"I think you know why you're here, Noriko," Jubilee sighed, sapphire eyes peering at the petulant face of the young woman sitting across from her. "I'm not going to tiptoe around it."

Noriko's almond-shaped, dark eyes narrowed. A recent entry into the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, the former runaway was still becoming accustomed to living under strict rules. Having been away from school for quite some time and living on her own, the rigors of studying and doing homework were still a chore. "So, this is like an intervention for me, the loser student?" she asked sarcastically as she twirled a lock of electric-blue hair around her finger.

Jubilee resisted the urge to come back with a retort of her own. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Normally, she would have been out at the mall, simply taking in the ambiance of the holiday season. Instead, she was sitting in her office at the mansion, where she served as a counselor. Just before leaving for another mission with his team, Scott had asked Jubilee to talk with Noriko, whom he was worried about in terms of her adjustment to being at the school. Specifically, he cited her poor grades, her apathetic attitude towards her training, and her flaunting of the breaking rules.

Upon hearing this request, Jubilee had stifled a groan. For the most part, she liked listening to the kids and acting as a mentor of sorts. However, what Scott had asked her to do involved some lecturing—something she equated with being "the man". As far as Jubilation Lee was concerned, it would be a cold day in hell before she played that part. However, after discussing the matter with Scott, she found herself agreeing with him that she was the right person to provide such guidance, especially when he pointed out that she used to have a lot in common with the troubled girl.

"So, I'm supposed to show her how to turn things around?" Jubilee had teased Scott and Jean on the morning of their departure. The three of them were eating breakfast together in their bright kitchen.

Scott smiled wryly at her, helping himself to a cherry-apricot scone to devour with his black coffee. "You can give her hope," he had replied. "Someday, she can be a mature, responsible young lady like you."

"Is that supposed to stroke my ego and butter me up?"

"You got it."

So here she was, sitting in the office she shared with Paige, who had just left for home about a week ago. The space reflected Emma's latest endeavor to redesign the common rooms in the mansion. It was a savvy mix of neoclassical furnishings and classical English upholstery, which was infused with a modern energy that drew upon Deco glamour to contemporary art. There were rich tartans and paisley, exotic zebra prints and crocodile skins that were layered with etched crystal and whimsical silver. It was a little ostentatious for Jubilee's taste, but she was hardly surprised given the White Queen's propensities.

Jubilee opened the file folder in front of her. "Your grades from this semester haven't reflected the improvement your teachers have been hoping for," she said, trying not to sound judgmental. As someone who experienced a similar disdain for anything academically related, she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of a conversation like this. Needless to say, a root canal would have been more enjoyable than being the one doing the lecturing.

"Let's take your recent English quiz for Miss Guthrie's class," she continued, casting a glance at the piece of paper in front of her, which was marred with comments in red ink. "One question was, 'Who wrote Hamlet?' You answered, 'The Pope's cousin, Count Popeula, a magical dragon with pencils for arms.'"

"I just made that up."

"Really? Because I couldn't tell."

Noriko heaved a sigh. For a moment, she cursed her naïveté when she believed that Jubilee would be more sympathetic. From what she understood, the former member of Generation X shared a similar past with her. In her younger days, Jubilee had been known to be just as rebellious and just as disdainful of school. However, none of this was reflected in the woman sitting across from her, a college co-ed who was attending one of the nearby universities on a scholarship.

"Maybe I'm not cut out for this place," she finally said, sounding rather defeated. "Everything is such a drag. When I was living on the streets, I was my own boss."

Jubilee listened to her words intently, quickly thinking of herself when she was around Noriko's age. It was not too long ago when she would have shared similar sentiments. But much had happened since those days, informing her that such a view was not a valid one. She had the emotional scars as evidence to prove it.

"So being alone on the streets, not knowing where to go or where your next meal is coming from is better than living in a place where you don't have to worry about your personal safety?" Jubilee inquired, closing the folder. She flicked her crystalline eyes to the heavy gauntlets the teenager was wearing. "So you'd rather have your freedom at the expense of learning how to control your powers, too?"

Noriko swallowed hard. "No, it's just that I was used to being out there. I guess part of me misses knowing that I was in control and that I didn't have to answer to anyone."

"You are in control," Jubilee pointed out quietly. "You're the one who determines how you do well here. Not me or anyone else. Yeah, there are rules you have to follow and that includes keeping your grades up. But doing homework and studying is really a small part of being here. You might not think so now, but consider it in the bigger schemes of things."

The teenager pressed her lips together and shrugged her shoulders. As much as she hated to admit it, Jubilee had a point. "Maybe I'll think about a change," she finally announced, Jubilee's words making their mark with her. When she saw the beginnings of a pleased smile on the pretty young woman's face, she added, "But after the holidays."

"Of course," Jubilee said wryly, watching Noriko stand up and tossing her backpack over her shoulder. It was almost eerie as to how much she saw herself in the edgy girl leaving her office. "I wouldn't expect anything else, you know."

"Right." Noriko paused at the door before exiting completely, fiddling with the strap of her backpack. "Hey, Miss Lee?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not being a hard-ass."

"No problem. And, Nori?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not being a punk." With a cheeky smile, Jubilee winked.

Noriko snorted as she left, closing the door behind her.

Jubilee put Noriko's file away, sighing in relief as to smoothly the encounter went. She locked up her file cabinet and leaned back in her chair. I'm glad I didn't have to play the man, she thought to herself. She wondered if she was lucky or if she was gifted when it came to this peer mentoring. Perhaps Scott was not just humoring her when he said she had a talent as a counselor.

Sitting alone in her office, she found herself lost in her own thoughts. Instead of being consumed by the levity of the season, her mood was characterized by a pensiveness that preoccupied her mind these days. A frown wrinkled her smooth forehead as she sighed. If only other problems were as simple and straightforward to handle as the one she had just dealt with.

