Page 3 of His Taste Of Christmas

I'm strangely drawn to the idea of murder at this moment.

Chapter three

Angel

“Mace, you’re going a little overboard, don’t you think? We really don’t needallthese decorations.” I glance at the colossal warehouse trolley she pushes in front of her. If she adds a couple more boxes to that stack, she won’t be able to see over it. It is overloaded with nearly every Christmas decoration in here. My dad handed us his Costco card and told us to fully stock and decorate the pub. Mace, annoyingly, took his words literally and went running.

Much to my displeasure, I am now involved in helping her with the decoration purchases. I couldn’t leave her alone to do it; despite my prayers that she would tell me to wait outside or go get a coffee while she shopped. She believes this will spark some inspiration in me for my project assignment.

She’s wrong.

At the moment, all I’m inspired to do is hope that something large and heavy falls from a top shelf and flattens me like a pancake.

“Omg! We have to get this,” I cry.

“Oh, what is it?” Macey walks to where I’ve stopped. I see a flicker of excitement in her eyes, which I can only assume is due to me finally mentioning a purchase, but then she hisses, “No chance, you freak,” before storming back to her abandoned cart.

“It would be unconventional, but I think it would make the pub stand out.”

As she turns, her hand finds its place on her hip, and her brow lifts. “Putting a Christmas hat on Ghostface won't attract people to the pub. They’ll think it’s some emo shack with people popping pills.”

I chuckle quietly to myself. I find pleasure in getting a rise out of her. She shakes her head and guides the trolley down the aisle until she comes to a halt in front of a ten-foot inflatable Father Christmas.

“Oh. My. God!” she shrieks.

I increase my speed to catch up with her. “Absolutely fucking not. No. No. And NO!” I make it clear that we are not going home with this.

She waves her hand at me and takes out her phone. “Shh.” After capturing an image of the item in question, she furiously taps on the screen. I stealthily move closer to her and glance over her shoulder.

“What are you…” I gasp. “You’re asking my dad. You sneaky little bitch.”

I receive no response as she persistently taps away on her phone. While she waits for a reply, she stares up at Father Christmas with a mesmerised expression on her face, as if she has already decided exactly where it will go. Her phone pings and she glances at the screen.

“Kane thinks it's great but says it won't work outside the pub because we won't have anywhere to tie it.” With a pouting expression and a wrinkled nose, she strolls down the aisle, resembling a child about to have a tantrum.

Praise the heavens that Dad had some sense.

I shoot Father Christmas one last disgusted look before trailing after her.

I observe the customers around us and notice how joyful they all seem.Why don't people act like this all year long? Why do presents and decorations have the power to make everyone happy?

Christmas has always irritated me for this exact reason. It seems artificial and excessively exaggerated. People often pretend to be happy even if they're not and they waste an absurd amount of money. I wouldn't necessarily use the word ‘hate’ to describe my feelings towards Christmas, but it’s all too much. And this year, I have to spend it with Mace, so I think it will be worse than ever.

My eyes keep scanning the shop floor, taking in the abundance of red and the combination of green, gold and silver, which is irritatingly beautiful.

I let out a grunt of pain as I collide with a solid object. As I raise my eyes, I come face to face with a broad back that is double my size. I stare at the taut white shirt, on the verge of tearing from being stretched across the clearly defined rippling muscles. My gaze continues, eventually fixating on his dishevelled yet stylishly arranged brown hair. I’m hit with the need to feel it with my fingers.

Without warning, a meticulously maintained stubble catches my eye, before dark hazel eyes capture me. It feels like time slows down when he looks at me. He squints, and little lines appear around his eyes, making my stomach tighten. His smile is bright and his teeth sparkle. I can't look away. This all looks too familiar.

Am I currently dreaming? Could this be a figment of my imagination?

A frown appears on his beautiful face, causing the laughter lines around his eyes to become less prominent. I realise I’ll do anything to get that smile back.

He moves closer, standing tall above me. Wow, he's massive. He must be at least 6 ft 5.

“Angel?” The screech of my name resonates in my ear. I briefly close my stinging eyes that were open and unblinking for too long and refocus.

This is not a dream. I’m still, in fact, in Costco, but that beautiful smile is now back and those gorgeous eyes are still there, and holy shit…

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