“It was perfect,” I whisper.
“It’s already perfect. But that future you saw is ours. I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs against my skin. “Your vision is everything I want, Honey. You. Ours. And a lifetime of holidays and Christmases together.”
Before I can respond, a loud poof sounds from the foyer.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Greetings,” comes a cheerful voice.
We both turn as Uncle Uzzi materializes in a swirl of peppermint mist and tinsel, dressed in a white brocade smoking jacket and holding a sprig of enchanted mistletoe like a wand.
“I hope I’m not interrupting—well, of course I am, but it’s for a good cause!”
Eb growls faintly, tightening his hold on me.
“What is it, Uncle Uzzi?” I ask, laughing despite myself as he swans into the kitchen like a peppermint-scented storm cloud in head-to-toe winter white velvet.
His cheeks are rosy.
His eyes are twinkling.
There’s a dusting of powdered sugar in his hair and glitter on his beard that I highly suspect is magical.
Or at least, magically applied.
“Just a little holiday matchmaking news to deliver,” he beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to burst into carols.
“Uh oh,” I whisper.
He practically vibrates with glee.
“Bobby and Emery ran away during my gala and eloped!”
“WHAT?!” Eb and I shout in unison like a pair of possessed Christmas gnomes.
Uzzi chuckles, reaching casually over to pluck a cookie off the counter.
“Vegas. Magical Elvis. A legally binding spell performed at the Chapel of Eternal Mistletoe. I might have nudged things along with a bit of enchanted eggnog, or maybe it was the mistletoe? Of course! It’s always the mistletoe.”
He pauses dramatically.
“Love is in the air, after all.”
Eb groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Why does this sound like the setup to a Christmas horror story?”
“But wait,” Uzzi says, licking frosting from his thumb like he didn’t just drop a reindeer-sized bomb on us, “there’s been a slight hiccup.”
He holds out his enchanted cell phone, which sparkles with rhinestones and jingles when it moves, and presses play on a video.
I take one look and slap a hand over my mouth.
“Oh. My. God.”
The video shows Bobby on the Vegas Strip in nothing but a strategically-placed Santa hat, doing what can only be described as a jazz-hands version of the worm, right before being tackled by a very irate security guard.
“Bobby?!” Eb screeches, grabbing the phone. “What the actual fuck is he doing outside in December dressed like a budget stripper Santa?!”
