12 Days of Mistletoe

17. Bonnie

SEVENTEEN

bonnie

I did not add pink lip gloss to my lips today because Elliot Eaton and his gran are coming by the center. No, I did not. I often wear lip gloss. All the time, in fact.

And yet?—

“What’s on your face?” Bill says the minute I’ve reached his table. Right after my not-so-true pep talk to myself.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I know exactly what he means. I never wear lip gloss. Who am I trying to kid? What possessed me?

Bill says nothing. He knows I know.

“Fine,” I growl, but it’s a fake growl. I’m not mad at Bill. I’m more annoyed with myself and the need for pink bubble gum lip gloss. “So what? I’m not allowed to wear lip gloss?”

“Maybe.” Bill shrugs. “I don’t know. You trying to get your lips noticed, Bon Bon?”

I tug on Noel’s leash. It’s completely unneeded; she is a well-behaved girl. Still, I tug her closer, and because she’s also the most patient pup, she comes without complaint, lifting her head into my left palm .

“Well, that’s—Pfft. No,” I moan. “I felt like a little gloss today, okay? That’s it.”

Bill harrumphs, telling me it is not okay and he doesn’t believe me for one second. I don’t really believe me either. The thing is, I haven’t had a boyfriend in a long time—real or fake. It’s making me question things, like when to wear lip gloss and when not to. Also things like—is it normal to feel flutterings when you kiss someone? It is, right? Real or not. That’s just normal. And it all goes away—in eleven days.

Another glance from Bill answers all lip gloss questions. Is a fake boyfriend time for lip gloss? No, he is not.

Each table in the hall is blessedly set with napkins in the center. The people who come for meals eat here as well as play games, make crafts, and listen to live music. I snatch up one of those white paper linens that never leave the table—no matter the event—and wipe at my mouth as if I’ve been eating BBQ ribs.

So long bubble gum lip gloss.

“You think that’s gonna fool anyone?” Bill says without even looking at me. “So, I assume your boyfriend is coming by, then?”

I clamp down on my bottom lip—free of shiny gloss—and wish I could say, no, he is not. I wore that lip gloss for me. But what good would the lie do when Elliot and May are scheduled to be here any minute? “So?”

Another harumph. “Is One-thirty better at bingo than Scrabble?”

Bingo. I can talk bingo. The heat radiating from my body ceases, chilling out with the subject change. I walk to the closet across the room and bring back my large bingo tote. “Bingo is one hundred percent luck,” I tell Bill .

Opening the tub, I pull out the bingo boards, revealing my feather boa and captain’s hat. I wear both as the pirate bingo caller. There are plenty more boas, black bandanas, and first-mate hats for others to wear. About half the patrons like dressing up for the game, while the others just enjoy playing.

“It is not luck,” Bill says, reaching inside my tub and choosing a hat that matches my own. He places it on his white-haired head and crosses his arms. “There’s skill involved with any game.”

“Not bingo,” I say, winking at him. I can tease him right back.

But Bill won’t give up. “Yes, bingo.” He tosses the red boa my way. “Good thing your lips aren’t pink anymore. With pink lips and that boa, One-thirty might get the wrong idea.” He snickers.

I grind my teeth and gather up the bingo boards, all adorned in pirate pictures rather than numbers. “No one is getting the wrong idea. This is a business deal. Appear to be dating and Noel gets to stay in the building. That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” Bill says.

I am not normally the victim of Bill’s bluntness and strong opinions. I don’t like it. Besides, he’s got it all wrong. So, I felt like wearing lip gloss for once. Who cares?

My head swirls around the idea for a minute… Because it doesn’t like those pesky unanswered questions. Why did I feel like it? I clear my throat and spout, “I wore that dumb gloss so his grandma wouldn’t make me kiss him again. Okay? No one wants to kiss lip gloss, it’s sticky and messy and?—”

“Grandma?” Bill says, sitting a little straighter.