In fact, she had never been so anxious, so on edge about anything in her young life. She found herself unable to sleep for long during the rest of her stay with the Guthrie clan, or since her return to Westchester for that matter. Though her jumpiness lessened in intensity following the Thanksgiving holiday, there were certain times when it flared up, nearly overwhelming her. It made mundane things like carrying conversations an uphill struggle, especially when it came to attempting to maintain a façade of normality. In the end, the source of this stress could be trace to one and only one event.

The kiss.

Her mouth began tingling as she recalled the events that transpired on that Thanksgiving night. Even now, several weeks later, everything about that moment still reverberated in her head vividly, playing itself out over and over again. She could still hear the chatter of the townspeople and the bluegrass tunes fading into the background, eclipsed by the beating of her own heart. Sam's aftershave, which smelled of evergreen trees, remained imprinted in her memory. His strong, lean arms pulling her close to him were also ever present in her mind. She remembered how the softness of his hair between her fingers provided a stark contrast against the feel of his calloused, coal miner's hands on her back.

But most of all, she could still feel his lips over hers. His tongue had explored her mouth in such a way that she could have sworn seeing stars explode before her eyes. It was the kind of kiss that made her knees buckle. For that moment, time stood still and the rest of the world's existence retreated into the recesses of their minds. All that was left was just the two of them.

For Jubilee, the kiss had been part of the plan to give that bully tormenting Sam his comeuppance. It was supposed to embellish the ruse. In her mind, kissing the Southern gentleman was simply going to make that other think twice about the caustic things he said about the Guthrie clan.

What it ended up doing was making things so very complicated.

She would be lying if she said she was unaffected by what transpired between them. It was hard not to be. Sam was definitely a good kisser. The way he embraced her conveyed a passion that belied his low-keyed, shy country boy demeanor. His touch filled her with an excitement that made her weak in the knees, her pulse race, and leaving her completely breathless. Basically, it was an incredible kiss. However, there was one problem.

She was with someone.

Jubilee had pulled away from Sam as the rational part of her mind reminded her of Bobby. Had she not done so, she might have allowed herself to fall deeper and deeper into Sam's arms. While she knew she had done the right thing, there was a part that longed to prolong the sensation of Sam's gentle mouth on hers. In an attempt to save face, she mumbled something about her plan working and that they should make their way back to the table. Sam agreed, following her towards where his mother and siblings were sitting. Much to her relief, no one had noticed their kiss and thus, there was no need to provide an awkward explanation. However, during the rest of dinner, there was a forced distance between herself and Sam.

This soon carried over into the days that followed. Both avoided being alone with one another. Fortunately, the rest of the Guthrie clan were so absorbed in the merriment of the upcoming holiday season to notice. But the change in what existed before that kiss was palpable to Sam and Jubilee. There was no longer the easy, carefree repartee between them. All of the jokes, the smiles, and the casual brushes of hands to the arms were replaced with a thick cloud of tension that followed them back to Westchester. As a result of the forced distance, Jubilee was filled with a myriad of feelings, often competing with one another in terms of prominence. The most obvious one was guilt. While sweet Bobby was away saving the world, she did a most unforgivable thing. Despite her intentions at the time, it was still the wrong thing to do. She could attempt to rationalize it all until she was blue in the face; nothing would change the truth. Exacerbating things was the fact that she was unable to talk to Bobby given the clandestine nature of his latest mission.

Somewhat related to her guilt was a sense of confusion. Instead of being cool and having the ability to simply it shrug it off as part of her machinations to get under the bully's skin, Jubilee was left yearning for more. Even days after the incident, she found herself playing the scene over and over again in her mind. Tried as she did, there was little she could do to refrain from doing so. Each time she thought about what happened, she pondered why she was obsessing. After all, this was Sam, her best friend's older brother who extended his protective tendencies towards her. He was the guy who played in the outfield with her during the school's softball games and the guy who sometimes chided her for rollerblading inside the mansion. Granted, he was good-looking, kind, and at times, funny, but he was still Sam.

Compounding things further was a cloud of gloom that perpetually hung over Jubilee's head. Some of it could be traced back to her disappointment with herself and how she had let Bobby down. He had been hurt so many times before by women who never realized what a wonderful person they were with. The very thought of her contributing to that history of pain filled her with an overwhelming sense of self-loathing that kept her awake at night.

Yet, there was another source of this angst that took her completely by surprise. She found herself mourning the loss of the way things had been with Sam prior to Thanksgiving. While they had not always been close, a relaxed rapport had developed between the two of them that Jubilee missed. He was approachable with his earnest, country-boy ways. Now, that sense of comfort she had come to associate with him was gone, replaced by an empty void that left her longing for days when things were less complicated.

Sighing, Jubilee rose from her desk and sauntered out of her office, locking the door. She blindly hoped that a night of wrapping presents would distract her. However, she knew otherwise. I'm a mess, she declared, her footsteps heavy as she made her way down the hall.

As one who became easily absorbed in the holiday spirit, Sam Guthrie knew that the ritual of selecting the perfect Christmas tree was as coveted a holiday tradition as the tree itself. Every year, he took it upon himself to drive to the precut forest in downtown Westchester, carefully examining dozens of freshly fallen evergreens and choosing which ones to strap to the car roof to bring home and decorate. He considered himself a connoisseur of sorts, his tastes refined as a result of having to pick trees for his family and for the community center back in Kentucky. For instance, he knew that a Balsam fir produces a pleasing fragrance for a relatively long period of time, and that an Eastern White Pine produces aromatic pinecones and does not cause allergies.

It should have been no surprise that his expertise caught the attention of Amara, who wanted to celebrate a proper Christmas in her new apartment. However, his friend's decision to immerse herself in the season came only the day before Christmas. Try as he might to persuade her to take in the spirit at the mansion (which was already decorated), the Southern gentleman found himself spending most of the morning to the mid-afternoon with Amara in the precut forest, sorting through the trees that remained. She was disappointed to learn that the grand, majestic Douglas firs were all gone. Begrudgingly, she purchased a smaller tree, a Fraser fir, whose strong branches curved upwards giving the tree a compact appearance.

