Page 33 of Holiday Hostilities

“Say sorry to Margaret, then.”

“Who?”

“Margaret.” He pats the machine again, then gives me ridiculous puppy-dog eyes. “She took offense to you calling her gross. She’s very upset.”

I click my tongue. “How original. A margarita machine named Margaret.”

“After Margaret Thatcher,” he replies, his expression totally serious.

I can’t help but snort with laughter. “Oh, yeah. The Iron Lady knew how to party.”

“Damn straight, she did.”

Aaron busies himself rolling the rim of a glass in salt before pouring in a good helping of the slushy mixture, careful not to spill any on the counter. Still, a little dollop ends up on his thumbnail, which he lifts to his lips to quickly licks off. And I have to admit, a margarita kinda sounds like theexactthing I’ve been wanting all along.

He holds out the glass, but instead of holding it towardsme, he holds it above the farmhouse sink.

“Now. Apologize, or I’m tipping this down the drain.”

I can’t stop the gasp that escapes my throat. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

I squint at him, trying to work out if he’s messing with me, but he squints right back, deadpan.

“Fine.” I turn to the red machine, feeling my own face reddening at this ridiculous exercise. But here I am, doing it. Looking like a fool in front of Aaron Marino again, and yet… he’s kind of acting a fool along with me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. British Prime Minister of many years gone by.”

“She accepts your apology.” He nods soberly, then holds the drink out towards me, all gallant-like and with a silly flourish. “One frozen margarita for the lady!”

“Thanks.” I accept it, and take a sip to cover my smile.

Aaron grabs himself a bottle of water, and together, we walk out to the deck. I wave to Maddie and Reagan, who are cooingover a baby boy, and offer Dallas Cooper a wry smile after he winks at me roguishly.

“Nice deck,” I tell Aaron as I take in the beautiful oasis that is his backyard.

“Built it myself.” He glances at me. “I don’t know if you remember, but my family has a deck company. Would’ve been my career, too, if hockey didn’t work out.”

A memory suddenly captures me of a teenage Aaron sprawled on my bedroom floor, the one and only time he was ever in my bedroom. That night, he was wearing a sweatshirt with a construction-type logo on it. “That’s right. What was it called again?”

“Marino’s Decks.” He shakes his head. “My uncle Sal came up with it. Such a boring name. If I’d gone to work there, I would’ve petitioned to change it to Big Deck Energy.”

I almost spit out my mouthful of margarita. I cough, then recover quickly enough to retort, “Well that would be extremely misleading.”

“You’re clearly misinformed, Livvy.” Aaron flings his arms wide, gesturing at the hardwood below us. “I have the biggest deck in Atlanta. Fact.”

I look him up and down and smirk. “More like you ARE the biggest deck in Atlanta.”

He snorts with laughter, but before he can reply, Triple J bounces up to us. “What are you two over here whispering about?”

Aaron waggles his eyebrows at me. “My wood.”

“His deck!” I practically yell, causing the thinly plucked eyebrows of a nearby hockey wife to shoot up to her hairline. I drop my voice, my cheeks surely fire-engine red. “He means the wood used to build this deck. Not like… any other type of…”

Shut up, Olivia!

I take a gulp of margarita to silence myself.

But Jimmy nods sagely. “He does have a very large deck, this is true.”

---