Page 11 of The Holiday Hate-Off
She plants a hand on her hip, the rounded curve visible even through her coat. “I see you’re still mansplaining. Rachelle told me all about that.”
“Who?” I ask, distracted momentarily by the sight of her hand firmly gripping her hip, though her self-righteous fury quickly tugs me back to awareness.
“You don’t even remember her name?” she asks incredulously.
“Of course I do. But I try not to dwell on the past. And don’t you think that’s a low blow?”
“Yeah, well, you’ve earned it. Wouldn’t you be bitter if I’d shown up at your office to yell at you?”
“Not really. I would have enjoyed watching security escort you out.”
I watch, fascinated, as her posture straightens. “Just like I’m going to enjoy watching your event crash and burn,” she snaps. “People around this town want festive. They want fun! That’swhy they’re going to be bummed out by your party. If anyone even shows up at your place tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” I ask, suspicious.
She lifts one shoulder. “I haven’t seen any flyers for it. Just the town calendar and the notice near your store’s sign.”
“Word of mouth,” I say, but my heart’s beating faster. Shit, I should have thought about flyers. I’m not operating at one hundred percent, and it’s showing. This was a thoughtless screwup.
“I heard you don’t even usually decorate your store for Christmas.”
“How would you know?” I ask. “The flyer may have come down, but I’m guessing you’re still banned.”
Her mouth firms into a line, her lips soft and pink and full even like this.
It seems unfair for such a difficult woman to look like she does.
She huffs, then says, “As if I’d want to go to a place that serves dry sandwiches.”
Fuck me, I actually laugh. “You know, that’s my little brother’s cooking you’re insulting.”
If I’d wanted contrition, it’s clear I’m going to be disappointed.
She looks me straight in the eye. “I was hoping it was yours.”
Another laugh tries to escape, but I swallow it down. “I’m not a cook. I’m a…” I trail off, because I don’t know what I am anymore, and I certainly don’t owe her any explanations. “I moved back about a week ago. Temporarily. To help my family.”
“Lucky us,” she says dryly.
I grin in response, which seems to be the exact opposite of the reaction she was hoping for.
“Oh, just go away and leave me in peace,” she says.
“Ah,” I say knowingly. “I see now.”
She came to the bridge with a goal, one she has yet to meet. There was no concealing the scandalized expression on her face earlier, so I’m guessing it wasn’t a rendezvous for sex beneath the stars.
She’s here to make a wish.
“Don’t let me get in your way,” I say pointedly. “Go ahead and make your wish.” I lean casually against the railing, making it clear I have zero intention of leaving.
From her flustered expression, she obviously wants privacy, but I’m not going to leave a woman out here alone in the dark. My grandmother raised me to look after other people. It’s been my role for so long, I don’t know how to stop.
“Go on then,” I say with a shooing motion. “Wish.”
“You’re a jerk,” she says, her cheeks pink in the spare light.
“You wouldn’t be the first person to think so.”