Despite the futility of the mission and the hassle of finding parking in downtown Westchester, Sam did not mind making the trek in search of the perfect tree for Amara. She was one of his oldest friends, back when they were part of the original New Mutants. Even though their lives had diverged since those days, the two of them were able to reconnect well. Unlike Sam, Amara was reticent to embrace the life of an X-Man, especially after what happened to her at the hands of the Church of Humanity. She wanted to live her own life first before dedicating it to a cause.

The excursion also provided the Southern gentleman with a distraction from things that were weighing him down. He could focus on other things happening in the world, escaping what tormented him during every moment of his existence. For a while, he did not have to think about the pang left in chest every time he thought about one pivotal moment this past Thanksgiving or the constant reminders that haunted him since then. No, he had a chance to dwell on something else.

Much to his dismay, he was unable to completely flee the complexities that plagued him as of late. His preoccupation over events that transpired weeks ago continued to affect him, causing an somber expression to be permanently etched to his face. When asked by his friends and siblings about his gloomy disposition, the Southern gentleman was quick to come up with an excuse. To share what was troubling him would have exacerbated matters. As far as he was concerned, his existence was already torturous. There was no need to bring unneeded attention to it.

He supposed in the end, that it was difficult to even fathom a normal existence, especially when running into the reminder of his angst was unavoidable. Though Jubilee was not under the same roof, she always seemed to be close. Some days, it was impossible not to pass her in the hallway or to see her at the far end of a room. These encounters always left him, cursing his misery and wishing for a way out of his predicament.

Even when she was not around, Jubilee continued to be a presence in his private moments. Instead finding solace in slumber, Sam spent his lonely nights ruminating about her. He saw her lovely face when he closed his eyes, smelled her perfume of bubble-gum and cinnamon, tasted her kiss on his mouth, and felt the softness of her hair and skin. While a myriad of thoughts often raced through his brain about his situation, there was one that resonated at all times.

How did such a perfect moment, one that he had played out in his dreams, lead to such disaster?

It was a question he was unable to answer. At the time, Sam felt as if he had everything he wanted--Jubilee in his arms and kissing her. Yes, he was aware that the embrace was part of a ruse to get back at Craig. But for a little while, Sam could pretend that it was for him and that she was his. He lost himself in the softness of her lips, the sensation that ran to the depths of his body as his mouth continued its exploration of hers. The feeling of her lips and tongue imprinted a tingling, excited feeling that Sam never fathomed was possible. His arms cradled her against him, and he was taken aback as to how perfectly her body fit with his. Urgency and desperation pulsed through his veins.

However, as the kiss progressed and intensified, it was becoming more and more evident that Jubilee might not be acting. The Southern gentleman remembered feeling her tumble into his arms, deepening the embrace. She tangled her fingers in his straw-colored hair. Her breath was rapid, mingling with his as her tongue slid against his. Then her head tilted back, granting him deeper access. For that moment, Sam thought he knew what heaven was like.

Regrettably, reality and rational thought set in. When she pulled back, he felt empty. Touching Jubilee was like experimenting with a drug known for his addictive quality. While his mind comprehended why the kiss had to end, Sam was powerless to stop the pain of wanting her. Now that he kissed her, it was not going to be enough. Inside, his mind was crazed, screaming for him to take her into his arms again and spirit her away. As he reeled from touching her, he was consumed by a hot, pitiless desire.

Caught in a struggle between what he wanted and what he knew was right, Sam allowed her to leave. He simply had to. Otherwise, he would have never let her go. With a heavy heart, he was helpless while his time of great joy faded. His blood chilled in his veins as despair began welling up from the thousand vacant spaces in his soul. This feeling of desolation lingered for the rest of their stay in Kentucky. Knowing that the woman he loved was just down the hall from him drove him to the edge of sanity. In spite of his best efforts not to, his mind continued to replay the kiss over and over again. It took every ounce of self-restraint he had not to take her aside and admit the truth.

The Southern gentleman felt as if he were living in his own private hell. He had a glimpse of his wildest fantasy coming true, and then it was taken away from him. It was more than he could bear. While his first instinct was to flee the situation, he knew he could not. Logistically, it would be awkward. Back in Kentucky, this would have raised all sorts of questions—ones he was not willing to face. Meanwhile at the mansion, he had obligations that tied him down. This Christmas, he was supposed to serve on the home team, maintaining the property's defenses while most of the other members were either on vacation or on various missions.

But there was something else that compelled Sam Guthrie to stay in Westchester. It was a truth he was unable to deny. For the Southern gentleman, it was this: even more painful than seeing the object of his unrequited affections was missing her. Catching a glimpse of her, however brief and heart-breaking for him, was enough to sustain him.

Then there was Jubilee's response in the aftermath of what transpired between them. Like Sam, the kiss affected her as well but much to his dismay, it was not as positive. To see her face, that beautiful face filled with such confusion and bewilderment, made his chest ache. Her dazzling, hypnotic eyes gazed at him as if she did not know him anymore. She was skittish, nervous and out of sorts in the days that followed that night.

This compounded Sam's feelings of self-loathing. Never did he want to trouble Jubilee, to be the cause of her tension. It was one thing for him to live every single day of his life in such torment, but that was not what he wanted for her. He would rather die than allow her to endure that.

So, he did what he honestly believed was the proper thing to do in the days that followed. He gave her some distance and left her alone. Gone were those casual, easy moments where they could talk, laugh, and smile. Now, Sam's days were filled with making plans to have as little contact with her as possible. As much as he hated to do so, he found himself avoiding her gaze, rushing past her in the hallways so that he would not have to talk to her, and barricading himself in his room when he was not on security detail.

In his mind, his decision should have made life easier for both of them. Perhaps, they could forget the Thanksgiving incident. Things could return to some semblance of normalcy.

But they did not.

And he hated himself for it.

Sam was roused from his desolate musings when he felt a hand on his arm. Startled, he peered down to see Amara with quizzical frown on her face as they stood in the spacious kitchen. He quickly composed himself with a sheepish smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "What's up?"

