Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

5

Tory shakes her head and mouths, “idiot.”

I am, which means I need to come clean. “Sorry,” I shrug sheepishly. “I spaced out. What’d I miss?”

“Maverick asked about Silas and Peggy’s wedding.”

Right. The supposed reason I’ve been spending most of my free time at Valle Encantado these days.

This might be the perfect segue into offering my family’s help. She won’t be able to refuse with the whole clan here, and I know they’d love to do anything to bless Silas. So much more than a neighbor, he became family.

Except this is Mave’s first Christmas as a widow. We may need to tag-team to keep her distracted from the depths of grief and get enough rest for the baby. Better talk with everyone first.

“It’s gonna be… interesting.”

“If it doesn’t kill me first. Or make us kill each other,” Alessia quips.

“You’re working on it together?” Mom pipes up, curiosity lacing her tone.

“Silas and Peggy asked us both to help, and as activity director, I’d be involved to some extent,” Alessia explains.

“Yook, yady! Unca Dan got me wocks!” Zack bounces from the front seat of the stroller, lunging toward Alessia.

She smiles the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. It sends a shock to my chest so intense I have to rub the area to make it dissipate.

“Ooh, very pretty rock. What color is it?”

“Puh-pol.”

“It is purple! One of my favorite colors.”

“I yike blue,” Zack announces. I love that he hasn’t mastered his Ls and Rs yet. Scout and Tory are working with him, but I secretly hope it’s stubborn enough to stick around a while longer.

“Green!” Zeke argues, never one to let Zack hog the attention. “Green is gooder.”

Alessia nods along as if this is a significant conversation, and I could kiss her for how sweet she’s being to the boys.

Or not, with the whole she thinks she hates me thing.

“Hmm, I’m not sure if blue or green is better.”

“She’s a natural.” Tory somehow manages to edge her way close enough to whisper. “You should have her come over tonight and help you babysit.” She playfully gives my side a double jab with her elbow. “And after the kids go to bed, you can sort through wedding plans.”

I shake my head at her air quotes. “Dude. Stop.”

“Danny mentioned something about a theme. A movie, I think?” Grams knows the answer well and good. I griped about it at dinner the night Peggy first mentioned it. “Danger said he’d never seen it.”

“To be honest, I haven’t either. Which is surprising, considering I double majored in film. I’ve seen a ton of movies.”

That explains a lot. Also, I can’t believe I didn’t know this about her.

“It’s for rent on the Amazon,” Grams says, her addition of the tugging the corners of my mouth upward. “You and Dan should watch it together. For research.”

My family is going to be the death of me. How have I survived this far into adulthood without dying of mortification?

I sigh. After Maverick strongarmed Alessia into giving me her number last week, I shouldn’t be surprised at Grams employing the same skills today.

At this rate, I’m going to have to dig my man card out of the industrial shredder my family’s pushed it through and tape it together piece by painstaking piece.

It's Alessia’s turn to surprise me, though, when she blurts, “it’s not a bad idea.”

Alessia

I let a Stevens goad me again. How does this keep happening? I always thought I was made of stronger stuff. After all, I’ve been able to successfully resist Danger Stevens’s charms our entire lives.

Except for that one tiny crush when I was twelve.

Seventeen. Whatever.

Two, maybe three teensy blips on the radar of the nearly two decades we’ve known each other.

Yet here I am, standing on his front porch at seven-thirty on a Saturday when, according to Paige, I should be on a date. If she knew whose house I was at, to watch a second movie together in as many days, there would be no end to the guffaws and insinuations. Correction: accusations and arguments to support her claims my short-lived crush never died. Paige is a future lawyer, after all.

I raise my hand to knock but scream when a voice comes from my left.

“What are your intentions toward my brother?”

“Holy Batman, Victory,” I gasp, my heart thundering like a midsummer monsoon.

“Just Tory,” she says, reminding me so much of her brother’s Just Dan, I have to ask.

“Are you guys twins or what?” I nod toward the front door, then immediately want to butt my head against it. Totally stupid question since we would’ve been in school together too.

“Only of the Irish variety, according to Grams. He’s eleven months younger.”

