Page 119 of The Holiday Hate-Off
That’s exactly what I’m trying to do as I wend through the streets, taking in the glowing lights. The cheerful displays. So earnest.Tooearnest, I usually think. But maybe it’s not just about showmanship and competition. Maybe some of it comes from a genuine place, from the joy of making people smile.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to put up twinkle lights in my window and invest in a Rudolph bust, but I’m willing to admit that my reaction to Hideaway Harbor looking like the inside of a snow globe every December is more about me than the town. It’s about holding onto the past, and how it felt to see all of this and know it wasn’t for me. Of knowing the only way my siblings could enjoy it was if I made myself one more person who lied to them.
My thoughts carry me all the way to the restaurant, where I pick up takeout, and then to my grandmother’s doorstep. I knock once and then use my key to let myself in. Nonna’s hearing has gone the way of her eyesight, not what it used to be.
No one is in the living room, but I hear murmuring from the kitchen.
I’m barely in the door, taking off my shoes and setting them on the rack near the entrance, when Lucy comes around the corner from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing on me.
She’s wearing a red sweater that brings out the bright highlights in her riotous curls, and I’m gratified to see a mark on her neck that I put there.
I grin at her. “Lucia.”
“Iknewyou had a shoe rack.”
“My grandmother has a shoe rack.”
She comes closer, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her expression stern, she says, “I told you it would be better if your grandmother and I did this alone.”
“And you’re welcome to,” I say. “But this is where I’m sleeping for the next two nights. Would you turn me out in the cold?”
“You live here?” she asks, lowering the spoon.
“Has the threat of violence ended?” I retort, smiling at her.
“I wasn’t going to—” She swallows, collecting herself, and glances back toward the kitchen. My grandmother has started singing lightly beneath her breath—some old Dean Martin song I can’t identify. “I brought your grandmother some cookies to replace the ones that got messed up the other day. She offered to show me how she makes her famous thumbprint cookies in addition to the cappuccinos. That’s why I’m still here.” Her brow creases. “But we actually haven’t made it to the cappuccinos yet either.”
“You’re making cookies with my grandmother, Lucia?” I ask, the thought pleasing me immensely.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, looking away. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”
“Ah, yes,” I say, removing my coat and hanging it on the hook by the door, “because you only want my?—”
She puts her hand over my mouth forcefully, making me laugh through her splayed fingers. Especially since she looks so earnest, so worried my grandmother might hear me from the other room.
I capture her hand and kiss it, and the look in her eyes becomes warmer. Less worried.
I lower her hand but hold onto it. “I’m glad you’re getting along with her.”
“You tricked me,” she accuses, but without any real heat.
“I wanted to see you,” I admit. “And I’d like to make cookies and cappuccinos with you and my nonna. But if you don’t want me around, I’ll make myself scarce until you leave. You decide, Lucia.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” she says softly. “Who are you and what have you done with Enzo?”
I smile at her. “You’re the one who’s doing something to me, so you only have yourself to blame if you’re not happy with the results. What’ll it be?”
She holds my gaze, and I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. When was I ever this nervous with a woman? It feels like my future hinges on her decision—on something as small as making Christmas cookies, an activity I’ve never particularly enjoyed.
“You can stay if you help,” she decides. “We can come up with a collaboration drink for the Sip and Hidden Italy.” My grin must look victorious, because she rolls her eyes. “You didn’t win anything, Enzo. Not everything’s a competition.”
“This one may not be a competition,” I say, “but I disagree. Ididwin something.” And because my self-control isn’t limitless, I lean in to kiss her cheek, her soft skin warm and familiar beneath my lips.
She leans into me for a second, then pulls back and lifts the wooden spoon again. “But no funny business in the kitchen. I don’t need your grandmother driving me to a church with a revolver pressed to my temple.”
“You think she’d want you to make an honest man of me?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows. I resist the compulsion to grab her ass. Barely.
“Maybe,” she says, looking a little embarrassed. I give in to the almost unbearable need to run my fingers down the length of one of her curls.
