Page 18 of The Holiday Hate-Off
He gives me a long look. “You want me to strip my shirt off and hold a big log of salami up against my pants so you can take photos for a calendar while you’re at it?”
“Stop giving me good ideas. We don’t have time for all of them.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but his response barely registers now that I’m sinking deep into planning mode. This is how we can turn the tide and save Hidden Italy.
“Nico’s gonna want no part of this,” he says, gesturing toward our brother, who has moved on with his tray of samples and is talking up a pretty redheaded tourist.
“You sure about that?” I ask. “We’ll sell it so he thinks that pretty tourist will bid on him.”
“The woman who wins him would probably be an old lady,” he says thoughtfully. “You were right about the people who showed up tonight.”
“Most likely,” I agree, clapping him on the back. “But you’re a man who likes to play the lottery, aren’t you?
“Not really, no, but I don’t mind who gets me. I can talk to anyone.”
He’s not exaggerating.
Rubbing my hands together, I nod in agreement with myself. This is happening. We’re doing it.
“Shouldn’t we, like, come up with different date plans for the women who win us?” he asks, gesturing to the people around us. “That’s what people do on the shows.”
“You watch dating shows?” I ask in disbelief.
He laughs. “I lived at home with Aria longer than you did.”
I nod, my mind moving rapidly again. “Nico can make dinner for his date. Something special. Four courses.”
“Can he also make dinner for our dates?” He smirks.
“Nah, we’ll play to the Hideaway Harbor hits. I can bring my date to the parade, and you can take yours to the Christmas market.”
“That would take all of five minutes,” he protests.
I laugh. “Consider yourself lucky, then, presuming your winning bidder may be an old grandma.”
He pauses, eyeing me with an amused smile. “You’re seriousabout this,” he says thoughtfully. “You think women will really pay to date us?”
“Wearewearing sharp suits.”
He snorts. “You are so full of yourself, Enzo, God love you.”
“We’ll throw in a basket of delicacies from the shop for each of the winners. Come on, this is a good plan.”
“Sure. I’m game. You just need to convince Nico to play ball.”
No problem. If I can sweet-talk CEOs, I can sure as hell talk my little brother into compliance. “You get the baskets ready on the down-low, and make them good. I’ll talk to Nico.”
He gives me a salute, and I head off to cockblock our little brother.
I tell Nico there’s a culinary emergency and guide him away from the redheaded woman, who looks disappointed for half a second before striking up a conversation with some silver-haired guy I don’t recognize, dressed in a suit more expensive than Nico’s. My interruption puts my brother in a real mood, I can tell, but desperate times and all that.
“What’s this about, Enzo?” he asks, giving the redhead a wistful glance. “Better be good.”
I tell him, and he starts shaking his head before I’m halfway through. “No way. We’ll make fools of ourselves. I’ll never live it down. The guys at the gym will be talking about it all year.”
I could point out that they work out at a place called Lobstah Lifts and have no right to make fun of anyone, but then again, my apartment building has a gym. His doesn’t. “Come on, man, it’s going to be a huge success. Do you want to be a part of that success?” I nod in the direction of the redhead. “What if she buys your date?”
“It’s looking unlikely.”
