Page 53 of A Very Bossy Christmas
“Yeah. It’s still new” is what I say. “She’s great. Really great. But we’ll see how it goes.” What I really mean is, we’ll just have to wait and see how I screw this one up. And I’m wondering if it’s better for both of us if I just screw it all up now instead of later.
But then I see Maddie come down the stairs with Ma. She’s wearing a pair of my ma’s cranberry-colored velour track pants. And, impossibly, I’m still attracted to her. I still have this insane urge to put a zeppolain her oven. And nothing has ever felt so right.
Speaking of zeppole, Nonna wheels out the dessert cart. It’s piled high with Italian donuts, struffoli, panettone, cannoli, tiramisu, and the best coffee in Ohio. About forty million calories and as many reasons why Maddie and I probably won’t be getting it on tonight. But nothing will stop me from trying.
Twenty-Four
Maddie
WINTER BLUNDERLAND
I guess I shouldn’t have had those two glasses of wine after the Irish cola. I definitely should not have eaten those last three zeppole. Or the giant slice of panettone. Or the struffoli or the cannoli or the tiramisu. And for that matter, I probably should have also passed on the spaghetti with anchovies and the deep-fried cod. And the meatballs. But it was all so fucking delicious, and I was afraid Nonna would stab me with a fork if I didn’t try all of her food.
So, I don’t really regret eating any of it.
I just wish I could have somehow digested it all within an hour so I could fully appreciate the fact that a seriously gorgeous man has his hand up my sweater and is kissing my neck as we ride the elevator up to his hotel room. Or my hotel room. Or just any place with a floor that I can lie down on for a while. And maybe take a half-hour nap.
I’m twenty-eight years old and my jeans are rolled up in my purse, and I’m wearing a sixty-year-old lady’s cranberry-red velour track pants. I need to take a nap and maybe make myself throw up a little so I can have a lot of hot sex with my hot sexy boss who is also my very temporary fake boyfriend. I am winning at life.
“I’ve been thinking about these tits all night,” he mumbles.
My back is flat against one side of the elevator and my arms are just hanging lifelessly, even though I really want to run my fingers through Declan’s hair and squeeze his butt, and I want to rip his clothes off and lick his abs and kiss him all over, except I can’t lift my hands.
“Mmph” is all I’m able to respond with, and I think that sums it all up.
“This elevator moves too fast,” he grumbles.
“Ugh. Yeah.”
“I’m going to do bad, bad, dirty bad things to you when we get to my room.”
“Mmkay.”
“What’re you gonna do to me?”
“Mmm. Gonna lie down on you.”
“Yeah?”
“And not move for a while.”
“Mmmmm.”
“And close my eyes.”
“Yessss.”
The elevator comes to an earth-shattering, shitty, terrible, mean abrupt stop, and then the doors ding and slide open.
Declan and I just stare out at the hallway and continue to use the wall and each other to prop ourselves up.
“Shit,” I whisper. “We have to move so we don’t go back down again.”
“I’m gonna go back down onyou—”
“Okay, seriously, we have to move.” I manage to slide sideways and stop the doors from closing with my foot, and Declan’s forehead slams against the wall.
“Fuck.”
