proud owner of Bourbon or Bust." He offers his hand, and she's too charmed not to take it.
"'Bourbon or Bust,' huh? Is that a bar?"
"Yup. Best damn bar in Richmond, if I do say so myself."
Richmond? "Get out. That's where I'm supposed to be headed. Virginia, not the bar," she clarifies with a laugh. "My family lives a few hours from there."
"Small world."
It's at this point that she realizes she's still holding his hand but hasn't introduced herself. "Oh! I'm Elena Gilbert, professional Dominatrix."
Damon's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. He finally clears his throat, his voice a little shaky. "Seriously?"
She can't resist teasing him a teensy bit longer. "Absolutely. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair."
His mouth falls open, drawing her attention to his lips, which are very nice. Kissable, even. Whoa, where'd that come from?
"That's . . . that's fuc—" He stops and swallows hard then tries again. "That's hot as hell."
Taking pity on him before he has a complete meltdown, she pats his arm and giggles. "Just kidding. It sounds much more exciting than being a starving writer. Well, slightly less starving now, but still."
Damon blinks once, twice, then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Ah, you had me there. My mind was spinning in all sorts of interesting directions," he emphasizes with a wink. "You're a 'slightly less starving' writer?" he asks, putting air quotes around her words. "Does that mean you've published something?"
"I have, actually." She allows herself a moment to bask in her accomplishment. "It's not going to end up on the Times Best Seller list or anything, but I'm proud of it."
"Congratulations. What's it about?"
"It's a Christmas romance. Two strangers end up stuck together for the holiday . . ." She trails off as the irony of their current situation catches up with her. "Wow."
He chuckles at her reaction. "Bet you didn't expect it would turn out to be autobiographical."
She grimaces. "At least my characters get to stay in a comfy log cabin, not a drafty train station."
"Mmm." He looks thoughtful for a moment, then his eyes brighten with a devious gleam. "Is it"—his voice drops to a whisper as he leans closer—"smutty?"
"You perv!" She shoos him away, although she's unable to hide her grin before he sees it. "You can't read a book unless there's sex in it?"
"I didn't say that. If they're in a cozy cabin, things could . . . progress from there," he points out.
When she just stares at him, unwilling to take the bait, he nudges her arm.
"So, do they?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. You'll have to read it and find out."
"Do you have a copy with you?"
"I gave the last one I had to a friend. Sorry." Caroline wouldn't leave her be until she handed it over.
He slumps in his seat, looking dejected. "Bummer. What are we supposed to do now?"
"We?" Since when did they become a pair?
"We're stranded together, aren't we? Just like your fictional couple, who may or may not knock boots." She reaches over to swat him, but he dodges the blow. "I think we should have a party. Celebrate. It beats sitting here alone and miserable."
He has a point. Still, the shops aren't going to stay open forever. In fact, they'll probably close early because of Christmas Eve. "How are we going to do that?"
"Oh, c'mon." Damon stands and stretches, treating her to a glimpse of skin as his shirt rides up. "You're a creative type. I'll take care of the food and drink part, and you can be in charge of decorations."
What the hell are they supposed to decorate? Each other? "Okay, um, sure."
Apparently pleased with himself, he heads in the direction of the convenience store, and she stares at the rather large potted plant that probably wishes it was in some tropical paradise instead of a train station in the middle of winter.
"Decorations," she mutters to herself. "Right."
###
When Elena returns from her mission clutching a couple bags, she discovers Damon's beat her back to their bench. He's sitting sideways, booted feet crossed at the ankles. At first, she assumes he's messing with his phone, but then she sees the book in his hands. He has the cover bent back so she can't tell what he's reading, but it's enough to make her panic. He didn't find a copy of her book, did he? He couldn't have. In a train station?
Impossible.
She sets down the bags, and he straightens, quickly tucking the book under his discarded jacket. "What are you up to?" she asks, trying not to sound too suspicious.
"Just doing a little light reading while I was waiting," he answers innocently. "Whatcha got there?" He pokes around in one of the bags, but she bats his hand away.
"Nosy. Should we eat then decorate, or vice versa?"
"You hungry?"
Her stomach answers for her, growling loud enough for Damon to hear it.
