Page 19 of The Holiday Hate-Off
I wave a hand at Silver Hair, not caring if he notices. “He could be her father. Maybe her grandfather. You’re NicoFucking Cafiero. You look sharp in that suit.Andyou can cook. I’m told women love a man who can cook.”
He shakes his head, but his mouth is inching into a smile. “How the hell would you know?”
“From all the women who didn’t love it that I can’t cook.”
“I don’t like the thought of a woman paying for me.”
I lift my hands. “Aria would say you’re acting like a caveman. Besides, you’ll technically be paying for dinner. She’ll be giving the money to charity. Win-win.”
He considers this for a long moment, then says, “You have to help me make the rest of the panettone until Christmas. You’re better at kneading.”
I still remember the way our nonna taught us?—
If you grab a woman like that, you pazzo, it’s the last time she’d ever let you touch her. You knead it softly.
Despite what the devil woman thinks of me, I’m a man who’s capable of compromise. I hold out my hand for a shake. “You’ve got it, brother. You won’t regret this.”
“Pfft. I regretted it the moment I let you and Giovanni talk me into wearing a suit.”
“But hey, the ladies like it, am I right?”
He groans. “Classic Enzo, wheeling and dealing.”
“You bet.”
I stride back toward my grandmother and the mayor, feeling more of a bounce in my step. Halfway there, I stop to talk up a cluster of people who are whispering about Santa Speed Dating.
“Hey,” I say, “we’ve got something special for you tonight, just you wait. I think you’re going to like it.” I wink at them, feeling the high of knowing I’ve done it. I’ve cracked the code.
These people want drama. They want the illusion of romance. Well, they don’t need to go next door to the matchmaker of Hideaway Harbor and her assistant to get it. We’ll give it to them here.
I sidle up to the mayor and my grandmother, who are in the middle of a fraught conversation about oil and vinegar.
I drape an arm around her shoulder. She pinches me. “Why do you look likeil capo?”
“Can I have a word with you, Nonna?” I ask.
She might be the harder nut to crack, but if I tell her it’ll save our asses, there’s a chance she’ll only raise the usual objections—a sour face and barbed comments for the next six months.
I get her to a mostly deserted corner of the store, which is good, because she immediately gestures toward the mayor. “That man doesn’t know a good sandwich from a Happy Meal. Our Nico could make a sandwich so delicious it would make the angels weep, and still he’d say it was dry.”
“Nonna,” I say, deciding to circumvent the dry sandwich argument altogether, and quickly explain my plan for the auction.
I expect her first response to be no. Possibly evenno, you idioto, why don’t you have the brains God gave a slug?
But she listens and then shrugs. “We’ll do it. It’s a good plan.”
“Really?” I ask, wondering if the wishing bridge made good on my miracle after all.
Devil Woman flits through my head, looking more like an angel with her hair blowing in the breeze.
“Really,” my grandmother says sternly. “It’s time for you boys to settle down. Especially you,Madonne!Thirty-three and no wife.” She makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “Your father was married at twenty-one, bless him, and he gave me four beautiful grandchildren. If selling yourselves gets you closer to the altar, then so be it. Our Lord God works in mysterious ways.”
Damn straight.
Because if I weren’t locked into a weird back-and-forth with Devil Woman, I never would have thought of this.
Your play, Devil Woman.
