Page 84 of Christmas Kisses

Angel slaps his chest. It would rile me with jealousy if his printed shirt didn’t give away his sexual proclivities. There are no Mrs. Clauses on his 12 Sex Positions for Christmas shirt.

He laughs off her nonverbal request for him to shut his mouth before selecting our floor.

“Are you not going straight to the party?” asks her neighbor. “It is already in full swing.”

“We will be up shortly. I just need to get something from my apartment.”

As I stare at Angel, vying to work out what she desperately needs, she stares at the elevator panel, urging it to hurry up.

It arrives at her floor fast, but it doesn’t appear fast enough. Angel sprints down the hall before begging me to open the door.

She’s in such a panic that I don’t pretend I’ve yet to have a bowel movement. I remove the key from my pocket, stuff it into the lock, swing open the door, and then gesture for her to enter first.

My attempt at chivalry slaps me in the face.Literally.

Angel slams the door in my face like she did earlier.

This time it doesn’t seem in malice.

It is purely for privacy.

She’s so eager to strip that she’ll never make it to her room before portions upon portions of her milky skin are exposed.

The only thing I can’t work out is why she wants to strip. Why sit in a makeup chair for hours only to wear your costume of choice for a third of the time?

My ego realizes this has nothing to do with the bulge in my pants when she squeals, “Bee. Bee.Bee.”

My eyes pop before I race to her side. “Are you taking the mickey?”

“The what?” She wiggles and squirms before yanking the zipper on the collar down.

“Are you joking?”

“No. I’m getting stung. It is continuously stinging me.”

“Then it can’t be a bee. They can only sting you once.”

I assist her in removing the bodysuit, my tugs so rueful that it sits at her knees in half a second. I work through a stern swallow when I recall how many wasp nests I saw in the corner of the props closet.

“It could be a swarm of wasps.”

Her face makeup crinkles when her brow shoots into her hair. “A swarm of wasps!” She squeals again. “Please get it off me, Christian. I don’t want to die.”

I strip her almost bare while dodging angry, pesky bugs unhappy about the disturbance. “Are you allergic to wasps?”

A snippet of calm douses the panic swallowing me whole when she shakes her head. “No. But their stings really hurt.”

Once she is standing before me in nothing but a bra, a pair of panties, and two sets of hairy feet, I dart my eyes between the red welts dotted across her midsection and the prosthetic stomach insert.

The cause for the numerous welts is exposed when I find a wasp hive in the lining of the stomach insert.

The newly hatched stingers feasted on her no-doubt delicious skin.

“Do you have Stingoes?”

When she looks at me like I have a second head, I scoop her into my arms and carry her into the kitchen. After plopping her onto the island, I move to the freezer. She watches me with pained eyes as I gather ice cubes from the freezer and snag a tea towel from the third drawer.

“They left me a tea towel?”

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