"Guess that answers that question." He grabs a paper sack and puts it between them. "How do you feel about burgers and fries? It's not the fanciest Christmas Eve dinner, but our options are pretty limited."
"Not a problem. Love 'em."
They chow down on their fast food feast in amiable silence, watching as the last wave of people shuffle through to board the day's final trains. Damon finishes before her, wadding up his wrapper and tossing it in the trash.
"I got snacks and stuff, too, for later. What's your stance on eggnog?"
"I like it, but it's even better mixed with bourbon or rum."
"Now you're talkin'." He gives her a thumbs-up and pats his duffel bag. "Fortunately, I came prepared."
Elena's eyes widen in surprise, then she shrugs. It is supposed to be a party, after all. "Have bar, will travel?"
He snickers as he scores another basket with her empty fry container. "Something like that."
"Alright, let's get festive, shall we?" She picks a bag and searches through her purchases. Finding what she needs, she holds them up, trying to stifle a giggle at his reaction. "Do you want to be an angel or"—she studies the other headband—"a person with sequined Christmas trees sprouting from your head?"
He arches a dark brow. "Do I look like the angelic type to you?"
"Hey, no judgments here."
His smile makes fluttery things happen in her belly. "I think you'd better take the halo." He puts it on for her, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear in the process.
Pretending his touch has absolutely no effect on her whatsoever, she holds up the other headband. "May I?"
"Knock yourself out." To his credit, he sits still while she affixes the wacky tree antennae to his head. Being an uncle, he must have a high tolerance for wearing ridiculous things. "How do I look?" he asks when she finishes, nodding until the trees sway back and forth.
"Not bad. A bit like a Christmas alien, but a handsome one," she adds when he recoils at the initial description.
"Well, when you put it that way . . ." He lets the words hang in the air between them, and she goes back to digging in the bag so he doesn't see the blush spreading across her cheeks.
Passing him a garland and a package of ornaments, she grabs the second bag and pulls out a box of lights.
"Um, Elena?"
"Yeah?"
"These usually go on a tree."
"Yep."
"But we appear to be treeless."
She points to the potted plant, which is at least four feet tall. It's not ideal, but it'll do in a pinch.
"We're decorating a plant," he deadpans, looking more uncertain about this than the headbands.
"It'll be fine. Just embrace your inner Charlie Brown, and voila!" She plugs the lights into an outlet and starts carefully stringing them across the large, floppy leaves.
He shakes his head but eventually joins in, draping garland and hanging miniature candy canes and toy soldiers. When they're done, she sits back and admires their work.
"See? I never thought it was such a bad little tree."
"Okay, Linus."
###
Damon sips his eggnog, relishing the pleasant warmth of the alcohol as it slides down his throat. He doctors Elena's with a splash of bourbon—courtesy of the emergency flask in his bag—and passes it to her, enjoying the way her eyes close in bliss as she tastes it.
This has to be the most unusual Christmas Eve he's ever experienced, but it's not terrible. Far from it. In fact, it's bordering on really fucking awesome, and it's all because of her. The woman sitting next to him wearing a halo, drinking spiked nog, and whittling the end of her candy cane with her tongue until it could double as a shiv can tell hilarious jokes, sing "Jingle Bells" in Spanish, and match him sass for sass. It doesn't hurt that she's also beautiful, a fact he's finding harder to ignore as the hours tick by.
Before he embarrasses himself by blurting out some of the wildly inappropriate things swirling around in his brain, he focuses on a safe topic: family.
"Do you have any siblings?"
"A younger brother, Jeremy." Elena pops the candy cane back in her mouth, and he tries not to be jealous of the treat. Too late. "What about you? Aside from your brother, I mean."
"Nope, just Stefan."
"Got any funny holiday stories about the shenanigans you two must've pulled as kids?"
He pops open a box of cookies and selects a Santa head, biting off the pompom on his hat. "It's a miracle we survived to adulthood, to be honest. There was almost always a yearly sledding adventure that ended with one or both of us in the ER. I'm surprised my mother didn't lock us in the house. Hmm, let's see." He searches for a particularly hilarious memory, something that'll bring on that adorable giggle of hers. "My favorite thing to do was rearrange the body parts on Stefan's snowmen. Y'know, stick the eyes on the back, put an arm on its ass. The carrot ended up in some interesting places," he recalls with a snort of laughter.
