Chapter 9
LUCY
I’m having a perfectly decent conversation with a Santa named Brandon, who seems to tick all of my Mr. Perfectly Okay boxes, but I have to admit my heart isn’t in it.
I can’t believe Enzo came in here and offered to deflower me.
The ego of that man!
The absolute nerve!
Did he really think I’d accept?
I’m almost angrier about that than the fact that he asked in the first place.
“Hey, where’d you go just now?” Brandon says, reaching across the table and touching my arm.
I’m hoping to feel something—a spark of awareness, at least—but it just feels like a strange man in a Santa suit is touching my arm. It’s kind of unpleasant, to be perfectly honest.
Pulling away, I ask, “Do you know the Cafieros?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I went to school with Enzo.” He hooks a thumb toward the door, indicating he’s well aware that Enzo was the interloper Santa.
“Was he an asshole when he was a kid too?” I ask, then cover my mouth.
He barks a laugh, running a hand over his fake beard. “Sweetheart, that man was born with a stick up his ass. But don’t worry. He won’t bother you when I’m around. He’s afraid of me.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I say, before I realize he’s doing that posturing thing men do, measuring their dicks against each other. But I know Enzo wouldn’t be afraid of him. I don’t think Enzo is afraid of anyone.
Brandon pushes back in his chair. “You want me to prove it? I’m happy to prove it! I’ll—”
“He already left,” I say, exasperated. “And even if he hadn’t, what would you do, randomly punch him? We’d have to call the cops.”
His mouth gets pouty beneath the beard, and I’m suddenly disgusted with myself.
Did I seriously think I could find Mr. Perfectly Okay in five minutes? I mean, what would have happened if I’d talked to Brandon about something else, like the weather? I might have mistaken him for a reasonable person.
I mean, I’m not looking for my soulmate here. But I’d prefer it if Mr. Perfectly Okay weren’t a psychopath or a whiny man-baby.
As much as I hate to admit it, Enzo might have been the tiniest bit right.
“You don’t think a man has a right to be protective of his woman?” Brandon asks, scratching beneath his beard.
“Whoa,” I say, extending my hands in what I hope he understands is a hell no gesture. “We met two minutes ago. I am not your woman. In fact, I think—”
I don’t get to finish, because a high-pitched scream rises up from two tables down.
A man throws his fake beard into the air, shouting over Bing Crosby singing about a white Christmas, “The beards have head lice! Take off your beards!”
Shouted swears travel across the room like wildfire, and more beards are thrown into the air. It looks like a graduation at a school for Santas, where they toss beards instead of hats. Brandon practically rips his ear off in his haste to get his off.
No, Enzo would definitely not be afraid of this guy.
Beard disposed of, Brandon leaps to his feet and starts stripping off his clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask in shock.
He has his hat and sweater off already, and he reaches for the hem of his undershirt. “Getting rid of the head lice.”
“But they’d be in your hair! They’re head lice.”
A couple of guys holding their coats march past us and head directly out the door, cold air wafting in again.
“You forgot your goody bags!” Eileen calls to them as Brandon continues disrobing. He’s shirtless now, his pale chest beaming at me while he starts unfastening his belt. It’s mesmerizing, but not in a good way.
“Stop that,” I snap at him. But he doesn’t, even when I clap my hands like a preschool teacher. “Stop. You’re in a public space. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
More people are heading for the exit when the man who called head lice shouts, “Sorry! False alarm, it was just some poppy seeds.”
Brandon’s expression shifts from horror to horrified awareness that he’s stripped down in front of a room full of people. It happens the exact moment before the overhead lights flicker off.
“What is even happening?” a woman shouts, panic filling her voice.
There’s a rumble of footsteps as people try to leave the café en masse.
“One at a time,” I shout, getting to my feet. “File out one at a time. But you don’t need to rush out. Eileen has candles. It’s probably just a power fluctuation.”
An emergency lantern flickers to life at the front of the room, illuminating Eileen’s startled face. “There were no head lice in the beards, to be clear,” she says. “Zero head lice. They were all professionally laundered.”
But it’s clear the event is over. Everyone who hasn’t already left starts preparing to do so, pulling on jackets and throwing away trash. Brandon takes the longest given that he’d stripped off nearly all of his clothes.
