Page 14 of My Favorite Holidate

GLITTER DONGS AND SHINY SCHLONGS

Fable

I’ve always rolled my eyes at those scenes in the movies when the heroine spills coffee in the hero’s lap, then grabs a wad of napkins hastily in apology and dabs at him till she realizes she’s touching the outline of his dick and…awkward.

Like, who would actually do that in real life? Pat a dude’s lap and risk feeling up the crown jewels?

But I get it now—how it might happen. Because the instinct to clean up my own mess is as strong as my desire to hug the pair of Dachshund puppies I saw in a woman’s cart at T.J. Maxx last weekend as she stocked up on dog beds.

Intense.

I’m digging into my purse, furiously hunting for something,anything, to clean the glitter Christmas dicks off Wilder’s handsome face, his fancy tie, his expensive dress shirt as he removes his jacket quickly, assessing thedamage. I mean, why make regular glitter dicks, when I can make holiday ones for Charlotte’s holiday bachelorette party?

“Here,” I say, stretching across his desk to shove a pack of tissues at him while I desperately try to find the file folder in my brain that stores information about glitter removal.

Think fast.

Got it! “Do you have any coconut oil? I read this article the other night when I was making the shirt. You dip two fingers in the oil, gently rub circles across your face, and…” Oh my god, what am I saying? No one has coconut oil in their office. “It, um, removes sparkly makeup.”

The end of my sentence dies like a kite without wind as Wilder swipes at his cheek. He hasn’t flinched since the glittering. He’s wearing the most blank expression ever. I bet he kills it at poker. “I’m fresh out of coconut oil,” he deadpans.

“I’m guessing no makeup remover then?”

“I don’t have that either,” he says.

But most of the red and green flecks landed on that crisp shirt he’s wearing. I bet he’s one of those executives who keeps a change of clothes at work. I swivel around, but a quick scan of his office doesn’t reveal a garment bag or a handy-dandy costume change. Don’t billionaires always have tuxedos at the ready? Must be another lie of the rom-com flicks.

I’ve got to be able to do something. I made this mess. I need to clean it up. Then, an image flashes before me. Or, more specifically, a collage.

“Lint rollers can remove glitter from clothes!” I shout, like I’ve unearthed the answer in a vicious game of charades.

I sprint across the plush carpet, yank open the door, and bound over to Shay’s desk, powered by hope and a prayer. I slam down my palms, rattling the purple picture frame of a cat that sits in prime position by his computer. “Please tell me you carry lint rollers with you because you have long-hair cats?”

He’s an Avenger called to assemble. “Of course. Would you like sticky, super-sticky, or extra-sticky?”

I lift a finger, ready to debate the difference between super and extra, before I shut myself up. Now’s not the time for semantics. “Extra sounds fab.”

“Always travel with rollers,” he says, then snags one from his backpack—his holiday backpack, decorated with a Grinch face and the wordsCheer up, dude, it’s Christmas.“Here you go.”

“You’re the best,” I say as I return to Wilder’s office, swinging the door shut behind me. As I peel off the adhesive strip on the roller, he strides around the mahogany desk, and I practically slam into him. But I stop in time. A small miracle for me today. “Let me help,” I say, then roll his chest. Up and down his pecs. Until it hits me—Iamthat girl in the movie.

The only difference is I’m not rolling his lap.

Also, when do bosses have time to get pecs of steel? Who cares? I’m just glad he does because I approve. Except he’s my boss, and I should not even think about what’s under that shirt. I swallow roughly, jamming the lint roller his way then backing off. “Um, you can do it.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking over the glitter-removal duty and methodically rolling, quadrant by quadrant.

“You’re as good at that as you are at stacking a dishwasher,” I say. Maybe the compliment will deflect from the terrible T-shirt mix-up.

“That’s always been a goal.”

Soon, he’s sparkle free. Except…

I gingerly point at his face. At one of his carved cheekbones to be exact. “There’s a little bit still there.”

He swipes at the stubborn stripe of sparkly red sausages, but they don’t come off.

“I think I have lotion in my purse. I could use that,” I suggest, since it’s the least I can do.

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