The young woman otherwise known as Magma raised a brow at the tall, lean man from Kentucky. During their outing for their quest to find the perfect tree for her apartment, she had noticed that the usually laid-back Sam Guthrie was tense. A preoccupied furrow creased his forehead as they went through the trees that remained at the lot. Initially, she had interpreted this as annoyance on his part for being pulled into the middle of the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping. For that, she could not blame him. Last-minute shopping on Christmas Eve was taxing, physically and psychologically.

However, when they had brought the tree back to the railroad-style apartment she shared with Tabitha, his mood had not changed. Sam continued to be uncharacteristically laconic as he set up the Fraser fir in the corner of her living room. She had first thought it was the fact that Tabitha was her roommate. But she had quickly dismissed this theory given that the blonde was currently out of town and had hardly contributed much to the décor to even indicate she lived in the apartment.

Though they had never been all that close as New Mutants, she knew when something was troubling him. At a loss, she finally inquired as to what was troubling him. The Southern gentleman had been evasive, which was evident when he tried to feign ignorance in response to her question. Not one to give up easily, Amara had pressed him further, her concern for his well-being fueled her continued questioning. This time, Sam became flustered. After some coaxing and cajoling on Amara's part, he sheepishly confessed that he was disappointed in being named to the home team for the Christmas break. He had told her that he missed spending the holidays with his family back home in Kentucky.

Sympathetic to her friend's predicament, Amara insisted that they drive back to the mansion. If anything was going to guarantee a lift in Sam's disposition, it was going to be a plateful of Cook's holiday treats. Just before leaving for her native England, Cook always prepared a plethora of food--cookies, candies, pies, cakes, stews, roasts, and breads. It was as if she feared the residents would starve and wither away during the two weeks she was away. Her peppermint crème brownies, caramel-covered marshmallows, and toffee cookies were specialties that both filled and satisfied.

But when they arrived at the mansion, the eldest Guthrie lapsed into complete silence. As they made their way inside, he appeared deep in thought, his handsome face drawn in an anxious expression. Sauntering into the kitchen, it was evident that the prospects of indulging in Cook's desserts did little to change his mood.

Undaunted, Amara slipped off her puffy black down jacket and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, revealing a lavender satin shirt with puffed sleeves, a black miniskirt, and matching knee-high boots. Perhaps once he took his first bite of a cookie or some other sweet might do some good, she decided. "What do you want?" she asked, lifting the tops to several platters on the counter and tossing her long, wavy, dishwater-blonde hair over her shoulder.

It took Sam a second to register the fact that his friend's inquiry was limited to food. He blinked, taking a moment so that he could collect himself mentally. To blurt out his first choice would have been disastrous. "Um, anythin's fine," he mumbled, raking a calloused hand through his straw-colored hair.

Amara grabbed a plate for the two of them to share. When her ears picked up on his flat tone, she closed the cabinet door quietly. Her blue-gray eyes studied his reserved countenance with concern. "Are you OK, Sam?"

The Southern gentleman swallowed hard. Immediately, he wanted to kick himself. Great, he groaned inwardly, feeling his guilt increase ten-fold. Now, I've got Amara worrying about me when she shouldn't have to. He racked his brain for an eloquent means to remedy the situation and save face.

After what seemed like eons, he forced a smile and said, "Ah'm fine, really. It's just been a long day, that's all."

She listened to his response carefully. There was a part of her that was ready and willing to believe him because she did not want to think that gentle, salt-of-the-earth Sam was in any kind of turmoil. If he was, that would certainly make things even more trying since she was not comfortable when it came to discussing emotionally-laced issues.

Taking what seemed like the easy option, she decided to take him at his word. "Ave, Sam," she chided gently. "You had me worried."

"Ah didn't mean ta." He looked apologetic, rubbing his stubble-ridden cheek with a calloused hand.

She dismissed his reply with a wave of her hand. "Sit down and I'll bring some of these sweets over to you. Would you like something to drink?"

He shook his head and settled his tall, lean frame in a chair at the kitchen table. As soon as he sat down, he could feel his chest and limbs relax. Maybe there was a part of him that bought into his lie. Or maybe, he was merely kidding himself.

Amara filled a glass with milk before joining Sam at the kitchen table with a plate piled high with chocolate-covered s'mores. "This is definitely a nice way to cap off shopping, no?" Her voluptuous lips formed a girlish smile as she bit into a brownie. "How can it get better than this?"

Sam was about to answer when he heard footsteps from the hallway that connected the garage to the kitchen. Curious, he and Amara turned their heads in the direction of the doorway on the other side of the room. What met their eyes brought surprise and then amusement.

"Hey, Roberto," Sam greeted warmly, the corners of his pale blue eyes crinkling as he struggled to keep from chuckling. "What have ya been up ta?"

Roberto da Costa narrowed his onyx eyes, knowing full well why his good friend was nearly falling off his chair. Grimacing, he peered down at the outfit he was currently wearing. Bright-green corduroy slacks were paired with an oversized sweater with red bows, Christmas trees, and reindeer, which had been knitted for him by his secretary. Adding to the kitschy nature of his attire was a floppy, Santa cap and a pair of cherry-red loafers. In short, he looked like a Christmas nightmare.

It was not as if he dressed like this normally. The dark Brazilian fancied himself as rather enlightened when it came to clothes. His wardrobe was a virtual who's-who in fashion—Ralph Lauren, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Kenneth Cole. As the young CEO of da Costa International, he had an image to portray to the media, his employees, and stockholders. Plus, attracting the attention of leggy supermodels did not hurt, either.

Much to his chagrin, he found himself in this dreadful ensemble thanks to the annual party his company held every Christmas Eve, which provided gifts to economically disadvantaged kids. Roberto joined his employees at the new flagship location in Brooklyn to meet and greet various individuals from children's charities and groups who work with underprivileged youth. This was followed by talking with the children, many of whom had been selected by the organizations to have their material wishes granted. They were taken around the auditorium, which had been converted into winter-themed party room with fake snow, artificial trees, and lower minions who worked in the mail room dressed as elves. In between helpings of cookies and juice, the children were surprised with toys and clothing, purchased by da Costa International.

