“I’m going to go out on a wild limb and guess that’s Marisa.”
Alec nodded, trying to peel his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. God, she was a vision, a miracle in her own right, regardless of whatever bullshit approval or permission the likes of Monica would have her believe she needed.
“Aye.” It was the only word Alec trusted himself to properly articulate. As he could no longer rely on his senses, he thought it best to save whatever words his stammering heart could muster for Marisa’s benefit.
“And you’re going to go over there right now and tell her she looks bonny.”
“Aye.”
More tightness in his throat. More tender feelings he wasn’t sure what to do with.
Then Cal gave his frozen shoulders a slight push, and Alec stumbled forward like a damn teenager who hadn’t come into his larger limbs yet. “An object in motion stays in motion, so best get to it. You’re doing no one any favors dawdling over here with your thumb up your arse.”
“Aye.”
Aye . . . aye . . . aye . . . Was that all he could manage to say? For fuck’s sake, he sounded like Jack goddamn Sparrow.
Alec’s blood pumped at a sprinter’s pace, but he wasn’t entirely sure it could claim the lightheadedness he felt.
That likely belonged to the beauty before him, who was beaming one of her enchanting smiles his way while he nearly tripped over a table leg to get to her.
Real fucking smooth, Elms.
“You look amazing,” Alec said, leaning over to kiss her cheek, and smiled at the scent he pulled off her. Blueberries. “Enjoying those candy canes again?”
She twisted her lips. “Maybe. They’re stress relievers.”
“If you say so.” And Alec made a mental note to stock up on the suckers before the stores stopped selling them, which would likely be the day after Christmas, given the speed at which capitalism moved on to the next holiday.
After Alec offered up introductions on Cal’s behalf and Eden quickly grabbed his brother and started showing him how to process payments on the tablet, he asked the question that had been gnawing at his curiosity—and yeah, a wee bit of his vanity. “So, is it working?”
It meaning the gingerbread fudge.
It meaning the final photo of him that Marisa and Eden had selected to print onto each piece of fudge and package up with the rest of the treats.
He wasn’t sure what to make of the look Marisa flashed him, but it was easy enough to follow the pattern of people she indicated with her fingers.
And the squares of what he’d forever come to think of as face-fudge they were shoveling into their mouths with uncomfortable relish.
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
Each tawny brick was slathered with an edge-to-edge picture of Alec in full rugby kit, with his arms flexing on his hips and a Santa hat perched on his head. The grumpy face he was sporting had been a joke during the shoot, a way to make everyone laugh and cut some of the tension of their deadlines, but the ladies had run with it, apparently, even to the extent of including a thought bubble poking above his head saying, “Bah, scrum-bug!”
“Has anyone ever told you two that you’d make excellent crime bosses? You can’t be serious with all this.” But even he couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. Not fully.
“You can’t hate me. It’s against the rules,” Marisa admonished, pushing out her lower lip. “Especially not when I’ve lost count of how many people have been running by my table, and the night’s just getting started. Monica’s been super happy, too. She stopped by a few minutes ago to check on things, and she even gave me a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up, Alec!” There was a catch in her voice that had hooked itself somewhere within his rib cage, and damn if he didn’t feel every giddy reverberation of her happiness.
“I could never hate you. God, Marisa. I’m so fucking proud of you. This is bloody amazing.” The sentiment was filled with more truth than he had recent practice with, and the magnitude of it all stunned him for a moment.
Because it was true. All of it. And this woman was standing there, beaming at him like he’d been the one to give her some remarkable gift?
He had it on his mind to tell her as much, when she shifted a bit, her gaze snagging on something another partygoer was munching on. The light in her eyes dimmed a touch, and he tried to make out what it was that had caused her consternation, but he was at a total loss for how to describe what was in the guest’s hand.
“Is that woman eating flowers?” he asked.
Marisa shook her head. “Not real flowers. They’re gingerbread meringue poinsettia petals.”
“So, not flowers? Because they look exactly like flowers.”
