Page 71 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“Are you going to give me a mustache? Maybe a pustule or two?”
Her eyes are shining as she uncaps it and lifts it to my face, her fingers brushing my skin and sending sensation skating across it. But she frowns just before the marker makes contact. “I can’t. It would be like defacing the Mona Lisa.”
I laugh. “You think I look like a middle-aged Italian woman?”
“You know what I mean.” She crosses her arms over her chest, the marker still clutched in her hand. “You’re not going to force me to say it. Your ego is already overinflated.”
“And you just made it bigger. Would you like to give me any other compliments?”
Her forehead creases. The next thing I know she’s glidingthe marker across my face, the tip cold and wet against my skin.
She starts laughing midway through her artistic experiment, which makes the marker wiggle against my skin. I don’t try to stop her. The other night it occurred to me that I’d like to make her smile—really smile—and it’s happening, as magical as if I’d made a wish on that damn bridge.
She finishes with a flourish of the marker.
“Did you just give me a mustache curl?” I ask, grinning. I probably look like an idiot, but it’s a dry-erase marker, so I can wash it off before I see anyone else.
“You look ridiculous,” she says, laughing as she caps the marker and tucks it away.
“Do you consider it your duty to humble me, Lucia? You’re doing a good job of it.”
She meets my eyes, hers sparkling with mischief, and laughs harder. “You made me do it.”
“Remind me never to take you to the Louvre. There are penalties for messing with the Mona Lisa, you know.”
She takes the marker out again, then tucks it into my shirt pocket and gives it a tap. It’s an expensive shirt, and red wouldn’t wash out, but I don’t have the slightest urge to stop her. The feeling of her hand against my chest is heaven. She lets it rest there, just over my pocket.
“I’ll let you retaliate,” she tells me, the moment taut and fall of promise.
“What if I draw something worse on your face?”
“You haven’t looked in a mirror yet.”
“Menacing,” I respond, smiling. “But no. I won’t retaliate yet. I want you to spend the next few days thinking about when it’ll happen. What it’ll be.”
“Please,” she scoffs, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I’m not going to lose any sleep over you.”
“Why shouldn’t you? I’ve lost lots of sleep over you.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t step back. “Why?” she asks after a moment. “You’re worried we’ll start selling sub sandwiches just to spite you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, but no. That’s not why I haven’t been sleeping, Lucia. You know it’s not.”
“I don’t like you,” she insists, her palm still splayed over my heart. Her fingers are moving slightly, caressing me. Her voice is low and sultry.
“So you’ve said. And you’ve made it one hell of an up-and-down night. One minute, you’re standing me up, and the next you’ve got your hand all over my chest.”
She drops it the instant I point it out, and regret fills me.
“Now, I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.” I reach down and clasp her hand, lifting it back up to its previous spot. “I’ve always loved roller coasters.”
She smiles at me ruefully, caressing my chest—the heat and press of her hand almost enough to make me hard. “You mean you remove the stick up your ass to go on coasters? I don’t believe it. I?—”
She cuts herself off as I tilt my head down to hers, our faces only inches apart now. Our breaths mingle as I stare into her eyes.
“You were saying, Lucia? What else is wrong with me?”
Her gaze holds mine for a long moment. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
