Page 4 of Merry Little Mishap

There was no hiding the look of dread on Nick’s adorable, scruffy face. One Christmas was enough to last him an entire year, and had he been in Puerto Rico with his own family, he’d probably hang himself with garland at some point.

Christmas wasn’tjusta day back on the island.

No.

It wasLa Navidad!

Or as I saw it: a pants-tightening, food-devouring, forty-five day musical marathon with roasted pork.

Could Nick even fathom an entire month and a half filled with family gatherings andparrandas?

Wait.

Did they doparrandashere in the city? I think it’s called ‘caroling’ in New York. I cringed, picturing how horrified Nick would look if his ex-brother-in-law lugged him around the middle of Times Square, caroling and strumming a guitar.

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“Fun is doing your taxes. I’m looking for any excuse not to go.” Nick’s eyes wandered around again, following his brief silence. He focused down at a stack ofNew York Prestigemagazines, their pages noted with colorful sticky tabs. “Fan of the magazine?”

“For work,” I shrugged, organizing the various pamphlets from my favorite Chinese restaurant. He picked up the menu, reading its red logo—Sichuan Garden.

“You work for New York Prestige?”

“Currently. Just something small for now but trying to move up.”

Nick placed the menu back down on the counter, nodding his classic little approval that I adored. “Lots of pretty girls there,” he said, staring into my eyes, but I diverted away to the gorgeous model on the cover.

Yes, lots of pretty girls—girls who didn’t look like me, because honestly, since working there not many people did. I wasn’t the tall, five-foot-eleven blonde, with large breasts and designer handbags. Instead, I was petite, built with a small waist, large hips, and an ass like a peach; some compact woman with long, black, curly hair and small breasts. According to the magazines I wasn’t the pretty girl, and since coming here, I started to believe it.

“Yeah… lots,” I parroted.

“Well, I have particular taste in women.” Nick flipped the magazine over, placing its cover face down. “I hope I didn’t take too long. I’m sure you have plans tonight. You look like you’re getting ready for something.”

God!I was getting ready, and suddenly I felt so shy about why. Going to my holiday office party wasn’t a big deal, though the fact that I had a plus-one ticket to give away was. Nick was essentially begging for an excuse to leave his family gathering, and here I had the perfect solution to solve his problem.

I watched Marty, who undoubtedly sniffed around for the dildo, waiting patiently below the cabinet I stored it in.

I tried not to clench my teeth and scream.

The truth was I was nowhere near Nick’s league. He was a ten, a solid—muscle-wrapped, Calvin Klein model—ten. And I… I was the epitome of an unpolished shrew. Despite working forNew York Prestige,I wasn’t your typicalNew York Prestigegirl, and I certainly lacked the confidence of one. Regardless, there was still one absolute truth that I held close to my heart: that I could survive the constant awkward moments I shared with Nick, but in turn, would never be able to survive his rejection.It would kill me.

I froze.

“No plans tonight… just pulling an all-nighter for a deadline I have. Work, work, work,” I snorted, trying not to flail my arms, stewing in the awful lie I told to an otherwise disappointed Nick Stafford.

“Do you like blondes, redheads or brunettes?” Mrs. Caporali asked from the kitchen, wiping her hands clean of flour.

Marty circled around her as she carried a new tray of sugar cookies from the oven to a cooling rack. Being that the apartment was no bigger than a matchbox, I was able to keep eyes on my mischievous old pup, my ears like sonar to his jostling collar.

“Brunettes. I’m a total sucker for them,” I answered from her bathroom, screwdriver clenched between my teeth.

She gasped.

She always gasps.

“I have eleven granddaughters just for you!” She clapped her hands together, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Each is a varying shade of brunette. I have dark brown, honey brown, chestnut, auburn, toffee, caramel…”

Marty finally sat in front of the oven, hopelessly staring through the little, dark window that blocked him from the fresh batch of raw cookie dough that Mrs. Caporali just tossed in. How many batches had she planned on baking, anyway? She already force fed me three; the green frosting and sprinkles caked on my tongue.

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