While some of his peers in the business world might have genuinely enjoyed bringing some joy into the lives of these children, the young capitalist viewed such charitable endeavors as a necessary evil. Attempting to connect with children under the age of eight who smelled like juice and stale graham crackers did not rank high on his list of ways to spend the afternoon. It pretty much went against the shrewd business mentality he seemed to be in lately. Had it not been for the sizable tax write-off and good press, Roberto would have had second thoughts.

Grimacing at Sam and Amara, he decided to respond with a clever quip. "The Lord's work," he said as he sauntered towards the table. He pulled off the cap and leaned against the counter, feigning exhaustion. "I was doing the Lord's work."

"But you're Satan!" Amara exclaimed, almost choking on her brownie. She knew better than to buy into his assertion. Known as an extremely conservative Republican and somewhat obssessed with money, Roberto would rather attend a lecture on supply side economics than do charity work.

Roberto rolled his eyes and grabbed a shortbread cookie from her plate amid his friends' chortles of laughter. "Hilarious," he retorted, biting into the cookie. Then he sighed. "The worse part is that my ordeal isn't over."

"Oh, that's too bad," Sam said with mock sympathy. "What kind of travesties await a wealthy CEO?"

Roberto gave the Kentucky native a withering glare when he saw him grinning. "You don't understand," he insisted, not quite ready to relinquish his quest for compassion. "Running a company... It's not easy. I have a great deal of responsibility."

"It comes from great power." Amara teased. When he gave her a quizzical look, she explained, "You know, with great power, comes great responsibility..."

"Oh." Roberto made a face, recognizing the reference. Then he grabbed her glass of milk and proceeded to take a sip. "I hate Tobey Maguire. He's such a goody-goody."

Sam leaned back in his chair and relented. Part of him was relieved that he was not the only in the world who was having a miserable holiday. "OK, seriously. How come your day ain't over? What's behind the long face?"

"This whole charity crap has taken over my Christmas Eve," Roberto replied dryly, finishing his cookie and giving Amara back her glass.

She peered up at him and placed her chin in the palm of her hand. "You're handing out more toys, Santa da Costa?" Her eyes twinkled with mirth.

He snorted. "Not quite. I have to go to some black-tie galas as a representative of the company. Speaking of which, you're coming with me tonight."

"What?"

"I'm having my assistant come around with a dress and shoes from BCBG. You're a size 6, right?"

"Yeah, that's right, but—"

"Good. She'll be here in an hour."

Amara put her hand up, pleading with him to pause. The sudden news of having plans tonight left her head spinning. She was looking forward to going back to her apartment to decorate her new tree. "Wait, wait," she said, overwhelmed by the information. "Have you stopped to think that I might not able or want to come?"

The swarthy Brazilian looked pensive for a few moments, as if to humor her. "I've thought about it," he said finally. "But then I decided that you didn't have anything better to do than putting strands of popcorn on that new Christmas tree of yours, so in a way, I'm saving you."

She stuck her tongue out at him. It was annoying how well he knew her sometimes. "You win."

"But what about that model you were seein'? What was her name?" Sam piped up, blond brows furrowing.

"You mean Lucinda?" Roberto pursed his lips. Lucinda was a tall, thin blonde runway model from England, who was as spoiled and self-centered as she was gorgeous. Needless to say, he had not been dating her for the last two weeks for her personality. As he recounted the phone conversation he had with her while driving back to Westchester, he snorted. "Turns out she didn't have the strength to make an appearance tonight after four hours at the spa."

"I wish I were her," Amara remarked, feeling somewhat panicked at the idea of having to prepare for a night out. Mentally, she made up a list of things to take care of for her evening out. While the attire had already been arranged (she trusted Roberto's exquisite taste), there was still the issue of her hair and make-up. She only hoped that the salon downtown would be able to book an appointment.

"The worst thing about this is that I had reservations at A la Mode tonight," he groused and crossed his arms over his chest. A la Mode was a new and exclusive French restaurant that had opened in Westchester to rave reviews. The chef had defected from a popular establishment in Manhattan to try his hand at running his own place. The result was haute cuisine that kept people clamoring for more. "I had to wait two months for something to open up. And, if you cancel, they charge a fifty-dollar fee. Isn't that crazy?"

Sam shook his head empathically. He knew his friend was more upset about the fee than anything else. "That's too bad, man."

"Yeah, it is," Roberto agreed glumly. Then his expression brightened as he turned to Sam. "Hey, you don't have any plans tonight, do you?"

The Southern gentleman was unsure if he liked that twinkling in the other man's eyes. "Why?"

"Listen, why don't you go in my place?" Roberto suggested, excited. "I've set up an account there that gets billed directly to my platinum card. Get anything you want. It's on me. Think of it as my Christmas present to you."

"Ah don't know... Ah mean, those kinds of places ain't mah style." Sam looked sheepish, masking the anxiety that penetrated through every fiber of his being. Like Amara, he had been looking forward to a night in with his thoughts. Then he added, "Besides, Ah don't like that kind of food. When Ah was in Paris, Ah was so thankful for Burger King."

"Oh come on," Roberto cajoled, onyx eyes pleading.

"Ave, Sam, it's a free meal," Amara chimed in. "Experiences something new."

Sam racked his brain, searching for another way out of this quandary. Finally, he pointed out, "The reservations are for two, right? There ain't anyone else here who would go, and Ah hate eatin' alone." There, he thought smugly. I'm saved.

Roberto appeared crestfallen. Just as he was about to concede defeat, he discovered the remedy. "You won't be," he told Sam. Then he smiled broadly, peering past Sam and towards the hallway. He waved his hand excitedly and said, "Just the person I wanted to see."

Curious, Sam turned around. He wanted to see who his friend was addressing. His chest tightened as soon as he identified the other party.

Jubilee.

The young girl froze in her steps, confused and alarmed from the way Roberto was looking at her. When she saw that Sam Guthrie was also present, her cheeks became stained with pink. All she wanted to do was continue in her trek to the Summers' house on the other side of the property so that she could retreat to the comforting stillness of her room. However, since social mores dictated that she at least acknowledge Roberto, she stayed.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, eager to leave.

