Chapter 6 Elijah
ELIJAH
Ican’t tell if the entire party has gone silent or if I just can’t hear anything over the sound of blood rushing from my head to my dick, because this holly jolly nightmare in a sexy elf costume is Cleo.
Curly Jones. Cleo Christmas-loving talent-wasting award-stealing thought-hijacking boot-wearing hot-as-fuck Jones.
The one that got away. The one who ran away.
The one who wasn’t meant to be. The beguiling five-foot-two affliction I torture my mind with while choking my erection when I’m home alone, hating myself.
The one I almost got through yesterday without thinking about.
The one I almost got through today without thinking about, and now I’m squeezing her arms and inhaling her intoxicating, psychotically sensual melted-chocolate-candy-cane scent.
Paxton reaches up to tug on my arm until I lower it.
He grabs my hand. “Hahahaha! Dad!” He’s talking so loud, I can tell there must be a lot of people watching us.
“She’s your plus-person—why wouldn’t she be here?
! I know you thought it would be weird to bring a date tonight, but I told her it would be nice if she was here with us.
” He grabs Cleo’s hand. “Right, Miss Cleo?”
“Just Cleo.”
Paxton brings my hand together with Cleo’s.
“No.” I say the word no, but I take her hand in mine. And then I let go of her other arm and take her other hand in mine. Like we’re standing under an altar, about to exchange vows. Why the fuck am I doing this? I must be drunker than I thought I was. “No.”
“Dad… She’s your date, remember?”
“Why are you here?” I ask her again. Did I ask her that already?
Am I saying words out loud? I have so many questions.
Why is she so fucking pretty? Why is she wearing her hair in braids?
Does she want me to hold on to them while I ride her?
Because I will fucking do that. I want to lick her eyebrows.
I don’t want to lick anyone else’s eyebrows ever, but I worship those thick brown arches above her sad green eyes.
How can anyone be so cheerful and have such sad eyes?
Those sad eyes and that provocative smile have haunted me for eight years.
It’s like listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas theme while getting a hand job.
“Your son asked me to be here,” she says slowly. I am mesmerized by her mouth, those full lips, but I hear the words. I hear them. I want her mouth on my cock, but I hear those words. Those words…yeah, those are not boner-inducing words.
I grunt. “Why are you wearing this?”
“I…came from another job.”
“Please tell me you aren’t working with Santa at the mall.”
She rolls her eyes and then exchanges a look with Paxton, winks at him, and says, “No, Elijah. Santa lives at the North Pole.” She smirks at me.
I need everyone to leave so I can make sweet, angry holiday love to that red mouth.
Nope.
I squeeze her hands and then let them go. “No.” I have to let her go. “This won’t work.” I place my hands on her shoulders. I don’t know why, and I wish I didn’t do that. “I mean, I have to work. I have to go to the office. I have a deadline.” This is my mantra. This is my lifeline.
She shrugs. “Okay, honey. Whatever you need.”
Honey.
You know exactly what I need, you sassy little minx, and you know I don’t want to need it and I really don’t want to want it.
I wonder if she’s wearing a bra under that velvet dress.
She never used to wear bras because her saucy little tits are so perky, and it drove me out of my mind.
I look back up into her mischievous eyes.
Now she winks at me, like she knows what I’m thinking.
Like the answer is no. She is not wearing a bra.
“No,” I say, loosening my grip on her. “Nope.” Forcing myself to let go of her completely, I take a step back.
I will be the one to walk away this time.
Paxton grabs the sleeve of my suit jacket with both hands, trying to pull me down to his level. “Please, Dad? It’s my interfaith-holiday-season wish.”
“You said having all the Star Wars Lego kits was your interfaith-holiday-season wish.”
He is expressionless, but he blinks twice. “Did you get me all the Star Wars Lego kits?”
God, I love this kid. “You will know by end of day on the twenty-fifth.”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I really need to get those tightened for him. “Can I have two interfaith-holiday-season wishes, then? Lego for me for Hanukkah and Cleo for you for Christmas.”
Cleo for me for Christmas.
I should have had Cleo for Christmas eight years ago.
I watch as Cleo picks up an invitation card that someone left on a nearby table. After reading it, she looks around and spots Alyssa with Barry, then she looks over at me with pity in her eyes. Pity. For me.
I hate pity.
