Emma hates Christmas.

Actually, she hates all holidays, but she especially hates Christmas.

No, hate is too kind a word. She detests Christmas.

She detests the expectations that always accompany this stupid sham of a holiday. Having to dress up, because if she wears jeans and a t-shirt, her mother greets her at the door with, "This is what you wear to Christmas dinner? Don't you even own a dress?" instead of asking how she's doing. Having to plaster on a fake smile, even though she's completely miserable and dying inside, otherwise her father will ask her, "Why the long face, princess?" Not to mention the entire ridiculous gift giving-process—racking her brain for months, trying to figure out what to get everyone, waiting until the last minute and having to fight the crowds of other last-minute shoppers and standing in ridiculously long lines to buy gifts no one ever appreciates anyway.

Oh, and her very favorite thing about Christmas—receiving backlash for being single, because apparently, it's a crime these days.

"Why didn't you call Walsh?" Emma's cousin, Anna, asked, to which her husband, Kristoff, added, "He seems like a nice guy." Maybe, but only if you're a customer at Wizard of Oak.

"It's been six months since that jerk cheated on you; you gotta get out there," said Elsa, who lost her husband three years ago and hasn't been on a single date since then. But she has two kids, so she's off the hook.

And her own brother, Leo, teased her— "You know it's a holiday when my sister shows up alone "—right before he proposed to his girlfriend of five months. Their parents are so unbelievably proud.

Which is just fucking perfect because now Emma's the only person in her family who either isn't married or doesn't have kids.

Even her Aunt Rubes didn't show up at Christmas alone; she brought home the mall Santa.

"You'd be surprised by the quality of men you can meet at the mall," Aunt Ruby said with a Cheshire cat grin.

Emma cocked her head and pursed her lips as she watched Ruby's date fill his plate to the brim like he hadn't eaten in days. But judging by the size of his gut, he clearly had. "I don't think I would be, actually."

Aunt Ruby rolled her eyes. "Relax, it's not like I'm going to marry him. He's just my holidate," she said casually, taking a sip of her wine as though she didn't just say the most ridiculous thing ever.

Emma raised her brows. "Holidate?"

"You know? A date solely for the holidays. No commitment, no expectations. And no more spending another holiday alone."

"Huh." Emma nursed her hot cocoa with cinnamon and whipped cream, mulling over her aunt's tactics. She didn't think it was a bad idea actually...if you wanted to bring a strange man home to eat all your food and be around the little ones.

Aunt Ruby turned her head to look at Emma and smirked, her eyes lighting up with an idea. "Want me to see if he has a friend?"

Emma cringed. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

And it turns out, being thirty doesn't help much either.

In fact, now everyone has it in their heads she's letting herself go. Okay, so she likes to binge on chocolate and junk food, but she's always had a high metabolism and her job as a bail-bonds woman keeps her in shape. But apparently, her mother thinks being thirty means everything Emma eats will go to her hips, because why else would the woman buy her pajama pants twice as big as last year's?

So now Emma's at the mall the day after Christmas to return clothes that could fit a freaking whale, not looking forward to waiting in a long line of people trying to return their unwanted gifts, or fighting with the manager about getting a refund instead of an exchange since she doesn't have a receipt or the tags.

Damn.

Emma can already see the line at JC Penny as she rises on her tiptoes and clutches the PJs to her chest, trying to see over the throng of people.

She huffs and makes her way over to the customer service line, not even caring if she bumps into anyone; she just wants to get this over with so she can go back to her comfortable, messy apartment, change into pajama pants that won't fall from her waist, sip on hot cocoa and snack on all the candy and treats she pocketed from her parents' house at Christmas.

"Son of a bitch!" The word tumbles from her mouth when someone not only crashes right into her but also spills their green juice all over her blouse.

"Bloody hell, love. I'm so sorry."

The deep, velvety accent probably would've made her melt and set her skin ablaze if the beverage wasn't so fucking cold.

And if that's not bad enough, when she lifts up her pajama pants to assess the damage, there's juice all over the clothes she was supposed to return.

"You've got to be kidding me!" When she lowers the clothes in her arms, her head snaps up and her angry eyes connect with the most ridiculously gorgeous blues she's ever seen in her entire life, and some of the anger sizzling in her blood magically disappears and morphs into pure shock, her mouth falling open as the obscenities disappear from her lips.

Holy. Fuck.

Dark, artfully mussed hair, scruff on his chin and cheeks, chiseled jaw.

And his eyes. Those eyes seem to be tracing every inch of her, and her skin heats under his gaze.

And is he really checking out her boobs?

Seriously?

He's handsome, though; she'll give him that. No, handsome doesn't adequately describe him.

Gorgeous.

Beautiful.

Greek god.

Nope, she definitely isn't attracted to him.

Absolutely not.

"Crap, how am I going to return these now?" she asks, irritation lacing her words as she holds up the ugly flannel pajama pants.

