Page 68 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“The Hideaway Harbor one?”
“No.”
We’ve reached the corner of our block, and I nod toward her BANNED flyer of me.
“I still think I should grow a mustache like that.”
She smiles slyly at me, her hair whipping in the wind, and I think about wrapping her up in my scarf. I shouldn’t want her to put on something that’s mine, but there it is—an intrusive desire I can’t shake. “I thought it was a nice touch,” she says. “I considered adding some devil horns in green, but Charlie convinced me there’s something to be said for subtlety.”
“You should have gone for it.” I nod to the flyer I put up beside it—Lucy, gorgeous as all get out, except for the hairy mole sprouting from her forehead, which has been joined by an oozing lesion on her cheek.
“What even is that?” she asks, groaning.
Then, no shit, she takes out her red marker and draws a Santa hat on her head.
“You really brought your red marker with you?” I remark. “That looks a lot like cheating, if you ask me.”
She smiles at me. “We have rules now?”
“Oh, there are always rules.”
“Do you know what they’ve been saying about us?”
It’s like icy liquid is flooding my veins, taking away the fun buzz of being around her.
“What are you talking about?”
“I wasn’t the one saying it,” she clarifies.
“I’d guessed. Go on.”
“It was in Lady Lovewatch.”
I nod and rock on my heels. “Oh, that. Yes, I’ve seen it.”
“Aren’t you…upset?”
“Not really.”
She frowns. “Seriously? According to Hudson, people are betting,” she says, gesturing back and forth between us, “like on who’s going to win the hate-off.”
“Ah, bless the Hideaway Harbor gossip mill. Nothing can happen without thirty people you barely know remarking upon it. Which of us has better odds, out of curiosity?”
She points to the drawing of her, now wearing a hat. “It must be me.”
“Can I borrow your marker?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, sticking it in her purse.
“Fine, this round goes to you, Mrs. Claus. But I reserve the right to make a hat for myself too.”
“Fair is fair.” A smile flirts with her lips, and I feel a fresh awareness of her. The way little curls are constantly billowing around her face. The pinkness of her cheeks in the cold. The mischievous glint of her eyes whenever she looks at me.
I gesture for her to precede me down the stairs—see, Lucy, I can be a gentleman—and she narrows her eyes at me before descending the steps.
Even though I didn’t ask her to go first so I could watch her go down, I find myself doing it. Taking in every sway of her body. She’s covered by that big coat, but it’s still doing it for me.
Sighing at my own folly, I follow her down the stairs and unlock the door, then flick on the lights. It’s well past eight, so the deli’s been closed for an hour and no one’s here—thank God, because I would never hear the end of this if anyone were.
