Page 5 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

The voice sounded like one of the Munchkins fromCharlie and the Chocolate Factory. Sutton was happy to let them proceed, provided they brought her an IV drip of rehydration fluid and morphine to chase away her hangover.

A soda packed full of sugar and caffeine, followed by a full English breakfast, might also do the trick. Tequila,youbitch.You aren’t my friend, and you didn’t make me look cool.

‘I need to hear her breathe.’ A little hand snuck under the hem of her sweater and Sutton yanked in her stomach as something cold and plastic touched her lower ribs. Through the slit of her eyes, she saw a golden-haired moppet, three or four, bending over her, the buds of a toy stethoscope in her ears.

Navy blue eyes, the colour of old-fashioned ink, met hers, both concerned and frustrated. ‘You’ve got to breathe in and out,’ she bossily informed Sutton. ‘How do I know if you are dead or not?’

She was dead. She had to be. Why else would two cherubs, a girl and a boy, be checking her over? Someone had to check people were really dead when they arrived at the pearly gates, right? If not, there would be mass confusion and possibly, overcrowding. Could heaven get overcrowded? Was there a heaven? What happened when you died?

Had she passed over? Where was she?

‘The bump on her cheek is a bit blue.’ A small finger drilling into her cheek accompanied the pronouncement by the boy cherub. Pain ricocheted from her cheekbone and exploded in her head.

‘Owowowow!’ Okay, not dead then. She just wished she was.

‘She lives.’

This voice was much deeper and darker, like rich chocolate over brushed steel. Nice. Sutton opened her eyes a little wider, turned her head – painful – and looked past the little boy in a navy sweatshirt into the eyes of the man who had beaten the crap out of Santa last night. Dark hair, not brown but not black, a shade between the two. Another pair of deep blue eyes, as dark as the little girl’s, a long nose with two distinct bumps on the ridge and a sexy, sexy mouth.

His thick stubble showed flecks of grey. It was a nice face, attached to a spectacular and, very obviously, fit body. He wore dark jeans, and another thin, long-sleeved T-shirt, this one dark green. Big feet, in battered hiking boots, rested on the coffee table between them. He held a large travel mug in one hand.

The smell of excellent coffee wafted over to her, and Sutton considered mugging him for it. But that would require her to move, and she wasn’t up to that yet. She wouldn’t be for a few hours. Or days.

Possibly years.

She was warm and this long couch was comfortable. The munchkins could carry on examining her while she was unconscious. Sutton sighed and felt herself sliding off into sleep.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Deep Voice said, and Sutton felt a big hand on her shoulder shaking her awake. When she finally obeyed his command to wake up, she blinked up at him, thinking his would be a very nice face to wake up to every morning.

‘Sutton! You need to wake up and we need to talk.’

She didn’t want to. She tried to shake her head. ‘So tired.’

‘Hungover, you mean,’ he shot back, his expression, and his tone, irate. ‘You rocked up on my lawn drunk, and stumbled through my Christmas decorations, which you said were tacky.’

That didn’t sound like her. She was usually more diplomatic than that. ‘I’m sure I didn’t,’ she weakly protested.

‘You said it looked like someone vomited Christmas lights over my house and lawn. And that Vegas called, and they wanted some of their lights back.’Ugh.Sutton grimaced. But…yeah. Invino veritas, or tequila truth.

‘I’m so sorry, and so embarrassed.’ Sutton bit down on her bottom lip, wishing she had the energy, and the courage, to have this conversation with him sitting up. But that was more than she could manage right now. Apparently, she could slam back tequilas like a ’70s rock star, but she couldn’t handle her hangover like one.

‘Felix and Rosie, go and get your coats, hats and gloves, we’re late for school.’

The girl Cherub yanked her stethoscope out of her ears and dropped the buds on Sutton’s chest, and boy Cherub let go of her arm. Had he been trying to take her pulse? Or maybe he’d been preparing to open a vein.

Sutton, thinking she might die if she moved her head, moved her eyes and looked up. He – God, what was his name? – picked up a bottle of water from the coffee table and cracked the lid. A broad, strong hand appeared, gripped her elbow and hauled her upright. Her brain bounced off her skull, and Sutton released a low moan.

He pushed the water bottle into her hand and Sutton raised it to her lips, drinking deeply. When she was done, she sent him a tepid smile. ‘Thanks, from me and my organs. Look, um, I’m sure you told me, but I can’t remember your name.’ In fairness, there was a lot she didn’t remember about last night.

‘Langston, Gus.’

She rested the cool water bottle against her aching head. ‘Thank you, Langston, Gus. Did I do anything else last night?’

‘Apart from destroying three neon candy canes, two snowmen and one of my potted Christmas trees, and blowing the electrics? No.’ She tried to make sense of his words. She’d destroyed them – how? She didn’t remember anything after she decided to help him beat up the reason for the season and fell over. She freely admitted she was drunk – far drunker than she normally allowed herself to be – but she didn’t think she’d consumed enough to pass out.

‘You tripped, fell and smacked your cheek on the path. You came around, and we spoke for about ten minutes, do you remember any of that?’

She grimaced and shook her head. She knew she could be a chatty drunk, so she hoped she didn’t indulge in any verbal diarrhoea.

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