Page 43 of Vixen's Guide to Christmas
“What about food?” I ask. “You said you haven’t eaten.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Wasn’t actually that hungry. And if I want something, I can get it myself. I’m pretty independent that way.”
Oh, this is how she’s going to play it. This I can work with. “Oh. So you won’t want any of the food I ordered?”
This throws her. “You ordered food?”
I really want to give me from thirty minutes ago a big old pat on the back.
“I did,” I say as I check the time. “It’s going to be here in five minutes or so.”
Her eyes are about to pop out of her head. She really thought I was bluffing. “What did you order? I mean, probably won’t even like it, but you know, for my information.”
Now I just smile, because I know my play. Katherine might still be a bit of a mystery to me, but Kat I already know like the back of my hand. “Turns out the Timberline’s room service has a good selection of comfort food.”
As if on cue, there’s a knock at the hotel door. “Wait here. I’m going to go get the food, and you can decide if you want to die on this hill or not.”
She’s silent except for a “humpf” as I answer the door and wheel in the huge tray of assorted foods. When I’m back in the room, Kat’s still in the same position, only now she’s staring at me as I walk past her, situating the cart against the desk, well past her arm’s reach if she stays on that damn cot.
“Not that I’m hungry or anything,” she says over her growling stomach. “But what toppings did you get?”
“Pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms,” I say. “Someone once told me it was the elite combination.”
Her stomach growls some more, and I can’t help but smile the way I imagine a cartoon villain does. If I had a mustache I’d twirl it.
“I also got a little something of everything. Chicken tenders. Spinach and artichoke dip. Truffle fries. And…oh, there it is. Two slices of cheesecake.”
I actually see her lick her lips, which I’m not sure she realizes she did.
“All sounds good,” she says as I open the containers, letting the aroma of the food fill the room.
She holds her ground firm, which I expected. But I’m not worried. She’s only going to be able to resist so long.
“This is really good,” I say, taking a big scoop of the dip with a piece of pita bread. “You should try it.”
“I’m good.” Except I can see her eyeing the table. At any point she could ask me for a plate, but I know she won’t. And I’m not going to offer either. Is this the move? I’m not sure. But like any trip to Vegas, I’m playing the hand I’m dealt. Even if it’s a less than ideal one.
“Suit yourself,” I say as I grab the remote, a beer from the mini fridge, and sit myself against the headboard of the bed. “I wonder what channel we can find a cheesy Christmas movie on? I haven’t played my Christmas movie drinking game in forever.”
This gets her attention away from the pizza. “Drinking game?”
“Of course,” I say. “Every time they say Christmas, take a drink. If it’s a second-chance story, take two drinks. There are a lot more where those came from, but that’s the gist.”
When I say forever, I mean never. I’m making this shit up as I go. Because desperate times call for desperate measures. Andsometimes that comes in the form of beer and the big city girl falling for the guy who owns the Christmas tree farm.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. I search the channels until I see exactly what I’m looking for. “Oh, this is a good one. She’s the daughter of Nicholas Saint, and he’s the lawyer trying to buy the town.”
Kat turns to the television, and just for a second, I think I see her smile. I don’t say anything—I don’t want to spook her—but I do hold my breath when I see her slowly get up from the cot and walk to where I put the food.
I slowly sit back against the headboard and watch as she takes a little bit of everything—including two slices of pizza, which I had a feeling would be her downfall—before grabbing a beer for herself and sitting next to me on the bed.
“Just because I moved doesn’t mean I’m sleeping here.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
She peers at me. “You say I’m stubborn, but you’re not too far behind.”
“What can I say?” I pause my statement to take a big bite of pizza before talking with my mouth full. “I yam who I yam.”