That’s right. I vaguely remember Danger—Dan—having a sister in the grade above us.

Tory’s still talking. “Mave’s three years older than me, and Scout three above her. Perfectly spaced until our little whoopsie baby Danger.”

This family has the strangest names. Scout. Maverick. Victory. Danger. They remind me of those Old Testament women who saw their infant and gave them weird names saying, “he came out of my agony” or “God saw my frustration.”

I should say something instead of standing here awkwardly contemplating their names and birth order. My pathetic small talk skills have all but abandoned me as I stand outside the home of the guy I’ve spent most of my life loathing. With his sister. Waiting to go inside and watch a movie to help us plan a theme wedding for a pair of octogenarians.

Why couldn’t my brain have been in charge and said I had plans? It would’ve been so much easier to stream the movie at home in my pajamas with Audrey HepBun in my lap. I’m no night owl, as evidenced by my falling asleep in my chair last night while proving It’s a Wonderful Life is not a Christmas movie in hushed whispers.

At least tonight we can talk freely without the residents shushing us.

“Are you here to watch the movie too?”

She snorts. “Definitely not. Danny would never forgive me if I messed up his first date with the infamous Alley Cat.”

Her smirk kicks my pulse up a notch or ten. The second time one of his sisters has used the word infamous regarding me, which certainly suggests he’s mentioned me. But when? Why? What has he said? Also—

“It’s not a date.” My palms are damp, and I feel my face reddening.

For a second, I panic, thinking she might read the old crush I for sure never had inked across my face. But that’s silly. Not to mention impossible. Plus, if I did have one, it’s long gone. Like, sooooo long gone. Forever ago gone. Irrelevant.

Ahem.

I am not protesting too much, Mr. Shakespeare.

“Relax, girl. I’m only teasing. It’s what we do.” She clips my shoulder and twists the doorknob. “Anyway, I’m only here to grab Scout’s kids. They’ll have more fun sleeping over at Grandma’s house than Uncle Dan’s, you know?”

Grabbing my hand, Tory bypasses the entire concept of knocking and instead flings the door open. She drags me inside behind her, shouting, “WHO WANTS TO GO TO GRANDMA’S FOR COOKIES?”

A chorus of cheers erupts from somewhere to the right. My gaze travels the room, taking in the dark wood paneled walls and speckled brown shag carpet. It’s a weird contrast against the minimalist bookshelves (packed to the brim with books, of course) flanking the single window, sleek leather couch, and giant mounted flatscreen TV.

The space is a clash of styles that don’t fit the man I know.

Then again, I don’t really know him, know him, I suppose. But we’ve been acquainted for two-thirds of my life.

This is weird. I’m being weird.

Why did I agree to this?

I’m about to turn and leave when Danger’s—Dan’s? I can’t decide what to call him anymore—head pops out from around the corner. His whole countenance brightens when he spots me standing beside his sister. Though it could be relief over the rescue she’s providing. He steps fully through the doorway from what I’m assuming is the kitchen based on the apron he’s wearing with flour smudges across the front.

“You made it. Give me a sec to get cleaned up and I’ll send these monkeys off to Grandma’s circus.” He turns toward the other room making whooping noises same as my dad used to outside the Siamang enclosure whenever he took me to the Biopark Zoo.

Huh. I’d forgotten about that.

“C’mon,” Tory prods me to follow. “Let’s assess the damage.”

We step into a kitchen fresh off a 1970s television set. I’ve sat through enough episodes of Brady Bunch and All in the Family with Mrs. Donato in unit 1688 over the years to know this house fits right in.

“Pardon the mess,” he says, stacking bowls into the sink. “And, well, the whole house. It’s a time capsule and I haven’t had a chance to start the remodel yet.”

There’s insecurity in his eyes and tension in his smile, pricking me with guilt over being caught giving his home such a blatant onceover.

“It’s old, sure, but I see the potential.”

His mouth eases into a more natural smile, and my stomach flutters with an unsettling sensation—a reminder I forgot to grab dinner and nothing more. And of course, it growls like a mama bear guarding her cubs at the split second when everyone’s quietest.

The boys break into giggles, but I’m not sure whether it was my stomach or Tory wiping their flour-covered faces that set them off.