An amused smile flirts with his lips, his eyes full of mirth—the same eyes that are still awkwardly staring at her chest, blush coloring his cheeks.

Like, what the fuck?

He looks up, his eyes searching around as he throws the empty cup into the nearest trash. He places his hands on her arms, making her breath hitch as he lifts her arms pressing them against her chest.

"I think you have bigger problems to worry about than returning your pajamas." He places his hand on her back, once again making her breath catch as he urges her forward.

"What are you doing?"

"It's called trust, love. Try it."

She sighs and moves in the direction he's taking her toward. "But I don't even know you."

"I don't know you either. And yet I'm trying to help you out. But you're more than welcome to walk around the mall like that."

"Like what?" Her brows are furrowed in confusion as she peers down at herself. Her eyes blow wide and her cheeks flame when she realizes she's wearing a white t-shirt with no bra and her nipples are poking out underneath the layer of green. "Oh my God."

When they reach the restrooms, he pulls off his black leather jacket and plaid overshirt, offering the shirt to her. "Here, take this."

She eagerly accepts it, and the man takes her pajama pants, holding them while Emma enters the ladies' room. When she looks in the mirror, her jaw drops to the floor. She looks like Shrek with tits. She dashes into a stall, peels off her green shirt and cleans up before pulling on the plaid and buttoning up over her bare breasts. She tosses the green shirt into the trash and exits the bathroom, her eyes shooting daggers at him. "What the hell? Why can't you watch where you're going?" she asks, taking her pants back and walking away from him.

He follows behind her and falls into step beside her. "I said I was sorry, love. But you ran right into me before I could move out of the way." He chuckles. "You were pretty determined to get to that return line."

"Yeah, well, you should move quicker next time."

He nods. "You're right. Next time I see a beautiful woman marching toward her destination with fire and determination in her eyes, I'll roll out the red carpet." He mocks her with a bow, flourishing his hands. "All hail the Queen."

"You're funny," she says sarcastically. "But that will not fix my pants or pay for the shirt I just threw in the trash."

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. "How much were they? I'll pay for them."

"I'm not taking your money. I'm not that desperate for cash."

"Says the woman returning her Christmas gifts."

She scowls at him. "How do you know I got them for Christmas?"

"It's either that or you stole them from a lumberjack."

She snort-laughs. "Well, thanks for having faith that I wouldn't stoop that low."

"You're welcome, love. So, if I can't pay for the clothes I ruined, then how can I make it up to you?"

She looks around, her eyes lighting up when she spots the pretzel stand, "You can buy me a pretzel."

He chuckles, obviously amused all she wants is a soft pretzel. But it doesn't take much to make her happy.

They get in line, and he orders her a pretzel, not even getting one for himself.

"Are you sure you don't want a bite?" she offers once they leave the pretzel stand.

He raises a hand in refusal and shakes his head as he tucks his wallet inside his back pocket. "Nah, I don't eat that rubbish. Do you know what that stuff does to your body?"

"Uh, yeeeeaaaah." She pops a small bite of the soft cinnamon-coated goodness into her mouth as they walk around the mall. "It fills me with warm, delicious happiness like Christmas used to...before I grew up. Ironically enough, I still sit at the kids' table."

He arches his brow at her. "How come?"

"So I don't have to constantly be ridiculed for being single while trying to stuff my face with turkey."

"That bad, huh?"

"Oh, it gets worse. Let's see, my brother, who's ten years younger than me, proposed to his girlfriend, so now I'm literally the only one in my family who is either single or doesn't have children. Even my aunt, who is a self-described man-eater, had a date for Christmas. In fact, I caught her getting her cookie licked by the mall Santa."

He clears his throat like he's trying to clear the image she implanted in his head. "That's a festive visual."

Her face twists as she takes another bite of her pretzel. "Seared into my brain like a bad tattoo."

"You think your Christmas was bad. Try wearing an ugly Christmas sweater while selling bait and lure to men on Christmas who have nothing better to do than go ice fishing and tell a complete stranger their entire life story and the best way to clean fish guts off a boat."

"That doesn't sound half bad, actually. If I worked on Christmas, I wouldn't have to be reminded of how single I am, and every single person in my family wouldn't be trying to set me up with someone."

"I'd rather spend Christmas with family and sit by the fireplace watching Christmas movies."

Emma looks at him curiously. "How come you don't then?"

"Because I don't have much family to spend the holidays with. Just my brother. Our parents died when we were young."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Guilt washes over her as she realizes she's been complaining about her family and how lonely she feels when his only family is his brother.

"Thanks, love. I just wish I had an excuse to not have to work on the holidays."

"Why do you need an excuse?"

"Because my brother's the owner, and he runs a tight ship. He says if I don't have any plans, I have to work."

"Your brother sounds like a pain in the ass," she groans, tearing off a piece of her pretzel.

"You have no idea."

"So why don't you just make something up then?"

He shrugs. "And do what? Sit at the bar and drink my sorrows away?"

