Page 83 of Christmas Kisses

It is the howl of a man beyond amused at the lengths a beautifully stubborn woman will go to make herself unattractive.

Angel is the Grinch.

Not a little.

Not a smidge.

She istheGrinch.

If it weren’t for her eyes, I’d swear Jim Carrey was in front of me, ready to suffocate me with wrapping paper and a ton of dreadful green body hair.

As I approach, Angel dons a grinchy snarl before hitting me with one of Jim Carrey’s famous lines. She sounds just like him, and I understand why Pierre is so desperate to get her to return to the theater. With one line, I’m an addict. She would sell out every show.

Once her performance for two is over, I drink in the entirety of her costume. “Is that a body suit or paint and swatches of the carpet my aunt Sue refuses to replace?”

Pierre answers on Angel’s behalf. “A bodysuit goes from her toes to her neck.”

“Her hair?” I ask, curious.

“Is tucked beneath a wig.” Pierre lifts a small portion of hair next to Angel’s hairy ear, exposing the webbed edging of a wig. “The facial prosthetic glue is temporary. It should loosen up in a couple of hours.”

“And the beer belly? Will that deflate, or do I need to order some de-gas tablets?”

I grunt as if wounded when Angel socks me in the stomach with her hairy hand. “I had to use the extra-large insert.”

“Why?”

My eyes shoot straight to her breasts when she murmurs, “To hide my boobs.”

Again, I mutter, “Why?” I wait for her makeup to get hot enough to melt before saying, “The Grinch had mighty impressive boobs.”

I stop waggling my brows when Angel murmurs, “So that’s where you got your fascination for unkempt body hair?” She thrusts her hips forward and back, shockingly hardening my cock with her belly rolls. “Does this turn you on, big boy?” She sounds more like Fat Bastard inAustin Powersthan Jim Carrey.

Sick of lying, I nod.

I didn’t fib when I said she could wear a potato sack and still look hot as fuck.

My honesty stops Angel’s pumps mid-hip-rock. “That’s disturbing.”

She sounds troubled, but her smile is anything but. She’s enjoying the playfulness, and the proof of this doubles when she thanks Pierre for his help by promising to drop into the theater before the end of the year.

That is only days away and a massive step in the right direction for a woman who has barely left her apartment in three years.

“Ready?” Angel asks after locking eyes with me.

“Are you?” I ask, certain she is seconds from being either mobbed by Jim Carrey fans or chased with pitchforks.

She takes a breather before slowly nodding. “I think so.”

Angel’s outfit is so popular that walking two blocks takes almost an hour.

Babies scream, kids squeal, and men wolf whistle.

I issue a few stern finger points for the latter. She’s dressed as a hairy green dude with no visible genitals. What part of any of that do they find attractive?

No, seriously. I’m asking for real. I need to know because my dick has been maintaining its own pulse for the past hour, and I have a severe phobia of body hair.

“N. O. Say it isn’t so.” Angel’s neighbor waits for us to enter the elevator of their building before he completes his statement. “You went and covered up your rogue chin hair with a heap of green ones.”

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