Page 76 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Five different flavors," he confirms. "Courage, Confidence, Chaos, Chocolate, and one he won't identify."
"That's concerning," I observe.
"Welcome to Giuseppe's world," he shrugs.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, if the Red Sea was made of small-town gossips in formal wear, and Malcolm appears. He's wearing a tuxedo that probably costs more than my former inheritance and a smile that makes me want to punch things. Specifically, him.
"You must be the mechanic," he says, offering a handshake that's definitely trying to establish dominance.
"You must be the guy with the tiny yacht," I respond, matching his grip.
His smile falters slightly. "I don't believe we've met."
"Holden Clark," I say. "Wren's boyfriend."
"Malcolm Conway," he replies. "Wren's future."
"Presumptuous much?" I note.
"I have confidence," he corrects. "Something you develop when you have a yacht."
"Or when you pretend your fishing boat is a yacht," I suggest. “Don’t you have a date?”
His face does something interesting—like he's trying to smile and scowl simultaneously. “Just a minor detail.” He looksaround the room. "Anastasia!" he calls, and a woman who looks like she was assembled by an Instagram algorithm appears. "This is the mechanic I mentioned."
"Oh, the one who can't afford a boat?" she asks sweetly, and I understand immediately why Malcolm chose her. They're perfectly matched in their awfulness.
"The one who doesn't need a boat to compensate for anything," I clarify.
"What exactly are you implying?" Malcolm asks.
"Nothing," I say innocently. "Just that some of us are secure enough without maritime props."
Before he can respond, the bathroom door opens, and the committee emerges in what can only be described as tactical formation. Delia leads, carrying a clipboard and wearing a dress that could probably stop bullets. Mrs. Patterson follows with what appears to be a purse full of flasks. Giuseppe brings up the rear, already slightly swaying.
And then there's Wren.
She's wearing a green dress that makes her look like a Christmas angel who's considering arson. Her hair is up in some complicated arrangement that probably required engineering degrees, and she's clutching a chocolate flask like it contains the antidote to this entire evening.
"Wren!" Malcolm calls out. "You look... adequate."
"Adequate?" June whispers, scribbling furiously. "He said adequate?"
"His version of a compliment," Wren says, approaching our group. "Last year he told me I looked 'not entirely unfortunate.'"
"How romantic," I mutter.
"Holden," she acknowledges me with a nod that's trying very hard to be professional.
"Wren," I reply. "You look beautiful."
"Excessive," Malcolm counters. "Beauty should be understated."
"Like your yacht?" I ask innocently.
"My yacht is perfectly stated," he says defensively.
"Is that what we're calling small now?" Giuseppe asks loudly. "Perfectly stated?"
