Page 54 of Christmas Kisses

“That’ll be dinner.” She darts down the hallway, dodging the landmines some fools call Christmas lights. “Be careful where you step. I don’t want you getting hurt so close to Christmas.” Her hair slaps her red cheek when she jackknifes back to face me. “How will you slide down the chimney feet first if they’re cut and bleeding?”

What the fuck is she talking about?

She can see I am confused, but she does nothing to ease it. With a smile as evil as it is beautiful, she exits the hallway with a spring in her step, leaving me to navigate World War III alone.

6

ANGEL

When I hear the hiss of a man with numerous cuts on his feet, I shove an empty peroxide bottle and the ugly Christmas sweater Mrs. Roach from apartment 18B knitted for me beneath the entryway table before snatching up the food Christian’s generosity purchased.

I don’t know the name of the wool that Mrs. Roach knitted into a Christmas sweater with a matching scarf, but its shedding resembles a Maremma Sheepdog with a severe skin condition. I lived off its spawns for days after she made me try it on in the foyer of our building last week, and they clung to every article of clothing within a two-mile radius.

One also lodged up my nose.

When it sent my hay fever into a frenzy, I stored it at the bottom of my laundry basket, hopeful one ungentle cycle would destroy it beyond repair.

Laundry day is tomorrow—thank god.

The reminder of my sweater’s existence conjured up the perfect this-is-why-I’m-single ruse.

With one tactic devised, a hundred more steamrolled into me. The next twenty-four hours will be the most fun I’ve had in the week leading to Christmas in years.

“Hey.” I make my voice extra cutesy, giving it that babyish edge most men hate when I spot Christian’s arrival in the corner of my eye. “Do you like Indian?” I jingle the takeout bag that cost him over two hundred dollars. “I ordered enough for an army. I hope you don’t mind. I’m famished.”

Christian takes in the many dishes I ordered, before smiling. I wish he wouldn’t. He’s dressed now, so his smile shouldn’t affect me how it did earlier, but I’d be a liar if I said my heart didn’t break into a trot at the first turn of his plump top lip.

“No problem at all. I love Indian food, and I’m also starving.”

He’s quick to hide the grimace crossing his face when his wallet is closed without needing to squash down the bundle of bills it was housing only minutes ago.

“I couldn’t go light on the tip. It is only days until Christmas. We all need a hand at this time of the year, and I can’t think of someone more deserving than the people forced to work through the festive season.” I lock eyes with him before lowering my bottom lip. “It is lucky for us we don’t need to work, hey?”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, his agreeance not as firm as earlier. I can’t blame him. The delivery driver’s tip was five times the bill. I cleared out every denomination in his wallet, including his minimal number of coins. “Though I might need to run to a teller before tomorrow’s delivery.”

His reply shunts me out of improv, but I hide it well. “Tomorrow’s delivery?”

He follows me into the kitchen, where I unload all the dishes I purchased onto the island where I scarfed down a semi-stale chocolate croissant without coming up for air. “The tree I ordered while you were showering is being delivered tomorrow morning.” He flops his backside, which looks mighty fine in apair of gray sweatpants, onto a backless swivel stool. “I should probably order you some more shampoo, too. I didn’t realize I had used so much until I couldn’t get it to rinse out.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile. I laughed so hard while watching a YouTube clip of a prankster pouring shampoo over bodybuilders’ heads when they attempted to wash off the sweat of a beachside workout. Shampoo suds went everywhere. They were coated head to toe—as was Christian when I tested out an internet prank on a real-life victim.

Don’t look at me like that. Not once did my eyes veer below his belly button while implementing my ruse. I was too busy dodging the hand he speared out of the shower curtain minutes earlier than predicted to ogle a cock I’m confident is massive.

The outline in his sweatpants is gigantic, and it has me suddenly starving.

I’m snapped from my inappropriate thoughts when Christian says, “Is there a particular brand you’d like me to purchase, or shall I leave it up to the DoorDash driver to decide?”

“I don’t need more shampoo.”

I fight not to melt under the heat of his gaze. Anyone would swear he’s on to me. I doubt it, but I need to be careful with my skits tonight to ensure he’s hit with their full impact.

“I also don’t need a tree. I’m… ah…”—I take in the aroma of the dishes in front of me before blurting out—“Hindu.”

Like all Indian food novices, he pushes the curry to my side of the island before snatching up a less ominous-looking dish. “Then we will call it a Bana Din tree.” When my brows scrunch, he gives me a look as if to say,Busted!before he spears his fork into a green bean salad. “Nearly all Hindu people in India celebrate Diwali, but just as many also celebrate Christmas. They call it Bana Din. It means Big Day.”

His knowledge is as sexy as his face, but I refuse to let him know that. “Whatever they call it, I don’t care. I don’t want a tree.”

“But—”

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