"You could find a date," Emma suggests, as though it's an obvious solution. But she knows more than anyone, finding someone who's not a complete tool like her ex is not as easy as it sounds. But maybe that's just her experience. This guy looks like he probably has hundreds of women lined up at his door. Not all of them may be gems, but his odds are most likely better than hers.

"With whom? I don't have a girlfriend, love," he says, looking over at her bashfully, the tips of his ears red as he scratches behind one of them.

She swats his shoulder. "Oh, come on. A good-looking guy like you can't get a date?" She regrets her words as soon as she says them, knowing he might let them go to his head. But who's she kidding? He definitely knows how good he looks—the guy has to have a mirror.

The cocky smirk he flashes her as he jabs a finger at his chest tells her he definitely knows. "I am devilishly handsome. But I don't want to find a girlfriend solely for the purpose of not having to work on the holidays."

"You could get a holidate." The words spill out of her mouth before she even realizes what she's saying. But she recalls her aunt in a similar situation—not wanting to have a boyfriend just so she won't have to be single for the holidays.

"A holidate?"

"Yeah, like a date for the holidays. No pressure...no expectations. Just two people having an enjoyable time and drunk-mocking strangers at parties."

His eyes light up and he points at her. "I do like drunk-mocking strangers at parties. But who would I get to be my holidate?"

Emma shrugs a little and throws her pretzel wrapper into the nearest trash. "What about me?" She can't believe she's offering, but it's actually the perfect solution to both their problems.

He turns around to face her, arching a brow. "Really? You'd be my holidate?"

"Why not? I mean, think about it. You'll get to go out and have fun instead of being miserable at work, and I won't have to walk into a room and be showered in a sea of pity and sad glances. I mean, why does everyone have to be so suspicious about a happy, single woman?!"

"Because you're not happy."

"Um, yes I am." She plasters on a smile and points at the corner of her lips. "See? Happy."

"No, you're not."

She narrows her eyes at him, crossing her arms. "And how would you know?"

"Because you're an open book, love."

She rolls her eyes.

"Human beings aren't meant to be alone on the holidays. They need warmth and companionship and someone to drunk-mock strangers at parties."

She laughs and nods in agreement. He does have a good point. And she has to admit, she'd love to have a New Year kiss, just not one with any strings attached. She'd like to kiss someone at New Year and then go home alone and not have to worry about what will happen next or if he'll cheat on her three months down the road. "Look, my parents got me tickets to the Skyfall party on New Year's Eve and if I don't find a date, my mother is going to find one for me."

"Really?" He cocks a brow at her, his eyes shining with intrigue. "That's such a fun party. And it'd be nice to go and have a few drinks, relax and not have to worry about my date going batshit crazy if I don't drop a knee at midnight."

"Exactly. We could just have fun and not have to worry about all the relationship stuff."

"That's good because I'm not looking for a relationship."

Disappointment bubbles up inside her, but she pushes it away. Even if she wanted or needed a relationship, she wouldn't go for a guy like him. He's too damn handsome to not be a heartbreaker. "Neither am I," she states matter-of-factly, never taking her eyes off his.

"Well, then it's perfect. You've got yourself a date," he says with a grin and extends his hand. "I'm Killian, by the way."

She smiles a little and slips her palm in his. But instead of shaking it, he brings the back of her hand to his lips and drops a kiss there. Her damn breath hitches again when she feels how warm his lips are and how tingly and inflamed her skin is from his touch. "Emma," she forces out breathily as she tries not to picture other things he could do with those lips. And she is not envisioning him licking her cookie.

Nope, definitely not.

"Pleasure to meet you, Emma." He releases her hand, leaving her immediately missing his warmth as he pulls out his wallet and slips out a card, handing it to her. "Here's my info, love."

Emma's eyes narrow when she sees where he works. "Hooked Bait & Tackle." She looks up at him. "Sounds fishy," she quips. "What's your real job?"

He chuckles. "Text me and we'll finalize the details."

She flicks the card against her palm. "See you on New Year's Eve, Captain Hook."

He winks. "See you then, love."

As soon as Emma turns around and walks away, her cheeks heat and she peers down, suddenly remembering she's wearing his shirt. She spins around and calls after him as he walks away.

"Wait, your shirt!" Which is dumb because it's not like she has anything to change into.

He turns around and grins. "You can give it back on New Year's Eve!"

"Okay!"

They wave at each other before Emma turns around, pausing as she passes a store with a mannequin in a sexy black dress. She bites her bottom lip, realizing she has nothing to wear to this party.

She enters the store and tries it on, skeptical of how she'll look in it. It's usually hard for her to find dresses that actually look good on her, but when she tries on the gorgeous black number, she loves the sweetheart neckline and how good it makes her cleavage look. Her ass doesn't look too bad in the dress either. She wonders what Killian's reaction will be when he sees her in it, wonders if it will make those gorgeous blue eyes pop out of his skull. She smirks into the mirror as she turns to her side, placing her hand on her hip.

"Sexy black dress it is."