Page 89 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“Harder,” she says.
“Did every woman in here just ovulate?” Charlie whispers in my ear. “Other than me, of course.”
Probably. I certainly did.
“Come on, Santa. Give it some muscle,” Portia says.
And he does. Oh, how he does.
“Ho ho ho,” I hear one woman murmur to her friend, who replies, “I have a renewed belief in Santa Claus.”
I tighten my grip on the fabric of Enzo’s shirt, still clutched to my chest, as I watch his arms rhythmically pull the taffy. A hot, needy longing steals over my body, changing me. Because I don’t recognize this woman who wants a real man—not a fictional, perfect man straight out of the pages of a book or my mother’s letter.
Portia grins as she inspects the candy. “That’s good. That’s how it should be looking. We’ll give it another five minutes. Can someone set a timer?”
“I will,” Giovanni offers.
Enzo gives him the scowl of a bear who’s been pulled out of his den in the middle of winter.
“Nah,” Portia says as she glances at Amanda. “‘Last Christmas’ is four and a half minutes long. That’s close enough.” So she pulls the song up on her phone and blasts it over the speaker it’s connected to, all while Enzo works the taffy.
“I love this song,” Charlie says, her enthusiasm bubbling up. Lars twirls her, and they start dancing in front of the glass window.
Then Eileen says, “Why not?” and she twirls Amanda Willis!
Suddenly, everyone in the store is dancing. Giovanni holds his hand out to me, and I don’t even hesitate. I stuff Enzo’s shirt into my bag and take his hand, and then we’re dancing to the song along with everyone else. It’s fun. Oh my goodness, it’s fun, even though we’re packed in here like sardines.
Portia starts dancing around Enzo and steals his hat,putting it on her own head over her hairnet—something I see only in snatches as Giovanni whirls me around.
The song ends, and another starts, “Jingle Bell Rock.” Someone hoots, and then a hand wraps around my waist from behind?—
“May I cut in?”
I knew it was him before I heard his voice. I knew it from the way his hand wrapped around me.
“I don’t have a death wish, so yeah,” Giovanni says, laughing as he stops dancing.
I turn toward Enzo, whose hand is resting on my hip now. He’s still only half clothed, his chest bared, and now he smells like peppermint candy.
“Why aren’t your hands sticky?” I ask, struggling to stay composed. I focus on the faint remnants of his red-marker mustache to hold onto my sanity.
“Gloves,” he says. “Would you like to see if the rest of me is sticky?”
Yes.
I make a face. “No, thanks. That’s what showers are for.”
He smiles as he waves Giovanni toward the kitchen. “Portia needs your help cutting the candy.”
Giovanni steps away, and Enzo takes my hand, twirling me.
With several people still dancing, there’s a party atmosphere in the shop, an intoxicating holiday feeling that’s boosted by the scent of peppermint candy filling the air.
“You’re still shirtless,” I remark as Enzo draws me closer to his chest, his hand on the small of my back.
Eyes bright with amusement, he says, “You were so concerned about getting me shirtless, I figured you’d feel cheated if I put it on again so quickly.”
“I have your shirt,” I murmur as we sway together. It’s a lively song, but he’s holding me close, his hand still pressed to my back. The air between us seems to crackle.