“We made cookies!”

A little girl around the same age as my youngest half-sister proudly hoists a plastic-wrapped plate of the most hideous, misshapen cookies I’ve ever seen. Globs of frosting make it impossible to identify whatever the cutout shapes were supposed to be, but I know better than to say so within hearing range.

“Wow! Did you have so much fun?”

She responds to my enthusiastic tone with a wide-eyed head bobble. “Uncle Dan let me make ‘em by myself! Well, he stirred when it got too hard ‘cause of all the flour, but then I got to roll ‘em and cut ‘em with no help!”

“I put them in the oven,” the man himself interjects.

“Well, duh,” the girl says, rolling her eyes.

I’m impressed and feel an immediate affinity for this child.

“Six-year-olds can’t do dang’rous things.”

“So true,” he nods sagely.

My cheeks ache from squashing my smile. This whole scene might cause me to burst from cuteness overload.

“Well, I hate to leave you with a mess, but…” Tory snorts. “Nope. Can’t lie. I have absolutely no problem leaving you with this mess. C’mon kids, tell Uncle Dan bye!”

“Bye, Unca Dan,” the twins say in unison.

“Thanks for the cookies,” Tory prompts.

“Tanks for cookies,” they echo, slipping into their jackets for the short walk across the street.

“Let’s go, little duckies! Fly! Fly!”

All three kids follow her out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the night with “Unca Dan” (so cute) and I trailing several steps behind. She boomerangs through the door to grab their bag (what’s it called when they don’t wear diapers anymore?) and shoots me a wink.

“Have fun, you two.”

My fight against a smile is completely lost by the time she races to the front of their makeshift line, wiggling her butt and flapping her wings while getting them to mimic her duck quacks.

Tory is awesome. If the Teacher of Tiny Humans T-shirt hadn’t given her away already, I’d still have her career pegged.

My host closes the door and flips the deadbolt. The action makes me feel better, strangely, because it’s a habit so deeply ingrained it’s unconscious. An odd action to notice, perhaps, but it’s something we have in common. I’ve never really looked for those between me and Danger Stevens. Dan. I’m trying.

His head tilts to the left as though he’s studying me studying him, and I feel too weird right now to do the smart thing and glance away.

“Sorry about her,” he says after a long pause.

“Oh, no. I kind of love her.” My laugh is awkward but honest.

“Yeah? I think she likes you, too. I know Mave does.”

“Mave is hilarious. They both remind me of my sister Paige.”

“How did I not know you have a sister?”

An automatic humph slips out. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know about her either until I was twelve.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-four.” I wait for him to do the math knowing he and I are the same age. If I remember correctly, I’m a month older.

He plops onto the couch and motions for me to do the same. Dropping onto the cushion farthest from him, I toe off my shoes and tuck one leg up under me. Hey, if we’re watching a movie, I’m going to be comfortable.

“Your folks split up when we were in mid-high, right?

“Yup.”

Hopefully, he’s as good a student as he was then and can read my desperate need for a subject change. My father’s allergy to monogamy isn’t exactly my favorite subject.

“Your dad?”

Before I formulate a response with the appropriate mix of emotions to cover my discomfort, he backtracks.

“Sorry. None of my business.”

Though I’ve only met his family twice, it’s clear they’re the living-in-each-other’s-pockets type. Getting in other people’s business is second nature. It’s no wonder he’s so naturally gregarious.

Huh.

I’ve never considered the possibility his easy charm might be a hereditary personality trait. Think, Alessia. Is he funny and friendly with everyone, not only women?

It’s possible. And now I know his family makeup is predominantly female, it’s only reasonable he’d relate to women easily. Ugh. Getting to know this whole other side to Danger Stevens is throwing me for a loop.

Girl, relax.

“It’s okay,” I say after an inordinately long time. “And yes, Paige is my father’s daughter. Well, one of them. We’ve lost count of how many half-siblings we have across the globe. Paige was the first one I learned about after my dad’s double life came to light, when discovering I had a sister was a dream come true.”

“That’s wild.”

“Tell me about it. He’s on wife number three and I expect another pregnancy announcement any day now.”

