Page 44 of Holiday Hostilities

“The local weed dealer,” I admit.

I only know this because the day I moved into the building, I was wheeling some suitcases towards the front door when Larry stepped in front of me, looked me up and down, and then asked me if I was in need of any broccoli.

I had no idea what that meant, but I assumed that he was not referring to the cruciferous vegetable. A quick google searchconfirmed that my instincts were correct, and Larry wasnotsimply concerned about my folate and Vitamin C intake.

Because of our respective odd-houred schedules, Larry and I have crossed paths a few times. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, by any means, but we give each other that polite smile-nod greeting people do when they see acquaintances in passing. He even offered to pick the lock on my mailbox when it was stuck one time.

“He’s harmless,” I add reassuringly. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy.”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say because Aaron scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m going to be having words with Jake about this,” he says darkly.

And then, despite my protests, he throws his door open and stalks around the car to open mine.

Defeated, I get out and check the lines on the road. “You’re illegally parked,” I inform him.

“I’m aware.” He grabs me by the elbow and begins to literally frog march me towards the front door of my own damn apartment building. His grip on my arm is firm, the pads of his fingers digging into my skin, but not hard enough that it hurts.

“Ouch,” I say anyway.

He loosens his grip by about one fraction of a millimeter.

“You don’t care about getting a ticket?” I ask, looking up at him as I trot along in a vain effort to match his pace.

“No.”

“Evening, Olivia.” Larry waves at me from where he’s still skulking about.

“Hi, Larry.”

“Who’s your friend? He looks familiar.” He peers at Aaron as we pass.

“Oh, he’s nobody,” I say, flustered.

Aaron just keeps marching for the door.

Once I let us inside, he relaxes a little. Tugs on my elbow so I’m forced to turn and look at him. “Nobody, huh?”

“Didn’t want your name associated with a literal drug dealer. Figured that wouldn’t be good for your career if the media got a hold of it.”

He looks surprised for a moment, but then nods. “That was good thinking. Thanks.” His gratitude is short-lived, though, because that scowl is back in the blink of an eye. “But while we’re on the subject of names, why does a drug dealer know yours?”

“That’s a long, broccoli-filled story.”

He stares at me blankly for a loaded moment before shaking his head. “Who are you, Olivia Griswold.”

It’s clearly a statement, not a question—a rhetorical question, at best—because he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he lets go of my arm and makes for the stairs. “What floor are you on?”

“No, no. No need to see me to my apartment.” I jog after him. “I’m safely inside now, and you’re going to get a parking ticket.” My mind whirs with concern, both for his car, and for him meeting my roommates if he keeps to his insistent plan. “What if it gets stolen or broken into or something?”

He barely lifts a shoulder before climbing the stairs. “Good thing I have insurance.”

“But you love your car.”

“Olivia.” He turns around and his eyes meet mine. “I don’t give a damn about my car right now. What Idogive a damn about is getting you home safe. Will you please allow me to do that?”

There’s something so earnest about both his tone and his expression that I relent. Probably no use fighting him on this anyway—the man can be stubborn as a mule.

“Okay.” I shake my head. “But for the love of all that is holy,do nottell Romy who you are, or she will shake you down for every penny you’ve got on you.”

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