Mistletoe Magic? A Holiday Romance Story

In this holiday romance, two girlfriends set out for SantaCon only to find a few sizzling surprises along the way.

Dec 11, 2025

Sierra

“Where are you?!” I yell into the phone, over the sounds of Mariah Carey and rowdy partygoers in the background.

I barely hear my friend’s garbled voice as a very tipsy and very scantily clad “Mrs. Claus” tells an equally scantily clad reindeer about her run-in with a guy she used to date.

“Just text me!” I scream into the phone and hang up.

I take a deep breath and prepare to make my way through the sea of Santas in the bar where I thought I was meeting Belinda. Neither of us realized, until now, that there are two locations of Barrels and Brews, and we are each at a different one. While I wait for a text back, I figure I might as well check out the scene.

I don’t want to be here. I’m a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. And I don’t really love dressing up and theme parties. It’s really a miracle I made it out of the house looking like an elf. That’s friendship for you! Only for my best friend would I leave my cozy couch, put on this get up, and brave the frigid December weather for SantaCon of all things.

I squeeze into an open spot by the corner of the bar and survey the room. I spot a group of friends taking turns screaming out toasts and clinking their Santa boot mugs together, erupting in raucous laughter. To the right of them, a Mr. and Mrs. Claus are cozied up in a booth having an intense conversation.

“And one for you!”

I turn back toward the bar and a cute guy, with killer dimples, shoves a candy cane test tube shot into my hand.

“Oh, no. I think you have the wrong person,” I reply.

“Well, I guess it’s your lucky day!” he winks and then passes out the rest of the shots to folks in the crowd behind me. And before I know it, he’s gone.

What the…What was that?

While I attempt to figure out what just happened, I toss back the shot. The vodka in the lemon drop warms my insides and I relax a little bit. I check my phone. Still nothing from Belinda, but I also notice I only have one flickering bar. And a quickly draining battery. I abandon my spot and migrate to a new one closer to the door to check my phone. I could just leave…but this bar is giving the vibe I know Belinda will love so I need to confirm she isn’t on the way.

I squeeze into a spot by the “snowy” window and open my phone again.

Girl. This location is wack!

Sierra, I’m on my way to you. Subway was packed so might be a minute. Don’t leave!

Well at least I know she is on the way. Because I would have been on my way back to my toasty apartment, out of this get up, and watching a true crime documentary.

Belinda

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. MOVE!”

I shove past the drunken wannabe Santas the only way I know how: with force. Sierra has been waiting for me for hours. I’m usually late, so she’s used to it, but I still need to show up for my girl in case she gets accosted.

I love Christmas. And SantaCon has been on my Bucket List forever. (And yes, I love checking things off my Bucket List.) I finally convinced Sierra to get off her couch and hit the streets during the wildest, drunkest, most disorderly event in NYC… and I’m freaking late.

“She’ll forgive me,” I muse. “Everyone does!”

I smile, fully aware of my superpower: I always get my way. I don’t know if it’s my long, silky, fiery-red hair—thanks to my Irish side—or my wide hips—shoutout to my Puerto Rican ancestors—but people just fall at my feet.

“Shit!” I scream as my right foot gets squished by a pair of white Reeboks.

“My bad!”

I look up, ready to give the culprit who just murdered my pinky toe—already suffering in my red, pointed-toe stilettos—a piece of my mind, but instead I gasp.

“Joseph?” I whisper, squinting to make sure it’s really my ex. The one I dumped four weeks ago after a two-year long-distance relationship.

“Belinda.” His eyes twinkle, and suddenly I feel all tingly inside.

Nope. Not him. It’s because it’s 20 freaking degrees and I’m dressed like a slutty Mrs. Claus.

“SantaCon, huh? You finally convinced Sierra,” he chuckles, fully aware that my bestie is both risk-averse and Christmas-averse. “Where is she by the way?”

“Yup. I finally convinced the Scrooge to—”

“Watch out!” Joseph grabs me by the waist and pulls me tight as a gang of twenty-something Santas barrels through the crowd on bicycles.

“Use the bike lane, you assholes!” I scream after them, still wrapped in Joseph’s arms. His body shakes with laughter, his strong yet tender embrace reverberating through me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“What? You’re the only one who can celebrate Christmas in the city?” He smiles sheepishly.

“You know what I mean, Jo. You live in Vegas. And you’re here. In NYC. Just like that.”

He tightens his hold on my waist, bends down, and brings his lips to my ear.

“Rockefeller Center, baby.”

I try to push away, annoyed by his jokes and his reference to 30 Rock, our favorite sitcom. He can’t take anything seriously. Reason number 2,000 why we broke up. But he pulls me in even tighter.

“You, Belinda,” he murmurs. “I’m here for you.”