12 Days of Mistletoe

44. Elliot

FORTY-FOUR

elliot

One more day of pretending. One and then Bonnie and I can move forward with real feelings and real intentions. No offense, Gran, but fake is not for me.

I button the front of my vest and slip into my black jacket. Thanks to Gran, I own my own tuxedo. I have all the black-tie affair garb hanging up in my closet, right next to my gym shorts. I use the tux, too—once a year, at Gran’s party.

I take care styling my hair and shaving my stubble because I’ve seen my date—not dolled up and ready for the ball, just trying the dress on—and the woman is stunning. That dress might have been made with Bonnie in mind. I dropped my phone when Gran sent me that photo. Q, newly home from vacation, hit me in the face with the ball from our racket ball game and my phone went tumbling to the ground.

Q picked it up first and had all kinds of words for Bonnie in her red dress. Words that made me forget he’s one of my closest friends, words that caused me to slug him in the shoulder— hard .

My cell buzzes and I open the FaceTime call to see my sister, Evelyn.

“Whoa.” Her lips part into a wide grin. “Elliot. Looking good.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I have never seen that much product in your hair.”

“Is it too much?” I say, holding a hand to my hair but not touching it. This look took me half an hour to perfect.

“No. Not too much. You look good. Really good. Like pregnant-lady-glowing good.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Okay, pregnant lady, I guess you would know. That’s kind of a weird thing to say.”

“It’s not. You look… happy , Elliot. I’m glad. What time are you picking up Bonnie? Gran took her to Merlee for hair, right?”

“Yeah. I think Bonnie was afraid she’d come out with blue hair or something, but she went willingly because the woman is a saint.”

“She is. We all like her. Hold on to that one, brother.”

I swallow. This is new. Bonnie is new. And yet—I intend to.

“I’ll see you there,” she says. “Gran wants a family photo at six since guests won’t arrive until seven.”

I sigh. Another family picture. That’s what got Bonnie into this glorious mess.

Yep, I’ll never complain about my mother or my grandmother’s family photo shoots again.

I tap on Bonnie’s door. I’m early. But her hair and makeup appointment should have ended an hour ago—Gran took her to Merlee, and Bonnie’s texts made me believe that she didn’t completely hate the experience.

Bonnie: It smells like roses in here.

Later—

Bonnie: I think I just saw Dolly Parton.

And finally?—

Bonnie: Merlee is my new best friend. Do you know her? If not, I’d be happy to make introductions.

Of course I know Merlee. We all know Merlee. Gran has been seeing her for thirty years.

There’s a whine at Bonnie’s front door. At least Noel knows I’m out here. She’s waiting for me.

“Come in!” Bonnie calls.

I push open her unlocked door and I’m greeted by a freshly groomed Noel, wearing a new Christmas collar with live mistletoe attached. Nice one, Gran. Mistletoe whenever Bonnie and I might be in need. I sigh—and yet, I can’t help but grin.

“You’re all dressed up too,” I say, bending to rub a hand over the pup’s back. Noel licks my cheek.

“I’ll be right out!” Bonnie calls from down the one hallway where I know her bedroom is. I know this building. This apartment is six hundred and twelve square feet. It has one bedroom and one bathroom, a remodeled kitchen, and a good-sized living room.

I step into her living space, waiting for Bonnie. Noel’s furry head finds my palm. She’s a good girl who really does know how to calm a beating heart.

Still, I’m not exactly prepared for Bonnie’s presence—I thought I would be. I saw her in that dress already. I got that photo from Gran. I got it and immediately saved it to my phone and as her contact photo. But her hair is up on her head, a crown of braids around a swirling reddish-blonde bun with sprigs of curls framing her face. Her eyes are bright and glittery, her cheeks pink, and her lips are painted a bright, beautiful Christmas red as if asking to be kissed.

The crimson, floor-length gown drapes from her shoulders and hugs at her waist. I can see a hint of her thigh through the slit on her right side, and the whole sight dumbfounds me into losing all ability to speak.

I sweat and swallow and stare at the woman in front of me.

“I think the zipper is stuck,” she says, peeking over her shoulder. “I got it last time. Can you help?”

I’m silent. I still can’t find any words at the moment.

Still, she whirls around, sending a waft of raspberry sweetness into my senses. And now, I’m staring at her smooth shoulder blades, long neck, and firm back. She’s going to send me into a comatose state. Does she not realize it?

“Elliot?” Twisting her neck, she peers back at me.

When I—like an idiot—continue to stay silent because no comprehensible words enter my head, she turns around to face me again.

Her forehead wrinkles. “Are you okay? ”

“Mm-har.” Mm-har ? What does that even mean? That isn’t a word. I tell my brain, mm-har, not a word , but that’s all I’ve got.

One of her pretty, penciled brows quirks up. “Excuse me?”

“Fine,” I murmur. I mentally high-five myself. I got one. I said an actual word.

Then, with one finger—I don’t dare touch her with a whole hand—I press against her bare shoulder, just above her drooping sleeve, and spin her back around. Exhaling all the air from my lungs, I tug on her zipper, which doesn’t seem stuck—maybe she is trying to kill me—and pull up.

It’s fine. I’m ready. I’ll die happy if this is the way.

Though it truly might be the death of me, I don’t even try to stop what happens next. With her zipper at the top of her crow-neck dress, I brush my fingers along the edge of her skin, where the dress meets her back and shoulders. Everything inside of me says I should be kissing her neck about now. But the left side of my brain—that has all at once decided to function—reminds me that we’ve got seven more hours of tabling real feelings, of avoiding confusion, of getting through Gran’s escapade. It’s the only way. Right? If I want this to work with Bonnie, I need real, not pretend.

Just get through the night, man.

But I’m not sure I can. I’m leaning in—without control, no stopping now—when she turns back around, facing me, hands at her bodice.

“Thank you.”

I stand straight, gaining some control of my body, and nod.

“You’re acting weird.” She peers up at me, a worry line forming between her eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay? ”

“I’m okay.” Whoa. Two words. Way to go, Elliot.

“Do I look strange? I’ve never been this dressed up in my life. Is it laughable?” She peers down at herself. Does she not see it? Does she not realize that she should wear formal attire wherever she goes? Walking the dogs—yep, grab the formal. Scrabble with Bill—put that dress on. Dinner with Elliot—please, please wear the dress.

I blink. Thinking. Real, actual words forming. “You look… you?—”

She lifts one brow. If I don’t get something out soon, she’ll think I’ve lost my mind, or worse, that she actually does look strange. And that would be a travesty.

“You are stunning.” I swallow, unable to take my eyes off her—even to check myself and our tabling agreement.

Her cheeks flood with rose-colored warmth, the color only increasing how lovely she is in this moment.

Q would say I’m whipped. And he might be right.

She nibbles on her bottom lip, reining in a grin. “You look pretty sharp too.”

Regaining my full ability to speak once more, I swallow down my nerves. “Would a photo be against all the tabling rules?”

Her dark lashes fan in a blink. “I don’t think so.”

I pull out my cell, wrap one arm around Bonnie’s waist, and snap a couple selfies of the two of us. “I’ll send them to you,” I say. Tingles shoot through my limbs. And because my hands and lips are having a difficult time behaving right now, I lean down and brush a kiss on her cheek before I explode. It’s not my best idea—one little touch, and now I’m in physical pain. Pain. And I’m pretty sure the only cure is touching her again. All at once, I’ve turned into a masochist, but only if Bonnie Miller is involved .

“Should we go?” Bonnie says, bringing me out of another stupor.

It’s going to be a long night.

A long, glorious night.