Roberto failed to detect the impatient tone in her voice. He was consumed with setting his plan into motion. "How would you like a free meal at the most popular place in town? I know Scott and Jean are gone on a mission, and no one should spend Christmas Eve alone... The thing is, I'm trying to get Sam to go out to this restaurant, but he needs some company. That's where you come in."

Jubilee's sapphire eyes widened. "I don't think..."

"It's a fine establishment. Best meal you're ever going to have."

Sam blanched, nervously raking a calloused hand through his hair. This was the last thing he needed. "Roberto, Ah don't think that's such a hot idea," he whispered.

Unfortunately, his protest was unheard, which was evident in Amara clapping her hands together and jumping out of her chair. She darted over to where a stunned Jubilee stood. Grabbing the young girl's arm, she grinned. "This will be so great," she enthused, guiding her out of the kitchen. "I can make an appointment at the salon for both of us."

Sam felt paralyzed, angry that his brain and tongue failed him. As Roberto rushed off to make a call to the restaurant, the Kentucky native was left reeling. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread as he rose to his feet to prepare for his night out.

Perhaps it was how rapidly the situation progressed or perhaps it was her distracted mind, but Jubilee found herself in a rather disconcerting position. Usually, she was not one to be persuaded so easily into doing something. She prided herself in being capable of not bending to the will of others. However, in this instance, she was rendered powerless to stop the events that had already gone into motion.

The afternoon appointment Amara had made for them at the local salon was like a blur to the young girl. There was no memory of the trip there. She felt rather odd, almost disconnected as her hair was being washed and styled. It was as if she were in a dream. Nothing felt real or right. Even as the aqua-haired make-up artist was attempting to consult with Jubilee about what she wanted, she was still not convinced that this was happening at all. This soon changed when Amara consulted with Roberto about what time they were to return to the mansion.

A worried frown marred Jubilee's otherwise flawless features during the ride home in Amara's red BMW roadster. As the other woman drove and rattled off the details for the arrangements for the evening, the young girl was nearly overwhelmed with her own trepidation. She was tempted to march up to Roberto, whom she found insanely pushy, and inform him that she would not be available. Granted, she had no plans for Christmas Eve, but that was her business.

Yet, she did not decline the invitation to dinner with Sam. Instead, Jubilee was determined to see things through. In her mind, going out with the Kentucky native would allow for the opportunity to clear the air between them. Yes, there was a part of her that was apprehensive about the situation, but what was even more disturbing was the tension that existed between herself and Sam. She hated the fact that they weren't speaking. She hated the fact that they never had a chance to talk about what happened on Thanksgiving. But most of all, she hated the emptiness she felt since that moment.

While she had the resolve to stay the course, Jubilee was at a loss regarding how to address the issue. How on earth was she going to broach the subject? In the back of her mind, she had a few funny ideas, but nothing that would really help. Agonizing over the appropriate choice of words, she began to wonder if this was a good idea after all.

Sam stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. The tall, lean young man frowned at his reflection as he straightened the silver tie he decided to wear with his black, three-button tuxedo jacket, matching flat-front slacks, and crisp, white shirt with black, patent leather shoes. He was not one to dress up often; the tuxedo had been a necessary purchase for some of the covert operations he had been involved in. It wasn't that he didn't look good. His straw-colored hair was carefully combed into place and his face was clean-shaven. No, the reason was that whenever he wore it, he always felt strange and out of place. He would have rather been in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

But there was something else behind the pained expression on his farm boy countenance. It filled him with a great sense of fear and anxiety that made him believe the traumatic experience in the Paris subway tunnel a few months back was nothing. For a moment, he considered climbing out his window and flying somewhere else to avoid what awaited him this evening.

Exhaling loudly, he shook his head in disgust. What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered. How did I get myself into this?

After Jubilee left with Amara to get ready, Sam took Roberto aside in the hopes of getting out of dinner. The Southern gentleman attempted to plead his case to his friend. His mind raced with possible excuses—he was sick, he was allergic to frogs' legs, he needed to get some rest. But when he tried to verbalize each argument, his tongue froze. It was almost as if on an unconscious level, he wanted to go out with Jubilee.

So, instead of backing out of the engagement, Sam was preparing for a night he viewed with both anticipation and trepidation. He slipped his cell phone and wallet into his pockets before donning on his gray overcoat. From talking with Roberto earlier, the girls were on their way back. He informed Sam that he would be able to use da Costa International's car service to get to the restaurant. The driver was scheduled to pick them at the mansion within the next ten minutes.

Taking a deep breath, Sam summoned the inner strength to leave his room. As he did so, his legs felt wobbly. For a moment, he feared he might collapse while descending the spiral staircase that led to the foyer. Thankfully, he did not but his stomach continued to tie itself into knots. When he reached the bottom, the Southern gentleman was nearly overwhelmed again. But this time, it was for a different reason.

Standing by the door was Jubilee. She wore a silver-beaded tank top with a deep V-neck and a floor-length, champagne satin skirt and silver, high-heeled sandals. Adding a splash of color was a salmon-colored, cashmere wrap. Her long, thick raven locks were softly pulled back in a loose chignon, which brought attention to her graceful neck and shoulders. The young girl's face was lightly made-up, highlighting her delicate features and her brilliant eyes.

Sam swallowed hard. With her hair up, his eyes could trace a line from her neck down her spine—an indulgence he was allowed to consume. He marveled at the expanse of taut skin, fine muscles beneath the surface, the hint of movement beneath her top and skirt with each step. Much to his embarrassment, he suddenly realized he did not know what to do with his hands as he made his way to her. His palms were sweating profusely, which caused him to curse inwardly.

Meanwhile, Jubilee was in awe by what she was seeing. It was like she was seeing him in a new light. Now, he looked like a dashing hero. Her nostrils picked up the evergreen scent in Sam's aftershave. For some strange reason, her pulse was racing. She attempted slow, deep breaths to counteract her response. Still, her heart pounded inversely with the slowing of her breaths. Her skin tingled as every sense heightened.