“Hey,” he says as he pulls on his coat. “Now that you’ve had a preview, would you—”
“No,” I snap.
None of the men who showed up tonight were what you’d call quality, but it wasn’t their fault Santa Speed Dating was a catastrophic failure.
It’s Enzo’s fault. I’m sure of it. And, no question about it, I will one hundred percent get the scoundrel back.
I’m still steaming about it when Eileen and I lock the door after the last emotionally scarred speed-dater.
“We certainly put on a memorable event,” Eileen says, chuckling as she slides behind the front counter and pours me some of The Nice List hot chocolate. She must sense my dark thoughts and want to blunt them.
“It was a disaster,” I proclaim.
She nods, surprising me. “But every disaster can be learned from. And you did get some dating practice, didn’t you, Lucy?
Perhaps you’re ready for a real date. I know Charlie wasn’t overly impressed with the candidates on my list, but there are some very nice boys on it.
Lots of eligible bachelors your age in Hideaway Harbor right now. ”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I blurt.
“More practice then. Will you come to Crochet Club on Tuesday night?”
Crochet Club seems like an awfully strange place to meet a man, but I nod distractedly. Right now, Tuesday feels as distant as Charlie’s spring wedding. My mind is locked on Enzo.
His smug smile.
His low, gravelly voice.
The way he looked at me as he said, I wish for your sake that were the case…
“Eileen, I think Enzo is out to get us,” I murmur. “He purposefully ruined our event.”
She studies me silently for a moment. “You believe he planted fake head lice in the beards and cut our power?”
“Well, it sounds insane when you say it out loud, but yes! All he’d need to do was pour some poppy seeds into the storage container for the beards, and as for the power…
I’m guessing excessive use of power in their shop could possibly cause a blackout for the whole building.
Or…I don’t know. What I do know is that man has designs on me. ”
“Yes, he does seem quite taken with you,” she says with a sprinkle of excitement. “But we need to make sure his heart is in the right place. He isn’t known for being an open book.”
“Oh, no,” I say with horror. “I don’t find him appealing in the least.” The words have the sour mouthfeel of a lie.
I don’t like Enzo, but I’m far from immune to his charms. “He’s good-looking, anyone could see that, but he’s probably a psychopath.
I’m not sure he even has a heart.” I wave around at the dark interior of the café.
“Look what he did to Santa Speed Dating.” I’m about to say something about poor Curtis, but I remember Enzo’s story about the handbag and shut my mouth.
“Now, we don’t know that he had anything to do with that, Lucy. It’s a windy night, and the power might have fallen victim to it.” She releases a gusty sigh. “And Enzo definitely has a heart. I think that boy would do just about anything to protect his family.”
“Maybe so,” I concede, remembering what he said about blood being thicker than water. It had chafed then, and it chafes more now. Because if family only means blood, then I’ve never had one and never will. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not trouble.”
“There we can agree.” She pauses for a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’ll have a stern chat with him when he and I get dinner.”
“You’re seriously having dinner with him after all of this?” I ask incredulously. “We banned him from the shop!”
“Problems usually lose steam if you talk them through, don’t you think?”
She’s right, of course she’s right, but I can’t stand the thought of Eileen having dinner with Enzo and being nice to him.
It would be like breaking bread with a war criminal.
I know I’m being hysterical, but seriously, what man offers to sleep with a complete stranger simply because he knows she’s a virgin?
It’s like something out of the Middle Ages!
He can’t, and shouldn’t, get away with that scot-free. He needs to pay.
Having a pleasant dinner with sweet Eileen does not qualify as paying.
A wave of inspiration hits me, center mass.
“Tell Erica that I’ll have dinner with him next week. Let him know. Tell him we’ll talk it all out over food.”
“You will?” she asks, giving me a surprised look.
“I will. And he’s never going to forget it.”
Her gaze lingers on me, her eyes filling with warm humor. “You’re not planning on murdering him, are you? I’m too old to handle a shovel, and his grandmother is already upset with me. She’d ban me forever, and I do enjoy their eggplant parmesan.”
“It’s delicious,” I say with a sad sigh, because I will surely never taste it again. “And no, I’m not planning on killing him, but there’s no denying that man does things to me.”
She nods slowly, meaningfully.
“Not like that,” I insist. “I hate him.”
“Yes, hatred is an interesting emotion, isn’t it?”