Page 70 of Home for Christmas in July

Dante’s lightly accented English is like nails on a chalkboard. I suppress a shudder and open my eyes, pulling myself up to a seated position. He’s sitting in a chair on the other side of the room watching me pretend to sleep like the freak he is. We’re in the old ski lodge.

“Dante.”

We stare at each other for what feels like a long time. This makes me wonder how long it’s been since he bashed my head against the wall and dragged me out of the inn. I glance up at the clock, but it’s stopped. Stuck at ten to nine.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop debasing yourself with the innkeeper.”

Nice.

“Still a peeping tom, I see. Well, if you know about me and Nick, then you must know I’m not available. Off the market, Dante.”

In response, he spits on the floor. I take this as a possible sign of personal growth because the last time I saw Dante spit, it was aimed at my face. I have no idea why I’m sassing this unstable, violent man—other than I’m really mad. More mad than scared even. Because I am finally seizing life, living fully, and here comes a narcissistic Italian psychopath to mess it up by murdering me. This is so patently unjust that I can’t even be frightened, just furious.

I try again. “But I wasn’t dating Nick when you decided to flee your arrest warrant in Ravenna and come here. So why are you here?”

Anger, real anger, flashes across his face. “I read about you. Showing off your little children’s library program like theputtanayou are. Look at me, pay attention to me. So needy.”

I wait a beat. Then I say, “You sound jealous, Dante.”

He takes a long swig of beer from a bottle that I recognize from the open house. Then, without warning, he hurls it at me. I duck and it smashes into the wall above my head. Glass and beer rain down on me.

“Clean up the mess,” he orders.

I’m about to tell him to clean up his own flipping mess, when I stop myself. Sensei Adam makes us do this brainstorming exercise where we look around the room and try to find everyday objects that we can use as weapons. A broom would make an excellent improvised weapon.

I stand up and smooth my dress over my thighs. “With what?”

He waves a hand. “There must be a broom. Find it.”

I walk, unsteady as a newborn foal, across the room and toward the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. Because a knife or even a fork would be superior to a broom. But he stops me.

“Not in there. Down the hall.”

For a split second, I consider dashing into the kitchen anyway. But I’m woozy, and he’s strong and evil, and I’m afraid I’ll end up on the wrong end of the knife. So I turn to my left and walk until I reach a narrow closet set into the paneling.

I open it. It’s crammed full of cleaning supplies. Nothing super helpful, though—like, say, lye, or bleach, or a loaded semi-automatic rifle.

“Hurry up!” he shouts.

I grab the broom and dustpan and slam the door shut. Something shiny winks up at me from the bottom of the dustpan. I squint down at it. It’s a big glass shard. A wicked, sharp piece of glass. I pluck it out carefully and tuck it into my dress pocket. Now I have two weapons.

I walk back into the room and flash him a tight, unfriendly smile as I pass him to go sweep up his broken glass.

“Stop.”

I stop.

“You didn’t think I’d let you get your hands on that glass, did you,puttana?”

My heart drops. How can he possibly know? Then I realize he means the beer bottle, and I turn to face him. “So you do or do not want me to clean up the mess you made? Which is it, Dante?”

He lunges from the chair like a panther and wrenches the broom out of my hands. He throws it toward the front window. It smashes through the pane of glass next to the one someone (presumably him) already broke and sails outside, where it lands on the porch with a clatter. The clattering lasts for an unusually long time—and sounds suspiciously like feet.

Nick.

I want to cry with relief, but I need to distract Dante.

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