Page 30 of The Holiday Games

“Your lashes are not sad,” I say, admiring the thick black spikes still damp around her eyes. “They’re luscious. Like a baby cow or a llama or a drag queen out for Sunday brunch in their short set of falsies.”

She giggles so hard she snorts, and I instantly know I’ll never get enough of that sound. I’m going to be thirsty for her snort-giggles until the day we go our separate ways, likely never to exchange more than likes on social media and a holiday card each December.

But I’m not going to think about that now, not when I have at least eight hours of Caroline time stretching out in front of me. I’m not the kind of man who wrecks the present by worrying about the future.

I’m the kind of man who seizes the day.

With that in mind, I tell Caroline, “Stay here. I’ll grab a towel and something dry from the prop department for you to wear while we go shopping. Then, we’ll blow this clown college.”

She claps her hands. “Amazing!”

I start to leave, but spin back to add, “And if the craft fair doesn’t keep us busy all day, I have a few other things I could show you. I have a secret New York tour I only share with the most discriminating friends and relatives.”

She cocks her head and arches a flirty brow. “Oh yeah? So, you think I’m discriminating? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Very.” I bob a shoulder and add, “I mean, aside from last night, when you let Greg pull the wool over your eyes. But no one’s perfect.”

She grins. “He didn’t pull the wool over my eyes. He’s obviously got beef with you for some reason. Maybe he just prefers women. Some animals do.”

Thisanimal certainly does.

Especially this woman.

And for the rest of the day, she’s mine.

thirteen

. . .

Caroline

Inside the posh Waverly’s department store dressing room, I slip into a cashmere dress Leo insisted on selecting from the rack. It costs more than any single item of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I have no intention of blowing four hundred dollars on a dress, but…

Wow, is it soft.

Soooosoft.

And sexy…

The deep red wool skims my curves, enhancing without clinging. For the first time in ages, I feel classy, sophisticated. I look like a woman who calls the shots in boardrooms or at a luxury clothing brand.

Again, I’m struck by the certainty that if I never put on another Santa Claus sweater or giant red hair bow, it will be too soon.

Thankfully, before I can start feeling too guilty about that, Leo murmurs from the other side of the dressing room’s heavy curtain, “How’s it look? Show and tell, woman. You have to do a fashion show. That’s the best part of the shopping process.”

I grin, running my fingers through my hair, grateful that it’s dried in silky waves instead of frizzing the way it does in thehumid New York summers. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy shopping.”

“Love it. Well, not for me,” he amends. “Men’s clothing is boring, but I’m the go-to shopping partner for my fashionable gal pals. Not to brag, but I’ve been told I have amazing taste. Especially for a straight man.”

I turn from the mirror, sweeping the curtain aside to reveal Leo looking even more delicious than usual in a dapper black fedora with a feather sticking up on one side.

I give an approving nod. “Nice hat.”

“Thanks,” he says, his gaze sweeping up and down my body in a way that makes the dressing room feel warmer than it did before. “And that dress is…”

“Nice?” I ask, spinning in a slow circle. I shouldn’t fan the flames between us—we’re friends,justfriends, for now and always—but some wicked part of me can’t resist the urge to show Leo how bootylicious my backside looks in this dress.

He exhales a soft groan that goes straight to my belly, making it flip. “A stroke. I may be experiencing a mild stroke.”

---