“I don’t have a slutty elf costume.”
“You do if you wear whatever elf costume you crafted to make yourself look unsexy and then you wear that one pair of high-heel boots you got eight years ago to bewitch a certain asshole who shall not be named.”
I gasp.
I can’t believe he brought up the unnamed asshole from eight years ago.
The tip of my nose tingles and the rims of my eyes start to burn. I’m having an allergic reaction to the very thought of him. I purse my lips, step over to my closet, and pull out the Santa’s helper elf costume with the shortest skirt and the most flirtatious pom-poms. I will pair them with my most demure opaque red-and-white-striped tights. And I will wear braided pigtails.
“You really aren’t going to get in touch with him?” Franklin asks, in the most sincere tone he’s capable of.
After clearing my throat several times and then replenishing my fluids and then finishing the protein bar I was eating before I was so rudely interrupted, I say, “He could have reached out to me at any time in the past few years, but he hasn’t.”
“Okay. But you still have the boots. I saw you unpack them when you moved in.”
“Franklin. I amnotwearing those boots.”
Iamwearing those boots.
I haven’t worn them in exactly eight years and one day. But these boots still fit like a glove, and I do feel sexy in them. Any time I close my eyes I can still see the look onhisface when he saw me in that short skirt and these boots when I walked into the party that night. He absolutely was bewitched. But he looked so handsome, and I was bewitched by his scent too. He smelled like a stroll up the snowy path to a fancy cabin in the woods, if a grumpy earth fae had spilled whiskey on the path right before I got there. And then when he crooked his index finger under my chin and kissed me under the mistletoe, he was so gentle but commanding at the same time. And the way he snaked his arm around my waist…
Nope!
Nope, nope, nope.
As I pull up outside the entrance to a really beautiful mansion in Brentwood, before the valet comes around to open my car door, I get into children’s party mode. I can’t be a sexy children’s party entertainer who’s flooding her elf panties over a steamy holiday party spank bank memory! That’s just wrong.Focus, focus, focus.What do the elves call Santa after he’s had beans for dinner? Farter Christmas!My goal is to earn money to invest. Not to get drunk later and text some asshole I had a moderate amount of crackling chemistry with before I was legally old enough to rent a car in the United States.
When the valet opens my car door, the mildly cool night air carries the scent of citrus flowers, the sound of dozens of people chatting outside behind the mansion, and the yuletide vocal stylings of Michael Bublé.
I pull my wagon that’s filled with well-organized props along the decomposed granite path that leads around the side of the house. The path is lined with strings of white lights that hang from metal poles that are also adorned with very tasteful and aromatic wreaths made from rosemary, eucalyptus, and berries. At the tops of the metal poles are menorahs with flickering battery-operated candles. All of the decorations are so tasteful and lovely, but they are not giving kid-party vibes.
I hear the sound of a utensil clinking against a glass. The volume of the Michael Bublé song is lowered. A gentleman speaks into a microphone, saying how beautiful the ceremony was and how glad he is that Barry and Alyssa found each other…
Uh-oh.
Am I at the right house?
I triple-checked the address Paxton gave me before driving onto the property.
When I go through the open gate to the expansive backyard, I stop to survey the scene.
There’s a buffet table, there are about half a dozen dining tables. Some people are eating dessert. A number of people are milling around. There’s a huge live Christmas tree and a few little kids sitting on the grass around it. There’s a photo booth and a dance floor. And an arbor that’s wrapped in Christmas andStar of David lights, pine branches, and roses in the far corner of the yard.
This is not a kid’s holiday birthday party.
This is a fucking wedding reception.
I look around for a place to hide my wagon, but an elegant lady in her sixties walks over to me. She’s wobbling just a little and doing a very good job of almost not staring at me like I’m a total weirdo. “Hello there. Are you a friend of Alyssa’s or Barry’s?”
“Um. I’m a friend of Paxton’s?”
“Miss Cleo!” I turn my head toward the pitter-patter of little feet on cement. My new young, bespectacled friend Paxton is looking very handsome in a cream-colored suit. Once again, he has a frosted cookie in one hand, and I have to suppress the urge to reach for a wet wipe. “You came!”
The man who’s speaking into the microphone is far enough away that our voices aren’t disrupting his toast. “Of course I did,” I say to him. “Hello!”
“Grandma, this is Dad’s date,” Paxton says to the elegant, maybe-tipsy lady.
I look around to see who he’s referring to.
