Page 37 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
We finally separate when breathing becomes mandatory. I'm dizzy, disoriented, and definitely not thinking about Section 3, subsection 2a of our contract.
"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.
"You should stay," I counter, then panic. "I mean, for more practice. Strategic practice. Committee-approved practice."
"Strategic," he repeats, amused.
"Very strategic," I confirm. "We need to discuss our favorite movies. And books. And whether we're dog people or cat people."
"Cat people are automatically suspicious," he says.
"I have two cats," I inform him.
"Of course you do," he sighs. "What are their names?"
"Amelia Dyer and Lizzie Borden," I admit.
"You named your cats after female serial killers?" he asks.
"I wasn’t in a good place when I got them," I defend.
"That actually makes sense," he laughs. “Should I be concerned?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine now, and they are lovely kitties, although they’re terrified of strangers.”
We spend another hour on the couch, creating our fake history while carefully not talking about how real this feels. He tells me his fake favorite color, which is blue, and his real one, which is green, like my eyes, which makes me blush furiously. I’m not sure why he has a fake favorite color, but I asked him to be my fake boyfriend, so I have no room to judge.
I explain my complicated relationship with hot chocolate, and he shares his theory that Giuseppe's cooking might be performance art.
"Favorite Christmas movie?" I ask.
"Die Hard," he answers immediately.
"That's not a Christmas movie," I protest.
"It takes place at Christmas," he argues.
"So does Lethal Weapon. That doesn't make it festive," I counter.
"There's Christmas music," he points out.
"There are also explosions," I say.
"Festive explosions," he insists.
"You're impossible," I laugh.
"You're beautiful," he says, then looks surprised at himself.
The words hang between us, too honest for what we're pretending this is.
"That's good," I say quickly. "Very believable. The townsfolk will love that."
"Right. The townsfolk," he agrees, but he's looking at me like he's forgotten what that means.
My phone buzzes again. Three texts from Iris, two from June, and one from Giuseppe that's just heart emojis and what might be a recipe for disaster or lasagna.
"The town already knows about us," I say, showing him the messages.