"Poor snowmen!" She attempts a look of disapproval, but then those cheeks dimple and he gets the giggle he was after. Bingo.
"Did angelic Elena harass her little brother, too?" he inquires sweetly, chomping into another cookie decorated to resemble a sprig of holly.
She shakes her head. "I was pretty good most of the time, but he loved to wake me up early on Christmas morning. Super early. One year, I was really tired and I wanted him to leave me alone, so I convinced him he had the date wrong. It took a while and some very creative explanations, but he finally sulked and went back to bed. My parents weren't too happy with me, but at least I got some sleep."
"Meanie," he mock scolds, appreciative of her ingenuity. "You might have to surrender your halo for that one."
"Nah. He forgot all about it when he opened his presents and found the video game I bought for him." Her phone jingles, and she sets down her nog so she can dig it out of her pocket. "Oh, shit. It's my mom. Hang on a sec."
He nods and unearths the book from beneath his coat, delving back into Jack and Leona's story. He's been plowing through it every time Elena steps away to visit the bathroom or stretch her legs. He didn't want to admit it, but it's undeniable now. He's hooked.
Flipping to the next page, he strikes gold. Leona was outside in the cold too long, and now Jack's determined to warm her up. There's a roaring fireplace, and clothes are falling to the floor . . .
"Damon? You still in there?" Elena flicks at one of his tree antennas until he tears his gaze away from the page to focus on her. She must've finished her call while he was absorbed in the story. He didn't even notice.
"What are you reading?" She tries to unfold the cover so she can see it, but he holds it out of her reach. "C'mon, show me!"
"Hang on," he laughs as he fends off her efforts to take the paperback from him. "I just got to a really good part. Listen to this." She stops attempting to crawl into his lap and sits back on her heels, hitting the eggnog again. Satisfied that he has her attention, he skims the page and finds the scene he wants. "'Jack tried to ignore his throbbing erection while he freed the clasp on her bra, revealing Leona's full breasts. He dragged in a sharp breath at her sheer beauty as the firelight played over her bare skin. Dipping his head, he took a dusky nipple in his mouth and suckled the firm peak'—"
Elena chokes on her drink, coughing and spluttering and gasping for air. He pats her on the back until the fit passes. When she can breathe normally again, she pokes him in the chest. "That's my book!" she croaks. "How did you get it?"
"I found a copy in the gift shop." He turns it over and points to the author's name on the cover. "You didn't tell me you used a pen name. I had to read the summaries of every book in the Romance section."
"Oh, god." She covers her face with her hands. "I'm so embarrassed."
His brow furrows at her reaction. "Why? This is awesome."
"You're reading smut. That I wrote," she emphasizes. "It's—"
"It's amazing, is what it is. I can't get enough." He winks, hoping to coax a smile out of her.
Elena groans and dabs at the spilled nog on her jeans with a napkin. "You're just being nice."
"No, I'm not. Trust me."
She peers at him as if she's trying to decide if he's actually being sincere. After studying him for a moment, her frown fades. "Really?"
"Really." Damon holds the book out to her. "Would you sign it for me?"
She hesitates for a second or two then finally takes it. "Um, sure. Give me a little while to figure out something to write. I've never done this before," she admits shyly.
"No problem." Just when he thinks she couldn't possibly be any more endearing, her cheeks redden. He gives himself a mental high five for making her blush twice in one night.
Exercising his gift of gab, he draws her back into conversation mode, learning that she had a pet grasshopper—Mr. Hoppy—when she was four, she's a sucker for karaoke, and she can't stand mayonnaise, strawberry shakes, or pickles, which explains why she stealthily scraped them off her burger earlier. He tells her about his love of classic cars, his massive collection of vinyl records, and the garage band he was in during his rebellious teenage years, Apocalypse Wow.
"I did not come up with that name," he adds over Elena's peal of laughter.
