Page 36 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“Brandon Wright is a player,” I warn her. “He’s no good for Lucy.”
“Ihaveheard stories,” she says, clucking her tongue. “Then again, I’ve heard stories about every single young person in this town, includingyou.”
Well, damn. I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I’ve only ended up in that column in the paper once, after the whole mess with Rachelle and Lucy, but once was enough. “I’ve never trifled with a woman. I’m always honest about my intentions.”
“There are many different ways of trifling with a person,” she says archly. “Including trifling with their hearts.” She gives a dramatic pause, during which I’m supposed to feel like shit, and then continues, “I think you’d better leave now, dear. The Santas are getting restless.”
I glance back at the kitchen door, still closed. Maybe Lucy is waiting behind it. Maybe her ear is pressed to the wood, and she’ll only come out once I’ve left.
I don’t like the thought.
I like it so little, I find myself rubbing my chest.
But at this point I’ve been kicked out by two different women, and even though Lucy would never believe it, I have some manners. When a woman says no, she means it. When someone tells you to leave, for the love of God, listen.
So I gather my coat and scarf and step out into the chilly night, but I’ll be perfectly honest. I have no intention of going home.
CHAPTER 9
LUCY
I’m having a perfectly decent conversation with a Santa named Brandon, who seems to tick all of my Mr. Perfectly Okay boxes, but I have to admit my heart isn’t in it.
I can’tbelieveEnzo came in here and offered to deflower me.
The ego of that man!
The absolute nerve!
Did he really think I’d accept?
I’m almost angrier about that than the fact that he asked in the first place.
“Hey, where’d you go just now?” Brandon says, reaching across the table and touching my arm.
I’m hoping to feel something—a spark of awareness, at least—but it just feels like a strange man in a Santa suit is touching my arm. It’s kind of unpleasant, to be perfectly honest.
Pulling away, I ask, “Do you know the Cafieros?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I went to school with Enzo.” He hooks a thumb toward the door, indicating he’s well aware that Enzo was the interloper Santa.
“Was he an asshole when he was a kid too?” I ask, then cover my mouth.
He barks a laugh, running a hand over his fake beard. “Sweetheart, that man was born with a stick up his ass. But don’t worry. He won’t bother you when I’m around. He’s afraid of me.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I say, before I realize he’s doing that posturing thing men do, measuring their dicks against each other. But IknowEnzo wouldn’t be afraid of him. I don’t think Enzo is afraid of anyone.
Brandon pushes back in his chair. “You want me to prove it? I’m happy to prove it! I’ll?—”
“He already left,” I say, exasperated. “And even if he hadn’t, what would you do, randomly punch him? We’d have to call the cops.”
His mouth gets pouty beneath the beard, and I’m suddenly disgusted with myself.
Did I seriously think I could find Mr. Perfectly Okay in five minutes? I mean, what would have happened if I’d talked to Brandon about something else, like the weather? I might have mistaken him for a reasonable person.
I mean, I’m not looking for my soulmate here. But I’d prefer it if Mr. Perfectly Okay weren’t a psychopath or a whiny man-baby.
As much as I hate to admit it, Enzo might have been the tiniest bit right.