"Hey," she greeted, biting her lower lip nervously and willing her body to function normally. Her mind raced as she tried to think of something else to say. Without thinking, she blurted out, "You clean up good."

He smiled sheepishly, lowering his gaze. "Thanks," he said and gazed back at her. "You look... You look..." He winced when he was unable to finish his compliment. Words would not have done any justice.

She nodded and gave him a small smile. There was no need for him to go any further. "Thanks."

"So, ya like French food?"

"Do fries count?"

"Ah guess. Ya know, they call 'em pommes des frites."

"Ooh la la."

Sam was about to ask if she had been to A la Mode before when he heard a car horn honk from outside. Jubilee turned to open the front door. She saw a sleek, black Lincoln town car parked outside.

"I guess it's time to go," she announced. Inwardly, she was praying that the fluttering in her chest and stomach would dissipate. Much to her disappointment, it did not.

He was equally tense, but furiously trying to mask it. "Guess so," he agreed in a low voice. Then he walked to her side and offered his arm to her. "Ready?"

Jubilee stared at the proffered arm. She thought about the last time she touched him and the consequences that followed. Using her better judgment, she made her way to the car. "Ready," she replied, her pace brisk.

Sam followed, hanging his head.

Located in the historic part of Westchester, A la Mode distinguished itself from surrounding buildings by its exterior. The low-pitched roof was off-set by large eave brackets underneath and dramatic cornice structures. There were windows with one or two panes and heavy surrounds, which were also tall and arched with hoods. On each side were rectangular towers with a great deal of cast-iron railings and facades. Adding to the charm of the architecture were balustrade balconies.

Inside, the ornamental feel continued. Modern design was mixed with 18th century, Art Deco, and Louis XIV. There were lavishly feminine, elegantly understated fabrics in subtle jewel tones fashioned with couture details. Tables were draped with silk organza, which complemented the plush dining chairs that were upholstered in sage velvet. Fresh, cream-colored roses acted as the centerpiece for each table. Bottled water was served in crystal goblets, which matched the wineglasses and champagne flutes.

The service was as formal and authentic as one would find in a French restaurant. Efficient, but polite and dressed to the nines were the wait staff. In addition, they spoke in lightly-accented English, but managed not to lapse into their native French. Sam could not help but be somewhat intimidated. He had to remind himself that he was the customer. Once the maitre-d found out that Sam and Jubilee were the guests of da Costa International, he seated them promptly.

Not too soon after that their waiter, a small, compact man with white hair and thick, black brows, arrived with golden pears in a silver bowl. With a cordial bow, he introduced himself as Ambrose and told them that he was looking forward to serving them. Sensing that the young couple were green when it came to enjoying French cuisine, he graciously provided his recommendations. To start, he suggested either the gâteau de crêpes au crabe (crêpe gateau with crab) or the escalopes de foie gras aux pommes (sautéed foie gras with apples). He went on with the chef's selections for entrées: cuisses de canard au chou, daube de boeuf aux cèpes et à l'orange (beef daube with porcini and orange), or coquilles St Jacques et bouquets à la Fleur de Sel (prawns and scallops with Fleur de Sel). His brown eyes twinkled as he recited the dessert menu for the evening, which included douillon Normand à la pomme (apple douillon), ganache au coulis de framboises (chocolate ganache with raspberry coulis), and glace au miel de sapin aux fruits des bois (honey ice cream with berries).

Thanks to Ambrose's expertise, Sam and Jubilee had a delectable meal which was also accompanied by red wine. Even though she was underage, Sam allowed her a glass—provided that she not tell Logan or Scott. She agreed and relished the sweetness of the grapes. As they ate, the two of them talked about how quiet it was around the mansion, and how strange the holidays were this year. They took in the opulent décor and the other customers, who appeared more accustomed to such treatment.

For the first time in weeks, Sam felt completely at ease. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or if it was something else, but his despair was a distant memory now. All that mattered was his doubts and fears about the night were never realized. Granted, they decided to discuss other things besides what happened on Thanksgiving. It was as if nothing happened.

Like the Southern gentleman, Jubilee was also experiencing a sense of complacency that had eluded her for some time. Her anxiety of facing him after weeks of avoidance faded. She found herself, enjoying his company once again. The smiles and laughs reappeared along with the easy banter. In spite of the conversations they had over the course of the evening, she was aware that they had not touched upon what transpired between them.

Suddenly, the two of them became quite conscious of this. Their eyes met from across the table. Staring deeply, they lapsed into silence.

Ambrose approached their table to inquire as to how their meal was, as he did since he served them. When he made his next stop, he smiled at them. Motioning for a younger waiter to gather the entrée plates, he inquired casually, "Would monsieur and mademoiselle like to dance before dessert? Such a good-looking couple should be out there as well."

Surprised, Sam and Jubilee peered past him. Though they had been at the restaurant for over an hour, this was the first time they noticed the dance floor. Well-dressed couples crowded the marble dance floor. They were waltzing to Largo from Xerxes by Handel, which was being played by the string ensemble at the other end of the room. Bunches of mistletoe hung from the ceiling and from the Waterford crystal chandeliers.

Before either one could say anything, Ambrose said, "I'll leave you to think about it for a moment." His smile broadened as he retreated with the younger waiter.

Sam blinked. He was reeling from the suggestion. His head was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. Groaning inwardly, he considered calling the car service to pick them up. The idea of dancing with Jubilee would only remind him of the miserable predicament he was in. There was also the distinct possibility that she would refuse him. After all, she had made a point not to take his arm when they were walking towards the car. In the end, he could not blame her. Things between them had not been resolved.

Yet, the tall, lean young man from Kentucky did not pull out his cell phone to make that call. Instead, he rose from his chair. Slowly, he walked to where she was sitting. All the while, his mind was screaming at him not to approach her, to show the restraint he had demonstrated for so long. However, his body refused to comply.

