Page 66 of Christmas Kisses

“Two”—his eyes again stray to the mirror—“you need to fix my hair. If I go out like this, the kids will think Jason didn’t get the memo that Halloween is over.”

I slap my hand over my mouth when a husky rumble ripples between my lips.

His hair isn’t that bad.

Actually, yes, it is. It is horrible and lifeless, bleached to within an inch of its life.

Taking my laugh as confirmation I am okay with his plans, Christian holds out his hand in offering. “Do we have a deal?”

I want to tell him to go jump, that the fair will be better run without his help, but something stops me. I want to say it is the joyful stomp of the family of five in the apartment below mine, but that would be a lie.

It seems like more than that. I just won’t find out why until I accept Christian’s hand.

I almost slip my hand into his open one before remembering his earlier words.

After stuffing my hands under my arms, hoisting my bosoms higher, I arch a brow. “What is the third term?”

He waits a beat before saying, “You put me down as your plus-one for tomorrow night’s party.” I’m about to call him a stardom-seeking whore before his following words ram my tease back down my throat. “If the online reports are true, the man who owns most of the apartments in this building will be in attendance. I have a feeling we both want to meet with him.”

“Isaac Holt is coming tothisbuilding.” I point to the floor during the “this” part of my reply.

Jealousy flares Christian’s nostrils before he dips his chin. “His name was at the top of the guest list I perused earlier.”

Sparks jolt up my arm when I thrust my hand into Christian’s so fast that I nearly knock him over. “We have an agreement. But…” I wait for the jealousy coloring his cheeks to reach fever pitch. “Our truce is only for twenty-four hours, and if you’re out of my eyesight for even a second while we’re not inmyapartment, I'll?—”

His jealousy is gone, replaced with cockiness. “Nutcracker my nuts?” He smirks as if excited by the prospect of me getting friendly with his family jewels, before he awards me a frisky wink. “Got it.”

He slips past me, and I follow his exit in silence until my curiosity gets the better of me. “Where are you going?”

Not looking back, he replies, “I’ve got hair dye to purchase.” Now he looks at me. “And a Santa suit with an iron-cast crotch to design.”

14

CHRISTIAN

“No luck finding an iron-cast crotch?” Angel’s eyes shoot up from the sports cup I wear while batting in a cricket match before she says, “I’m not sure plastic will cut it. I practiced karate in junior high.”

Her stance proves she isn’t lying. I won’t mention my body’s response when she kicks her leg high into the air. Her shorts are already indecent, but they’re an entirely new level of corruption when her ankle swings above her head. I am already on the direct route to being sued. I don’t need more charges against me.

The shit I’ve found out about Mrs. Richler over the past twenty-four hours has been astonishing—and not in a good way. She brings new meaning to corruption, and my construction company almost got snared by her prongs.

If that isn’t bad enough, Angel’s ankle wasn’t solely bitten by her trap.

It was gnawed—more than once.

I’m drawn from dangerous thoughts when Angel murmurs, “Whoa.” She sways like a leaf on a hot summer’s day. “I shouldn’t do that on an empty stomach.”

When she wobbles, I shoot off the couch, catch her in my arms, and pull her into my chest like her shirt isn’t the only one between us.

After a rigorous sniff, she moans like my skin is slathered in bacon lard. “I’m so hungry that my stomach is eyeing my intestines like they’re knotted with gnocchi.” Her eyes are on me, lustful and starving. “Take that as your warning. If you want to make it through the night uneaten, put on a shirt.”

While laughing like the possibility of being eaten by her is disgusting, I walk us to the kitchen. She’s so weightless I’m tempted to hold her against me with one arm like my mother did my little brother while moving around the kitchen, preparing me something to eat. The only reason I don’t is because she needs to watch me open each article of food to trust me enough to eat it.

I need her lucid enough to pry information out of her that I need to make Mrs. Richler regret the day she tried to play me for a fool.

I’d also hate for anything to compromise the curves that haven’t left my head for a second over the past two days.

Angel’s nostrils flare as the scent of salty meat filters into the air. “Mm. They do packaged pastrami at the deli now?”

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