Before long, they've gone through the cookies, the eggnog, and most of the bourbon in his flask. He offers her the last swallow, but she waves it away, trying to stifle a yawn. He drains the rest of it and makes a quick trip to the bathroom, hurrying back in case she nods off. There aren't many people in the station, but he doesn't want to leave her by herself if she falls asleep.
When he returns, he finds her tugging a red and green plaid blanket out of her suitcase. His book is sitting on top of his jacket, and he scoops it up, curious to see what she wrote inside.
Damon,
Thanks for a truly memorable Christmas Eve. If I had to be stranded with someone, I'm glad it was you.
—Elena :)
It's his turn to feel heat dancing across his skin, and he's not sure if it's because of the bourbon or her sweet words. Tucking the book safely away in his duffel, he turns to find her watching him intently.
"Thanks for signing my book. I really appreciate it."
She smiles and glances down at her lap then back at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Of course."
"And what you said about being stranded? Ditto."
Her grin gets a little wider, and he suddenly has the urge to kiss her. Those big, brown eyes are doing funny things to his insides. Still, they've only known each other for what—eight hours? Better cool it, he warns himself.
"Ready to call it a night?" he asks instead, settling on the bench beside her.
"Yeah," she admits. "I hate to, but I can hardly keep my eyes open." She shifts around as if she's searching for a comfortable spot, and he taps her on the shoulder.
"You might want to hang up your halo first."
"Oops. I completely forgot about that." She plucks off the headband and sets it aside. "And yours, too!"
He dips his head so she can remove the sequined trees. She combs her fingers through his hair to smooth the messy strands, and . . . holy fuck. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to start purring.
Satisfied with her work, she goes back to rearranging her blanket, and this time, he can't help himself.
"If you want to, you can use my arm as a pillow," he offers. "But if you'd rather not, I understand."
She stops to look at him. "Really?"
"Absolutely."
Sliding closer, she drapes the blanket over both of them and rests her head on his shoulder. She smells like peppermint and clean laundry, and he closes his eyes, soaking up all the details so he'll always remember this moment. "Won't your arm go numb after a while?"
"Nah." The damn thing could fall off and he wouldn't be bothered. "Warm enough?"
"I think so." She rubs her cheek on his sleeve, and he bites back a groan. "Sorry in advance for any drool that might happen," she warns with a sleepy smile.
"I'm not worried."
They're both quiet for a few minutes, then Elena's soft voice breaks the silence. "Goodnight, Damon."
"'Night, Elena."
###
"Attention, passengers! The six-forty departure for Chicago is on time and will begin boarding in thirty minutes."
Elena stirs when she hears "Chicago," recalling that that's the train Damon needs to catch. She stretches and pushes the blanket off her. Someone must've cranked the thermostat because she's roasting. Rubbing her eyes and blinking sleepily at her surroundings, she discovers why.
At some point during the night, Damon slid sideways, and since he was propping her up, she followed him down. Now, she's tucked between him and the bench, and he's basically acting as her personal body pillow. Mortified to find she's lying half on top of the poor man, she tries to disentangle herself, but his arm is around her waist, preventing her retreat.
"Damon." She says his name softly, not wanting to startle him. "Your train's leaving soon."
He mumbles something she can't quite make out and hugs her tighter to him. Okay, that's sweet, but not helpful.
"Damon!" she calls, louder this time. "Wake up."
"Don't wanna," he grumbles, refusing to loosen his hold until she smacks him none too gently on the shoulder.
"You can't be late this time. Your brother will kill you."
He finally cracks his lids, stunning her again with those baby blues. "But this is so much better."
"Damon."
"Fine. I'm up, I'm up." He withdraws his arm, reluctantly it seems, and she sits up so he can do the same.
"Sorry, I, uh . . ." Her lame apology fizzles out as she gestures to indicate the near-compromising position they'd been in.
"Do I look like I mind?" There's that devastating smirk. He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his shirt, somehow still managing to ooze sex appeal despite their lackluster sleeping arrangements.
"You're incorrigible."
He shrugs and saunters off to the bathroom, and she takes advantage of his absence to search through her bags for the present she bought him last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment type thing, but she thought it would be nice considering they're both away from their families on Christmas morning.
