Page 84 of Hat Trick

“I know.” From his pocket, he pulls out a kazoo and brings it to his lips. His cheeks suck inward as a loud squawk splits through the room. When he tosses it on the countertop, he says, “I had holiday plans for us, you know. I’d booked us a room at the Ritz and planned all these other holiday-themed activities. Clearly,” he drawls, “none of that happened. So I thought I’d get creativehere.”

He approaches me silently, and that’s when I remember myplan.

Oh,God.

I leap in front of the cutouts, careful not to stomp all over them. They didn’t cost me a fortune but finding a company who could create them on special orderanda deadline proved way more difficult. “How did you get in?” I ask, wringing my hands in front of me as he completely sidestepsme.

I shift to the side, blocking his sight . . . ortryingto, anyway. The man is a whole lot bigger than Iam.

He cocks his head slightly, leaning around me. “Two little reindeer showed me theway.”

The wry remark would have made me grin, if I weren’t so determined to follow my plan to a T.You’re not supposed to see it all yet!I want to shout. My face heats with embarrassment and I do another shuffle-shuffle-shuffle when he plants his hands on my shoulders to hold me in place. “Which one had the red nose?” I ask, desperate to keep his attention onme.

With a husky chuckle, he murmurs, “Who do youthink?”

“Charls?”

He drops his hands to his sides. “Literally. I found a stuffed red nose at the store late last night. It was half-broken and looking tired as hell. I’m guessing the store clerk missed it when they were taking all the holiday stuff off the shelves. I had all these plans to wear it for you today. Unfortunately, Charlie claimed it as payment. Told me I’d look better without itanyway.”

He doeslook—

Marshall drops to his haunches and lifts one of the upside-down cutouts. Crap, crap, crap. It’s just my luck that . . . “Is thisme?”

I stare at the ceiling and pray for the Universe to send me a sign. “Ummm . . .” Or words. I’d also take words right aboutnow.

Marshall tips the cutout over, so that Fake Marshall lands on his back, exposing all of his— “I’mnaked.”

Gulping audibly, I keep my gaze averted.Do not make eye contact, do you hear? Do NOT look at him. “You’re not completelynaked.”

“You’re right, I’m in Calvin Klein—” He breaks off with a startled but still sexy laugh. “This is from a shoot I did for them two yearsago.”

“Is it?” Another shuffle and I’m effectively standing over him, my poor brain working overtime on how to explain all of . . .this. It would be one thing if he saw the whole thing on display throughphotography, as I’d planned it out withHolly.

Not the cardboard cutouts in all of their . . .cardboard.

With firm hands, Marshall once again shifts me over. One by one, he lifts the cutouts until they stand tall and are resting against my wall. And with each cutout that he sets into place, my heart thuds a little harder and my hopes flit to life a little moreaggressively.

When he’s finished, he steps back, hands on his hips, mouth in a firm, uncompromisingline.

“They’re us,” he murmurs in a voice laden withemotion.

I swallow, then fist my hands behind my back to keep from yanking them off the wall.Don’t ever bail. “Yes. Theyare.”

For a moment, we don’tspeak.

In the first cutout version of us, Marshall is in the blue navy suit he wore to Zoe and Andre’s engagement party. I’m wearing the red dress that I donned that very same night. In the second cutout versions, Marshall is decked out in tight boxer briefs . . . and nothing else. He’s right; I found a photo of him online from the shoot and opted to pretend copyrights didn’t exist for only this instance. I figured Calvin Klein would understand and support my cause. As for my cutout, I allowed Holly to take a picture of me in a lacey bra and panties. I wore heels because, truth time, they made my butt lookbetter.

“Gwen.”

The way he utters my name is like a burst of sunshine after weeks of rain. I struggle to hold myself back, to keep from launching myself into his arms. “Is it too much?” I ask, striving for a confident tone even as the back of my neck itches with nerves. “It’s probably toomuch.”

Two steps bring him to the final cutout set, and he reaches out a hand to trace his fingers over Fake Gwen’sface.

“You’re in a wedding dress,” he says, his smooth baritone breaking on the lastword.

I clutch the back of my neck and shuffle my weight. “I, um, dragged Holly Carter to a local wedding gown shop so she could snap a fewphotos.”

He points to the furry figure at the bottom of the white, flowing gown. “You brought a dogthere?”

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