Especially when it’s for me.
So why don’t I hate that she feels something, anything for me, besides merry contempt?
Why does it feel so good that she’s paying attention to me and not Nico Todd, who’s singing “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and okay, he’s a slightly better singer than I am and everyone else is enthralled, including the band.
But not Cleo Jones. She’s looking at me.
I look away first. That doesn’t mean she wins, it just means I’m an awesome father who pays attention to his son. “I will stay for one more hour,” I tell Paxton.
“She’s really nice, so please be nice to her,” he quietly pleads.
She is really nice. But nice people crush souls and break hearts too, and she doesn’t get to break mine twice. “You’ve run out of holiday wishes, buddy.”
“Don’t I get a Kwanzaa wish?”
“That is a lengthy philosophical conversation for another time.”
I meet Cleo’s gaze again, and she strolls over to join us.
“I’m gonna go get another cookie,” Paxton announces.
“That’s the last one for tonight,” I tell him. “You’ve had way too much sugar today.”
He pretends he didn’t hear me as he runs off. I know that trick. I know all the tricks.
“So…” Cleo clasps her hands behind her lower back and wraps one leg around the other. “You going to the office now?”
“I will stay for one more hour.”
“Cool. Guess I will too, then.” She lowers her voice. “Are we really pretending I’m your date?”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint my son.”
“Nor would I. So, I’m your date but not your girlfriend?”
“Correct. I’m still seeing how things go, trying to determine if you’re a total nutjob or not. It’s very casual. But you’re obsessed with me.”
“Got it. Good note.” In slow motion, she stands on her tiptoes and reaches up to comb an errant wave of hair away from my forehead. “Seems like my character would do something like this if she had the chance.”
I get a whiff of the perfume emanating from her wrist, and it’s all I can do not to grab that wrist and kiss the palm of her hand. “My character would allow you to do that, despite his suspicions that you might be bad news.”
She tilts her head and studies my face. It’s killing me and giving me life at the same time. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I grab her wrist, because fuck it, and it startles her for a split second and then she sighs, and I like that. “What do you mean?”
I press my lips against the palm of her open hand and watch her eyelashes flutter as she closes her eyes and sways a little. “Your ex-wife just got remarried. To the creator of That’s So Wizard, if I’m not mistaken.”
I lower our hands, and I don’t let go of hers. “You are not mistaken in that regard.”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Okay?”
“Do I not look okay?”
“You look like five million bucks. And you’re acting like you have five dollars to your name.”
That can’t be right. I look like ten million bucks and feel like I have five million to my name.
That’s more like it. She doesn’t get me at all.
I’m not falling for this. This is what she does.
She bewitches me. Lulls me into complacency with sad eyes and sexy boots, and then just when she knows she could have me any way she wants me, she metaphorically knees me in the balls and disappears.
“What are you doing here? Did you move back to LA?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
One month.
One entire month.
But she’s here. She must not be married. She must not have a boyfriend. She must not hate me all that much if she hasn’t left yet. “Did you finally give up on Broadway?”
She winces at that. I regret the phrasing, but I can’t take it back. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but sure. Do you have better taste in movies now?”
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
“Do you like It’s a Wonderful Life now?”
“Nope.”
She shakes her head. It’s subtle at first, but then I watch as the disbelief blossoms into disdain, which is the usual progression of her emotional responses to me. Five seconds later, I can almost see the fumes shooting out of her nostrils. “You’re a monster.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Curly.” I squeeze her hand and pull her over to the side of the yard.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the buffet table. To get you something to eat.”
“I had dinner,” she says obstinately.
“Did you eat a meal for dinner, or did you consume one protein bar while getting ready to come here?”
She huffs, and I have my answer. “You don’t know me.”
I do, though. Or I did. I paid attention to her. I remember her. And she always forgot to eat dinner because she was so busy working.
The servers are starting to clear the dinner buffet, but I grab a plate and give them the death stare as I pile food onto it.
“I’m not hungry!” she says. “Oh, more of that roast turkey, please. And cranberry sauce.”
I knew it.
While she’s busy grabbing dessert, I look around for my son. He’s talking to Shane’s, Nico’s, and Alex’s kids. Nico has, thankfully, finished dazzling the guests with his moderately impressive professional singing voice.
Which means…
Shit.
Here they come.