Page 99 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“We’d better send a message to your friend. Who knows how long it’ll take to go through.”
“Oh, yes.” I pull my phone out and stare at the screen, which seems to swim in front of my eyes as it unlocks. “There’s something wrong with my phone. Can you text her?”
He nods seriously, grabbing the phone, and pecks off a text with one finger.
Why is it endearing that he texts like an old man?
“What’d you say?” I ask, curious.
“That you’re safely home and very drunk, but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Now, I’m going to take off your boots.”
“Take yours off first,” I say. “Remember what they always tell you in airplanes. You can’t undress other people until you’ve undressed yourself.”
“Remind me to never fly on your favorite airline.”
Still, he gets down and takes off his boots, then his coat, casting them aside in a careless way that doesn’t seem at all like him. When I’ve imagined Enzo’s apartment—and I have, obviously—it’s always immaculately clean, with all of his nice things packed away in the closets. His shoe rack wouldn’t dare to have a single speck of dust on it.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Your shoe rack.”
He laughs to himself as he starts unlacing my boots, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I don’t have one.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t. I’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”
“Which would mean nothing to you, since clearly you worship the Anti-Christ.”
“You’ve got me, Lucia,” he says, his words making my heart race, even though he obviously doesn’t mean them literally.
“I’ll bet this isn’t how you imagined undressing me,” I remark as he switches from loosening one boot to working on the other.
“I’ve imagined at least a few dozen scenarios,” he says thoughtfully.
“Me too,” I admit with a sigh as he pulls off the first boot. “But this really wasn’t one of them. I’m still wearing my coat, aren’t I?”
The second boot thumps onto the floor, his warm hand caressing my stockinged foot before he turns back to face me. I reach out to run my fingers across his five-o’clock shadow before I can think better of it.
“Was that your subtle way of asking if I can help you get your coat off?” he asks with a slight smile.
“I don’t know. My mind’s not working so well right now, but I think I should probably take it off. It’s nice and cozy in here, and there’s a really fuzzy blanket on the back of the couch.”
“Ah,” he says, “maybe I should claim it for myself.”
“You wouldn’t. I think maybe you’re more of a softy than you want anyone to know.”
He arches his eyebrows defiantly, and then gets up, retrieves the fuzzy, multicolored blanket, and wraps it around his own shoulders.
I start laughing as he leans in and unzips my coat. But my laughter fades when his face is inches from mine. My gaze is hungry for the details of him. The curve of his mouth. The stubble on his cheeks, the slightest scar on his chin. Those thick eyelashes.
But then he finishes unzipping me, and his hand slips around to my back, holding me while he slides the sleeves off my arms.
Taking care of me.
Suddenly my emotions feel raw and turbulent. “You don’tneed to do this,” I say. “You can go home. I’ll be fine in a few hours.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he says, smiling as he sets my coat atop his and then pulls the fuzzy blanket from around his shoulders to engulf me in it.
