Page 91 of The Holiday Hate-Off
The song ends, changing over to “I’ll be home for Christmas,” which is considerably slower, but he doesn’t release me—and I don’t release him.
“What did you do with our flyers after you took them down?” he asks. “I noticed they weren’t there when I went by earlier.”
“I threw them away,” I lie.
In fact, I’d intended to throw them away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I ended up tucking them into my purse instead and then a drawer.
“I’ll draw you again,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, andI can’t tell whether he’s teasing me. Maybe he doesn’t even know.
“I won’t pose for you.”
“You don’t need to,” he says. “I’ve memorized exactly what you look like.”
The way he says it instantly makes me melt and want to murder him—a power uniquely his.
The song ends, and he pulls back slightly. I laugh, because my sweater sticks to his skin in patches. “So youdidwant to get me sticky.”
He grins. “You tormented me with the taffy, so it seems just for you to share in it by being stuck to me.”
But it doesn’t seem like a torment at all. This moment is so magical it has made me temporarily forget that I don’t like the way he does things.
I detach from him, then reach into my bag for his delicious-smelling shirt.
“You do the honors,” he says, and leans over like he’s about to be knighted. My hands shake slightly as I pull the shirt down over his head, my fingers brushing the hair they gripped just a couple of nights ago.
A few women groan theatrically as the shirt goes over his head, and I can’t help laughing. Charlie’s laughing too, with Lars’s arms wrapped around her. Portia has left the candy kitchen and is having a whispered conversation with Eileen and Amanda.
The atmosphere in the shop is so heavenly I want to bottle it, so I can sip from it for the rest of the winter—the part of the season that’s cold and gray but doesn’t have Christmas.
Now fully clothed, more’s the pity, Enzo leans down toward me, his cologne scent mingling with peppermint candy. “So…are you going to try my taffy?”
“I don’t know. Giovanni pointed out that it might have chest hair in it.”
“Oh, it definitely does. It’s that special Cafiero touch. They’re like extra flavor crystals.”
I smile at him. “It would be fun if Portia did flavors for each of the shops in town. Ours could be our delicious cinnamon stick cappuccino. Yours could be chest hair.”
His eyes widen, and he laughs, probably louder than the joke deserves. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?” I ask, confused.
“You’re a genius, Lucia.”
He actually looks like he means it.
“For coming up with chest hair taffy? It’s one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had. Feel free to steal it.”
“For finding a beautiful solution to my problem. You’ll be at the lobster trap tree lighting?”
“I’m told I can’t miss it.” By my possibly geriatric neighbor.
“Good. I’ll find you there.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes, wear that red coat.”
He just guaranteed I’ll be wearing something else. Then again, I suspect he’d be disappointed if I listened.