Jubilee watched him, her cerulean eyes wide. She swallowed hard. The rational and sane part of her told her what was about to happen, and why she had to tell him no. They still had to talk about what happened. Nothing about that night was right. She felt terrible and conflicted; for Bobby, for him. Sam had to know that.

But when she peered up at his face, she held herself back. There was something about his solemn face, the yearning in his pale-blue eyes that made her hesitate. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon the will to handle things properly. There were soft sounds of movement and she could tell he was in front of her. She could smell his aftershave and feel his stare fall upon her. Heart beating wildly, she opened her eyes again. Then she made her move.

She gave him her hand and rose to her feet.

Sam gently pulled her towards the couples slowly dancing. She followed. At that moment, the tension both had been experiencing melted away.

He drew her towards him, one hand on the small of her back, his other hand still holding hers. As they moved slowly to the music, he made sure to keep a safe distance. "Thank you."

Jubilee was surprised, intrigued to the soft quality of his voice and the wistfulness in his pale blue eyes. "For what?" she asked.

"For comin' out with me," he replied, genuinely surprised she was here on the floor in his arms.

Nervously, she forced a smile. She, too, was surprised by her decision. "What are friends for?"

He inhaled sharply, attempting to mask his disappointment with her choice in words. "Yeah," he finally said. Trying to make the pang in his chest go away, he decided to change the subject. "So, Ah guess we'll haveta tell Roberto that this place was pretty good."

"Guess we do," she agreed. The young girl saw a flash of sadness flicker across his face briefly. She chewed on her lower lip, obviously concerned for him. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Alarmed, he tried to think of a response that would not call attention to him. At a loss, he decided to distract her. He spun her and again pulled her to his body.

Unfortunately for Sam, Jubilee was no fool. She noticed that his smile did not quite reach his eyes. Moving along with him, she was determined to find out the truth. "You never answered my question," she observed.

Sam drew back to look her in the eyes. He hated himself for causing her to be worried about him because frankly, he did not deserve it. Again, he attempted to be evasive. "Nothin', sweetie," he assured her in the calmest tone he could muster, which belied the panic he felt. "Ya don't haveta think about me."

"But I do." Immediately, the young girl blushed. It was the truth, but why was she fretting over it? She struggled to search for a way to gracefully recover.

The Southern gentleman's jaw nearly dropped from the wave of shock that hit him. Hearing her admission rendered him mute for a moment. To him, it seemed so improbable. Then he asked, "Ya do?"

She nodded in earnest. Why does that shock him? she wondered, sable brows knitting together. "Yes," she replied in a low voice. "I mean, we are friends. Aren't we?"

He inhaled sharply. There was that damnable word again—friends. He despised that word with every fiber of his being. As he peered down at Jubilee, Sam knew he had to conceal his contempt and the truth. "Yeah," he lied, which left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Of course. That's what we are."

"Good." She smiled, but with a hesitancy that matched her tone. It was hard not to observe how tense the Southern gentleman was as they continued to dance. Even more troubling were her own responses during their first direct interaction since Thanksgiving. Her heart was racing and her limbs felt rather unsteady. She felt as if she might swoon though she had no idea why.

Sam, meanwhile, was becoming quite concerned. The strangeness in her demeanor was apparent. Perhaps this was not a good idea. "Wanna sit down, sweetie?" he asked quietly, his eyes casting their gaze over her lovely face.

She stared back up at him, still gliding along with him to the dulcet sounds of the strings. As she did so, her mind was needling her, reminding her that there were still unresolved issues that needed to be addressed. To simply brush the fact off since they were now comfortable with another again would be wrong. Both of them deserved better than that.

"No," she said finally, clearing her throat as if to summon the courage to press on. "I'm fine. Actually, I think we need to talk."

"About what?" the Southern gentleman inquired even though he knew full well where the conversation was heading. He could read it in the serious expression that fell over her lovely features. Desperately, he searched for a way to avoid what was about to follow, but came up empty. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself.

As she continued talking, she found that she was unable to look at him anymore. "About Thanksgiving," she answered, chewing on her lower lip. "Listen, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of cheating weirdo or something."

He swallowed hard. That was the last thing to come to mind. "Ah'd never think that," he told her in a low voice.

She was relieved to hear this. Her feet became steadier underneath her and she no longer felt that she might pass out. Yet, she remained wary since nothing explained his behavior after their encounter. "I felt like you did," she pointed out, peering up at him. "Honestly, it seemed like the whole thing freaked you out. Not that I would blame you. I was, too, because of..." Her voice suddenly trailed off. Even saying her boyfriend's name brought on guilt.

"Bobby." Sam pressed his lips together. Despite the fact that he was not here, the boyishly handsome man with the cheery disposition continued to be an obstacle. However, the Southern gentleman told himself that getting angry and riled up would be pointless. He had no such right to be.

She nodded. "Yeah. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I didn't mean for things to go as far as they did. I don't want to lose our friendship because of it."

He could feel his heart breaking when she made this assertion. There were so many things about her words that left him so forlorn. She hadn't meant to return the passion in the kiss. She still thought of him as a friend and that was all. She was and never would be his.

The tall, lean young man from Kentucky sensed his body becoming rigid at this conclusion. In an attempt to distract himself and the beautiful woman in his arms, he picked up the tempo of his steps. He had realized that if Jubilee noticed his response, she would inquire about it, making things even more hellish for him.

Suddenly, the string quartet ended the piece. Like the rest of the dancers, Sam and Jubilee drew back from one another to applaud their work. Unable to look at her, he concentrated his gaze elsewhere. He glanced up at the ceiling to admire the crystal chandelier they stood underneath. However, he found himself staring at something else as well. Suddenly, he felt his face grow warm.

Then he murmured, "We're under the mistletoe." There was no mistaking the smooth-edged, oval leaves and waxy, white berries in dense clusters.

She followed his gaze. "So we are," she mused, wishing Bobby were here.

Sam's first instinct was to pull her close to his body. He wanted to press his lips against hers. Bury his head in his arms, admit his feelings for her, and never let go. But he did not.

Instead, he forced a smile and said, "Merry Christmas, sweetie."