Page 76 of Christmas Kisses

Furthermore, Angel isn’t solely fighting for her right to stay in the only place she has ever called home. The bill for her legal fight is in the tens of thousands, but only two thousand is billed under Angel’s name. The rest are for the elderly tenants who can’t afford to fight a billion-dollar corporation.

I went out on a limb to get answers, and the branch snapped in my face.

Now I’m left scrounging to make out I’m not the villain of this story.

Several clicks sound before Tahlia says, “No. They more focus on how Angel never returned to Broadway and the handful of at-home positions she’s held over the past three years to keep her head above water.”

“At-home positions because she’s afraid she will be evicted if she leaves.”

Tahlia hums as if I was asking a question. I wasn’t. “Her titles include an Airbnb host, an at-home daycare service provider, a nail technician, and…”—an unexpected amused huff sounds—“an adult toy distribution clerk.” This swallow is different fromthe one she did earlier. “Holy hell. Can women fit something of that size in their—” A cough ends her reply, and a mouse click restarts it. “Oh, poo. They’re sold out.” Her voice perks back up. “If she gets the Hulk back in stock before she’s homeless, let her know I’m interested. “

I sidestep the brutal jab her homeless comment hits my chest with by focusing my attention on the less painful part of her reply. “The Hulk?”

“It’s ah… Umm… A huge flesh-like member?—”

I cut her off before my cock gets permanently scarred. “Oh,theHulk.” I shake my head to rid it of the thoughts I never wish for it to have again. “Got it.”

Tahlia giggles. I’m glad she’s amused. I am far from it. With the sale falling through, Mrs. Richler slipped a notice to vacate letter into the breakfast order I had delivered to Angel’s apartment this morning.

She is still clueless that I was the intended purchaser of the apartment she is selling. She thinks I work for Jimmy because I wanted her to believe that. I didn’t want her to jib Jimmy on the five-figure invoice a job like this warrants. He is weeks away from being a family man. He needs all the coin he can get.

I tune back into my call with Tahlia in the nick of time. “I’ll keep looking and update you on anything I find.”

When I notice a shadow approaching the open bathroom door, I say, “I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?” Tahlia asks, shocked.

“Yep. It’s two days until Christmas. Go enjoy it with your fiancé.”

“Fiancé? I don’t have a fiancé.”

I disconnect our call before Angel can hear her reply. She isn’t lingering outside the bathroom door because she believes offering her guests privacy will see them coming back time and time again. She’s riled with jealousy. How do I know this? Iexperienced the same thing while reading the host reviews on her Airbnb advert.

Every glowing review was from a male in the twenty-five- to thirty-six-year bracket, and all of them voiced how they couldn’t wait for a second serving of “Angel’s accommodating hostess skills.”

I would have sworn I’d stumbled on to her Tinder account if she hadn’t replied to numerous reviews saying she had recently moved into a one-bedroom apartment but that she couldn’t work out how to remove the listing from the site. I could only book after spinning the year field of my date of birth like a contestant onThe Price is Right.

I twist on the faucet when Angel remains outside the bathroom and direct it to hot.

Within seconds, the bathroom fills with fog, my ploy full steam ahead.

“I said to rinse withcoolwater,” shouts a voice from the hallway.

I let my smile free before suffocating it. “I can’t do cold. Bright-pink hairandshrinkage…” I huff.“My ego will never recover.”

“I’m highly doubtful of that.” Angel mentally fights herself for ten seconds before she blurts out, “Even storing the hair dye in the freezer for an hour while we ate breakfast didn’t calm the beast. I thought I was going to have to take pole vaulting lessons to dye your cowlick.” As quickly as my peacock feathers rise, the entirety of my statement smacks into her. “Your hair turned pink?”

She bursts into the bathroom before I can answer her.

The fret on her face clears away for annoyance when she spots my perfectly smooth light-brown locks.

“You’re an asshole.”

I smirk as if I’m suddenly obsessed with the degradation kink. If the pulse between my legs is anything to go by, I am.

“I could have sworn you said something about a scalp massage being a part of the terms we negotiated this morning?”

She steps closer, her hips swinging, her smile flirty. “I said it would have been a part of the package if you had gone to the salon three blocks over.” She thrusts me back onto the stool, returning my line of sight to her fantastic tits. “You were too cheap for that.”

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