“Yes, she’s coming with him today. So, be nice. ”

Bill reaches out a hand and caresses Noel’s back. “I’m always nice.”

I’m forming a lecture for Bill when I hear?—

“Shouldn’t the bingo be Christmas-themed?” May says. Her white hair is pulled into a side ponytail, one perfect ringlet hanging over her shoulder.

“I don’t know, Gran. You’ll have to ask Bonnie.”

“You said a grandma was coming with him,” Bill whispers to me, eyes on May. “You said nothing about the silver fox.”

“The silver what?”

My friend’s bushy brows knit right before he hushes me.

As if he were my parent and I an obedient six-year-old, I press my lips on top of one another. My stomach flips at the sight of Elliot next to May. The man is tall, but next to his little gran, he looks as if he could be the jolly green giant. Tall and broad and built, and he’s even in a green sweater. Jolly. Green. Giant. Yep—that’s a weird comparison. This whole faking-it gig is messing with my head.

“At least there are Christmas decorations up,” May says.

“Of course there are,” I say when I’m certain she’s in earshot. “Even pirates celebrate Christmas.”

“Do they?” Elliot says, a question in his tone but a smile in his eyes.

I press my lips together again, wishing there was a little gloss left to make the motion smoother. “Yes. They do.”

“Nice, uh, scarf,” he says, smiling at my red boa.

“That’s no scarf,” May tells him.

I clear my throat and drag my eyes to May. “Hi, Mrs. Elliot. It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s May. Just May.” She leans in, and I dip down so she can place a kiss on my cheek. She’s left a lipstick mark, I know it. “It’s lovely to see you too.” She flicks her gaze up to Elliot. “Well, aren’t you going to kiss your girl hello?”

“Uh—” Elliot swallows and blinks fourteen times too many.

“Do we need to hold up pretenses here?” I say, trying to help him out—as well as myself. But I’m not sure if May Elliot ever rests.

“ Everywhere , dearest. This is the bargain you’ve made.”

“But they don’t know that we’re”—I use air quotes and raise my brows—“ dating .” I peer around at my elderly friends filling up the room.

“They don’t know that you aren’t, either.”

“Gran, do we really need to fake it here?”

May’s eyes land on Bill. “You used the ‘F’ word, Elliot. That isn’t allowed in public.”

I swallow and jump in to save Elliot. “Bill knows. He’s a dear friend and I told him. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

May sighs. “Well, now you know. It is a big deal. No more bean-spilling, okay?”

I nod and chant in my head: For Noel!

She lifts the end of my red feather boa, lobbing it side to side. “Lovely.”

“Oh, I have another.” I point to my tub on the table. “Do you want one?”

She shakes her head. “No, dear. But I will take a seat.” May tilts her head, eyes still sizing up Bill, whose wife died back in 1993. “Go on, Elliot, greet your girl.”

Elliot’s hands are shoved in his pocket, and he looks as if he doesn’t know what to do. I can be a big girl. This is fake and false and all for Noel. So, I stand on my tiptoes. “Hello, honey ,” I say, a tad too much 1950s TV drama, and press a kiss to his cheek .

Elliot’s head shifts with my touch—while I’m still on my toes. Warm, minty breath heats my lips and fills my nostrils. I swallow, goosebumps erupting over my arms and neck, then bob back onto my heels.

“Hi,” I mutter a second time.

His gaze casts down to mine and he offers me a close-lipped grin. “Hi, Bonnie.”

A foreign thumping pounds in my chest. Then, as if he needs her as much as I do, Elliot turns his attention to my pup.

“Hello to you too, Noel.” He scratches behind her right ear, her very favorite spot, and my heart wallops rebelliously again.

Business deal , I remind it. Business .

Because we’re not getting all complicated and having feelings for my fake boyfriend of two days. The one who tried to evict Noel. No, we are not. That would be ludicrous.

May’s eyes go wide, and behind me, Bill clears his throat.

