Page 17 of A Cheesecake Christmas

I change the subject. “I’m upset about Carl and Amanda.” I shift in my chair.

His jaw grates to one side. “Me, too. I can’t tolerate that level of self-serving deception.”

“Is that why you became an attorney?” I reach over and fluff the top of his hair. Not sure why . . . “To right the wrongs of society?”

“Something like that.” He hesitates. “And so I can buy BMWs.” He places a hand over his heart.

Dramatic little pill.

“So, are we doing this?” I ask. “Because as I see it, you don’t have a choice. And I could say no, but the festival’s an institution that I’d hate to see go away.” Hate is an understatement. I’d go ballistic on anyone who jeopardizes this piece of heaven. “Carl and Amanda better hope I never run into them in a dark alley.”

He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “I’d like to see that, actually.”

I narrow my gaze at him. “Whatever. But I do have some concerns.”

“You don’t want to work with me.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table.

I lean back. Wow. Spot on. “Like I said, I have concerns.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Are you going to tell me what they are? No sense being indirect.”

“Well, we’re opposites in most ways. And we don’t exactly get along.”

His smile is rakish. “I can put aside our differences for the sake of the festival and my career. Can you?”

My mouth drops open. “Of course, Ican. It’s just going to be difficult.”

“I get it. We’re opposites.” He leans forward even more. “Being around you doesn’t worry me.” His smile has an undercurrent of sadness. “But the costumes? Please. Kill me now.”

“You just don’t want to dress up because it might cramp your style with the ladies.”

This hits a nerve. His posture goes stiff, and he stares at me. We haven’t ever discussed the incident at the bakeshop the day after Camilla and Jesse’s wedding, where, after my words about his other women, his girlfriend, or whatever she was, sprayed him with water and stormed out. For all I know, she broke up with him.

But we’ve never talked about it. And for the record, I didn’t cause any of that. It was his two-timing, or three-timing ways, as it were, that caused his downfall. Maybe the woman would even like to thank me for shedding light on the matter.

“I’m not concerned about the ladies.” His face grows sober.

“Yeah right.” I roll my eyes so hard, there’s a sharp flash of pain behind them. Ouch.

“I’m not,” he insists.

“Why? Because even a stupid costume won’t detract from your beauty?” I ask him.

He laughs and holds up his palms. “You said it. Not me.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I didn’t mean—”

“I’m starting to care less about what women, what others in general, think of me, or at least, I’m trying to.” He looks uncomfortable in his own skin, and he fidgets with his shirt sleeves, pushing them up his arms and then back down again. “So it’s not about that. I just want to do well at the firm. I want to help my clients. And if being poster boy for the festival will be a means to that end, then so be it.”

I shrug. “You’re really not concerned about the two of us working together?”

He studies me carefully, his knee bobbing up and down. “I’ve never not liked you, Aria. I don’t know why you think that.”

I want to bring up the incident in the bakeshop all those months ago, but I can’t seem to form the words.

“Okay. But in light of your previous actions, flirting with me is out of the question. And we have to both be all in. No slacking. No leaving the other person to do all the work.”

“That’s not like me. I don’t slack off.”

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