Finding what she needs, she carefully wraps it in tissue paper and sticks it in a bright red gift bag. Placing it under the tree—er, plant—she cleans up the remnants of their impromptu celebration while she waits for him to return.
"The six-forty train bound for Chicago will begin boarding in fifteen minutes."
Damn. He'll have to leave soon, bringing their time together to an end. Why does that reminder bother her so much?
"Ugh. I'd rather go back to sleep." She jumps at the sound of Damon's voice, whirling around to find him right behind her. "Sorry," he murmurs, hands held up in apology. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine. Um, before you go, I have something for you." She steps back and points to the gift bag. "It's not much, but since it's Christmas and all . . ." God, when the hell did she revert to her awkward teenage self? She might as well stammer out an invitation to be her date for Homecoming while she's at it.
He doesn't appear to notice her extra dash of dorkiness as he picks up the bag. "You got me a present?"
"It's no big deal, really."
The tissue paper rattles as he reaches inside and pulls out the Santa hat she found at the gift shop. It was the last one they had. He runs his fingers over it, a big smile blooming on his face. "Hey, this is awesome, and it's not one of those scratchy, felt ones, either. It's soft." He dusts the tip of her nose with the pompom then tugs on the hat. "Warm, too."
She scuffs her boot on the floor, ridiculously happy that he's pleased with her gift. "I figured it might come in handy with your niece and nephew."
"Definitely. They'll go nuts." He steps past her and bends down, unzipping his duffel. He takes something out and holds it behind his back. "While we're at it, I have a present for you, too."
"You didn't have to do that."
"Neither did you, but here we are. I didn't have a chance to wrap it up all fancy, so close your eyes and open your hands," he requests. "Don't worry. I'm not going to pie you in the face or anything," he adds with a chuckle.
Elena does as he asks and feels him place a stiff, rectangular object onto her outstretched palms.
"Okay, you can look now."
She peeks at the gift, then her eyes go wide as she sees the leather-bound journal topped off with a big, red bow. "Damon, this is . . ." The words that usually come to her so readily vanish, and he mistakes her unexpected brain lapse for disappointment.
"If you don't like it, I can take it back. Since you're a writer, I thought it might be useful so you can jot down notes or whatever you do when the muse strikes." He scratches his head, jostling the Santa hat until it's perched at a jaunty angle.
"No, no." She practically trips over herself in her rush to clear up the misunderstanding. "It's absolutely perfect. Thank you."
His grin returns, threatening to melt her into a pile of mush. "You're welcome. Thank you."
"The six-forty train to Chicago is now boarding. Passengers should proceed to Track B at this time."
"Shit, that's me." Damon slips on his coat and gathers his bag but makes no move to leave just yet. "I had a blast hanging out with you. It's safe to say this is a Christmas I won't forget."
"Me, either." Before she talks herself out of it, she raises up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek, savoring the light scratch of stubble beneath her lips. She's not sure if she'll ever see this devilishly handsome, kind, captivating man again, and she's determined to seize the moment. "Merry Christmas, Damon," she whispers as she pulls back.
What she's not expecting is his reaction. Dropping his bag, he cradles her face in his hands and lowers his head, covering her mouth with his. The kiss is slow and gentle, a tender tease of his lips brushing over hers. She grips the sleeve of his jacket, crushing the leather in her fist, and leans into him.
The kiss comes to an end much too soon for her liking, but she knows if he lingers any longer, he'll miss his train. Again.
He rubs his thumb over her cheek as they part. "Merry Christmas, Elena. I hope our paths cross again." With a wink and a wave, he hoists his bag onto his shoulder and heads in the direction of the departure gates while she stares at his back, still lost in the feel of his soft lips caressing hers.
She sinks down on the bench, nearly sitting on her present. Picking up the journal, she takes a pen from her purse and flips back the cover, figuring she can put Damon's gift to good use while her mind continues to try to process what just happened. A glimpse of black ink catches her attention, and she brings it closer, studying the unfamiliar handwriting.
A phone number is scrawled at the top of the page, and below it reads:
What are you doing New Year's Eve?
—D
Be on the lookout because there'll be a part two coming your way! Things are super busy at the moment, so it might take me a little while to write and post it, but it'll happen. :)