Page 15 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

I chew on my bottom lip for a minute, trying to figure out a way to gain control of the situation. Then I smile, remembering something.

“Please tell me you have some tequila,” I state.

He looks surprised by the request. “You want alcohol?” he asks slowly.

“Yeah. I was actually on my way to get plastered earlier when shit hit the fan. No time like the present.”

“I see,” he murmurs. “You know you’re weird, right?”

“I thought we established I was certifiably insane,” I remind him.

“Right. Well, I don’t have tequila, but I do have wine.”

I pout. “It’ll have to do. But what kind of person doesn’t have actual booze in this house?”

“Wine contains alcohol as well.”

“Sure, but it’s a drink for old people.” Or the snobby rich ones, a category I’m guessing he falls into. “How old are you anyway?” I ask, peering at him.

If I had to guess, I’d say he’s somewhere between my age to early thirties.

“Old enough,” is his reply.

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer, instead waving me in the direction of the mini bar in the house. “You can get a bottle of wine that way. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Hold up, wait. You’re going to leave me alone?”

“Yes.”

“No,” I return. “You’re holding me hostage. The least you can do is entertain me until the sun rises.”

Slate gray eyes meet mine. “I’m not holding you hostage.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You’re not going anywhere, Madelyn.’”

I even throw in a poor imitation of his voice for effect. He’s not amused.

“I don’t do entertainment,” he enunciates.

“Trust me, I can tell,” I say with a smile. “But you don’t really have to do anything, to be honest. Just have a drink with me or two. We can talk.”

“Talk,” he says, like this is a foreign concept.

“Yes, you tell me about yourself. And I’ll tell you stuff, too,” I explain unnecessarily.

I think he’s going to say hell no and tell me to fuck off, but he does the opposite. His eyes grow lighter for a moment before he heads off in the direction of the mini bar. When he returns, he’s holding two wine glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking wine.

“Living room,” he states, leading the way.

I follow like a lost puppy, watching as he takes a seat and undoes the cuffs of his shirt. I’m still standing at the entrance.

“Are you cold?” he asks. setting the wine glasses on the table. He starts opening the bottle with a corkscrew.

“What?”

“You haven’t taken off your coat,” he points out.

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