“Oh!” I smack my palm to my head. I hadn’t meant to be rude—nope, I was just thoroughly distracted. Distracted, confused, and in denial. “May, this is my very good friend Bill White. Bill, this is Elliot’s grandmother and the owner of my building, May Elliot.”

“Well, aren’t you a hottie,” Bill says, and I choke on absolutely nothing.

“Hey now,” Elliot growls, “that’s my?—”

“Oh, hush.” May shakes her head, and I don’t think I’m imagining the pink growing in her cheeks. “The man is entitled to his opinions, Elliot. Same as you. Go find me some tea, will you?”

Elliot’s tight jaw slackens. “Tea,” he grumbles. “ Sure.”

May sits in the chair right next to Bill, holding out a hand to him. He slides his wrinkled palm into hers, but instead of shaking, he brings her fingers to his lips, kissing the back of her hand.

“Oh brother,” Elliot groans.

I snatch a hold of Elliot’s arm. “Come on. I know where the tea is.” I tug him over to the drink station where we have hot and iced tea. For some reason, I keep my hands on his upper arm. I can feel the defined bicep inside that sweater. I haven’t seen it, but now I know it’s there. And it’s as if I can’t let go. I blame his dumb sweater. It tells me nothing and now I’m curious. I’m imagining things… It would be better to just see things—the real thing—for myself so my brain would stop running.

Noel sits back with Bill and May, which says a lot for Elliot. She trusts him. My pup is a good judge of character and a good judge of me. After only a couple days she trusts Elliot. Which, I guess, means that I do too.

That thought, and all the thumping in my chest, makes me nervous though. And I open my mouth without thought. “When do you have time to work out?” I say because my brain is still circling the definition I am most certainly feeling beneath this sweater. My brain is in speed mode, and it’s left all of its play-it-cool filters behind.

“Excuse me?” Elliot asks, looking down at me, the right corner of his lips perking upward.

Apparently, that filter is indefinitely broken. I squeeze his arm. “You have muscles, Elliot. Like a lot of them. Ones you’ve been hiding behind long-sleeved shirts, suit coats, and holiday sweaters.”

“Oh. Um…” His brows cinch. “I have access to the high sc hool weight room. I go in every morning before school starts.”

“Right.” I exhale, wishing there were fans in this room. “P.E. teacher.”

“Yep.” He peers at me. “And you’re a dog walker-slash activity coordinator-slash puppy photographer-slash nonprofit volunteer.”

I swallow. “Slash-Etsy shop owner.”

“You’re kidding,” he says.

I lift one shoulder. “I am kidding. But I’ve wanted to open a shop for a couple years now.”

“Right, in all your spare time.”

I laugh, reading his tone as joking, not judging. “Yeah. Well, it’s not that high on my priority list.”

“What would you sell?” he asks, lifting the glass pitcher of iced tea and pouring a red solo cup for May.

I lift the hot pot and pour a mug of the hot tea for Bill. He likes it with four sugars. He’s got a sweet tooth. I don’t care—I just know from all our time together.

“I make homemade treats for Noel. She really loves them. And they’re good for her.”

Elliot’s lips part into a crooked grin. “You are really into your dog, aren’t you?”

And now I do feel judged. Forget Elliot Eaton’s nice guy persona and hidden muscles—that’s the same thing I’ve heard from all the other uninterested men in my life. Not that I care if he’s interested or not. That lip gloss episode does not mean I care. This is fake. By definition, fake means we —yes, both of us—are not interested in the other. But I tell him he’s ripped and he tells me I’ve got a thing for my dog ?

My fingers close around the handle of Bill’s mug. “You’re really into your grandma, aren’t you?” I snark back.

“ Whoa .” A light chortle falls from his lips. “Bonnie. I wasn’t trying to?—”

He may be laughing, but my heart is pounding and Noel’s ears are perking. I’m not having an anxiety attack—just feeling a little too seen, a little too judged by someone I hardly know.

“Forget it, E.J. We don’t really know each other anyway.”