A CHRISTMAS TREAT: SPICY AND SWEET
BY ELIZABETH HORTON-NEWTON
The snow had been falling for over two hours, and I had to fight lanes of traffic to get to the cabin. When I saw the brightly lit windows, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree winking a warm welcome, I smiled. Cinnamon would be inside, preparing another of her delicious dinners. I patted my pocket and felt the hard square of the jeweler's box. Her divorce was final, and tonight, I would propose. Grabbing the bag with the bottle of champagne from the seat beside me, I stepped carefully from the car. It wouldn't do for me to slip on ice and break the bottle and possibly my leg on such an auspicious occasion.
My boots left large prints in the virgin snow, but they had already begun to fill by the time I reached the door. The delectable scents of something cooking tickled my nose as I entered the house. Cinnamon had promised a special Christmas Eve surprise. Although I didn't know what was cooking, I had no doubt it would be a treat. The girl could cook.
"I'm home," I called up the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs, and the sound of running water let me know she was running a bath. My hand was on the newel post when I saw the bright yellow note. "No Peeking" was written in bright red. Laughing and shaking my head, I turned toward the kitchen, where the promise of a delightful meal floated in the air.
Going into the kitchen, I put the champagne in the refrigerator and turned to look at the oven. Surely a little peek wouldn't hurt. It was then I noticed the post-it on the range hood. "No Peeking!" was written in big, black letters. I had to chuckle. "She knows me so well," I thought.
Before returning to the living room, I poured myself a double scotch. Plopping down on the couch, I stretched out my legs, propping my feet on the coffee table. The Christmas lights danced on the tree hypnotically. Cinnamon and I had worked hard to get to this night, and I couldn't wait to see her face when I presented the two-carat diamond and sapphire ring to her. I'd played the scene over several times in my head. Soon the room's warmth and the scotch worked with my exhaustion, and I dozed off.
Cinnamon and I had met at the gym where I worked. She was a member, and I spotted her the first time she walked through the doors. I angled over to her and persuaded her to let me be her personal trainer. I admit I was surprised when I met her husband. Ray was a wealthy, dour man who was quite a bit older than she was. In less than two weeks, she was in my bed. In a month, she talked about how she wanted to leave old Ray.
I had no problem with marrying Cinnamon, but I couldn't see leaving Ray with full pockets. I wasn't exactly the highest-earning guy in the neighborhood. Cinnamon hadn't worked much in her life. Some of Ray's money would go a long way toward helping us set up housekeeping. At first, she had been resistant; she just wanted out. Little by little, I educated her. It wasn't too difficult. She liked her Chloe bags, Louboutin shoes, and Stella McCartney dresses. I couldn't afford those. Heck, I couldn't afford the dust bags you store them in.
In time, Cinnamon saw things my way. The only question was how to have Ray see things my way. In her innocence, Cinnamon provided the key, or the lever if you will, to push Ray over the edge. Ray had early-onset dementia. If word of his illness got out, his company stock would plummet and, with it, his fortune. After some negotiating with Ray and his lawyers, we came to an agreement. Cinnamon would receive two million dollars up front and twenty thousand dollars monthly until she remarried. Of course, that would require our having a rather lengthy engagement. But we could acquire a large nest egg of goodies and see some exotic places while we continued our romance.
Cinnamon had no problem setting up a joint account for us so I could access funds as needed. That was one reason I could afford the gigantic rock I would place on the third finger of her left hand. It should hold her off the marriage train for a while.
Don't misunderstand. Cinnamon is a hottie. She's a dynamo in bed, too. Considering she reported Ray was pretty much a limp noodle in that respect, I was reaping the rewards. So you see, it wasn't just the money.
Anyway, I woke suddenly and realized I could hear the oven timer buzzing irritably in the kitchen. "Cinnamon, the timer went off," I called as I stumbled, slightly drunk, into the kitchen to silence the buzzer. I headed back to the foot of the stairs to call up to her again. I could hear the bath still running. She was something of a hedonist when it came to baths. Shrugging, I went back to the kitchen.
Opening the oven door, I pulled out the roasting pan and set it on the stove. Glancing at the warning "No Peeking" note, I decided it no longer applied since I had to see if the food was done. Lifting off the heavy lid, I was hit full in the face with steam and closed my eyes momentarily. As the steam cleared, I gazed down at the wonderfully scented main course Cinnamon had prepared. It took me almost thirty seconds to register what I saw. Cinnamon was staring up at me. At least she would have been if she still had eyes. They had cooked away into her head and down her cheeks. Her once full lips were drawn back tightly over the perfect white teeth Ray had paid big bucks for. Gagging and backpedaling from the stove, I dropped the lid, which clattered loudly on the floor.
Turning, I ran for the stairs and took them two at a time until I reached the upstairs hall. The carpet squished beneath my shoes, and I realized it was saturated with water. Bouncing off the walls of the narrow hall, I made my way to the bathroom. Flinging open the door, I stumbled back, my feet tangling and landing me in a heap on the floor. Cinnamon's headless body floated in the garden tub, her perfect paid-for breasts bobbing provocatively in the pink-tinted water.
Turning my head, I saw the opened bedroom door. Ray sat on the edge of the huge sleigh bed, smiling at me. "Hello, Steve. Is dinner ready?"
My screams echoed off the walls, challenged only by Ray's maniacal laughter. I scooted toward the stairs on my backside, desperate to escape the horrors I was seeing. In my frantic state, I miscalculated and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to lie crumbled at the bottom like an abandoned puppet. Ray appeared at the top of the stairs, holding an axe and still laughing. My mind screamed at my arms and legs to move, but my body wasn't obeying.
As Ray slowly descended the stairs, he began to sing, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why…" He lifted the axe high over his head, his arms trembling at the weight. "It's going to be coal in your stocking, Steve. You've been a bad boy."
My boots left large prints in the virgin snow, but they had already begun to fill by the time I reached the door. The delectable scents of something cooking tickled my nose as I entered the house. Cinnamon had promised a special Christmas Eve surprise. Although I didn't know what was cooking, I had no doubt it would be a treat. The girl could cook.
"I'm home," I called up the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs, and the sound of running water let me know she was running a bath. My hand was on the newel post when I saw the bright yellow note. "No Peeking" was written in bright red. Laughing and shaking my head, I turned toward the kitchen, where the promise of a delightful meal floated in the air.
Going into the kitchen, I put the champagne in the refrigerator and turned to look at the oven. Surely a little peek wouldn't hurt. It was then I noticed the post-it on the range hood. "No Peeking!" was written in big, black letters. I had to chuckle. "She knows me so well," I thought.
Before returning to the living room, I poured myself a double scotch. Plopping down on the couch, I stretched out my legs, propping my feet on the coffee table. The Christmas lights danced on the tree hypnotically. Cinnamon and I had worked hard to get to this night, and I couldn't wait to see her face when I presented the two-carat diamond and sapphire ring to her. I'd played the scene over several times in my head. Soon the room's warmth and the scotch worked with my exhaustion, and I dozed off.
Cinnamon and I had met at the gym where I worked. She was a member, and I spotted her the first time she walked through the doors. I angled over to her and persuaded her to let me be her personal trainer. I admit I was surprised when I met her husband. Ray was a wealthy, dour man who was quite a bit older than she was. In less than two weeks, she was in my bed. In a month, she talked about how she wanted to leave old Ray.
I had no problem with marrying Cinnamon, but I couldn't see leaving Ray with full pockets. I wasn't exactly the highest-earning guy in the neighborhood. Cinnamon hadn't worked much in her life. Some of Ray's money would go a long way toward helping us set up housekeeping. At first, she had been resistant; she just wanted out. Little by little, I educated her. It wasn't too difficult. She liked her Chloe bags, Louboutin shoes, and Stella McCartney dresses. I couldn't afford those. Heck, I couldn't afford the dust bags you store them in.
In time, Cinnamon saw things my way. The only question was how to have Ray see things my way. In her innocence, Cinnamon provided the key, or the lever if you will, to push Ray over the edge. Ray had early-onset dementia. If word of his illness got out, his company stock would plummet and, with it, his fortune. After some negotiating with Ray and his lawyers, we came to an agreement. Cinnamon would receive two million dollars up front and twenty thousand dollars monthly until she remarried. Of course, that would require our having a rather lengthy engagement. But we could acquire a large nest egg of goodies and see some exotic places while we continued our romance.
Cinnamon had no problem setting up a joint account for us so I could access funds as needed. That was one reason I could afford the gigantic rock I would place on the third finger of her left hand. It should hold her off the marriage train for a while.
Don't misunderstand. Cinnamon is a hottie. She's a dynamo in bed, too. Considering she reported Ray was pretty much a limp noodle in that respect, I was reaping the rewards. So you see, it wasn't just the money.
Anyway, I woke suddenly and realized I could hear the oven timer buzzing irritably in the kitchen. "Cinnamon, the timer went off," I called as I stumbled, slightly drunk, into the kitchen to silence the buzzer. I headed back to the foot of the stairs to call up to her again. I could hear the bath still running. She was something of a hedonist when it came to baths. Shrugging, I went back to the kitchen.
Opening the oven door, I pulled out the roasting pan and set it on the stove. Glancing at the warning "No Peeking" note, I decided it no longer applied since I had to see if the food was done. Lifting off the heavy lid, I was hit full in the face with steam and closed my eyes momentarily. As the steam cleared, I gazed down at the wonderfully scented main course Cinnamon had prepared. It took me almost thirty seconds to register what I saw. Cinnamon was staring up at me. At least she would have been if she still had eyes. They had cooked away into her head and down her cheeks. Her once full lips were drawn back tightly over the perfect white teeth Ray had paid big bucks for. Gagging and backpedaling from the stove, I dropped the lid, which clattered loudly on the floor.
Turning, I ran for the stairs and took them two at a time until I reached the upstairs hall. The carpet squished beneath my shoes, and I realized it was saturated with water. Bouncing off the walls of the narrow hall, I made my way to the bathroom. Flinging open the door, I stumbled back, my feet tangling and landing me in a heap on the floor. Cinnamon's headless body floated in the garden tub, her perfect paid-for breasts bobbing provocatively in the pink-tinted water.
Turning my head, I saw the opened bedroom door. Ray sat on the edge of the huge sleigh bed, smiling at me. "Hello, Steve. Is dinner ready?"
My screams echoed off the walls, challenged only by Ray's maniacal laughter. I scooted toward the stairs on my backside, desperate to escape the horrors I was seeing. In my frantic state, I miscalculated and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to lie crumbled at the bottom like an abandoned puppet. Ray appeared at the top of the stairs, holding an axe and still laughing. My mind screamed at my arms and legs to move, but my body wasn't obeying.
As Ray slowly descended the stairs, he began to sing, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why…" He lifted the axe high over his head, his arms trembling at the weight. "It's going to be coal in your stocking, Steve. You've been a bad boy."