His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, Mom remarried about ten years ago and popped out three kids one after the other. The youngest is six. My folks married and had me right out of high school, so they’re still young. Ish.”

My stomach takes the moment he’s processing to emit the loudest, most ungodly noise possible. My face heats, and I’d love nothing more than to sink right through the floor into the center of the earth where no one will hear that sound ever again.

“Hungry?” He chuckles, so calm and casual I could deck him.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

Violent urges and sarcasm are familiar where Danger Stevens is concerned. For the first time since arriving on his front steps, I’m in my comfort zone.

“Come on, Als, let’s feed that creature before it bursts out of your belly and starts tap dancing on my counter.”

I can’t believe he’s seen Spaceballs. It’s a million years old, but the best movies are.

He glances over his shoulder as I’m standing there staring at him with my mouth half open and winks.

It’s as if he knows he’s throwing me completely off balance and allows me to regain my footing just long enough to sweep the leg like Johnny Lawrence in Karate Kid.

And for once, I don’t completely hate him for it.

Dan

“I can’t believe you made these from scratch,” Alessia groans, licking sauce from her fingers one by one.

“They’re nothing special,” I insist, but her compliments make me glad I went the extra mile. “Everything tastes better when you’re hungry.”

Balancing her paper plate on her lap, she reaches for another napkin from the stack on my coffee table, wiping her fingers before taking a sip of her water. She gives me a skeptical raised brow. “You battered and air-fried your own chicken tenders because they’re your niece and nephews’ favorite. That’s the very definition of special.”

She’s giving me compliments and refuting my attempt to minimize. Either aliens have come and done a body swap with Alessia, or my efforts to get her to see me differently are working.

Is it possible she’s softening toward me?

“Most people would grab a readymade bag from the freezer aisle and be done. But these?” She closes her eyes, touching all the tips of her fingers together in the air near her mouth. Not quite a chef’s kiss but similar. “Ottimo.”

Now and then I catch a glimpse of her Italian side, and it makes me smile, albeit with a heavy dose of envy. I’m a basic American mutt whose only hope of understanding my roots is to send in a spit tube to one of those online DNA genealogy places. Even so, I’d only know where my ancestors came from, not their culture and traditions. It’s hard not to be envious of people who have clear ties to their heritage of origin.

“Thank you,” she says, moving her empty plate to the coffee table before returning to her corner of the couch. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“No problem. Ready?” I waggle the remote. At her nod, I click through the menus and find Blue Hawaii. “You know, my watched list is long, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of Elvis’s.”

“After I watched Jailhouse Rock in one of my film classes, I binged a few others, but this is one I never got around to.”

Elvis croons through the opening title sequence as we talk.

“I didn’t know you double majored.”

She shrugs. “My Nonna came from Italy not knowing more than a handful of words in English. Someone told her a great way to learn was by watching movies. When she had my dad, she used the same tactic to teach him Italian. I grew up watching her favorite old movies from both countries. Never did become a fluent Italian speaker, but I did develop an appreciation for film.”

“Bet you saw your fair share of Fellini.”

Alessia’s smile catches me off guard. So free with everyone else, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her give me one that wasn’t full of snark or at my expense. It’s stunning.

“Of course. He’s not for everyone, but definitely classic.”

The movie opens with one of the sexiest convertibles I’ve ever seen. I’m no car guy—my knowledge of classic makes and models could fill a sticky note—but even I know a beauty when I see one.

“Gorgeous,” I say with a low whistle.

“She is,” Alessia nods.

I grin. “I meant the car.”

“So did I,” she grins back.

Is it me, or did she shift an inch or two closer?

Onscreen, the airplane door opens to Elvis kissing a woman passionately as his girlfriend watches in outrage.

“Jerk,” Alessia mutters, reclining toward the corner with crossed arms.

I wholeheartedly agree but say nothing. Until he tries to apologize with a song about being “almost always true” while overseas in the Army. It gets worse from there, with Elvis’s character teasing the woman he purports to love in one uncomfortable move after another. A little while later, the heroine loses her top in the water, and he doesn’t immediately return it.

“Is it me, or is this guy kind of a tool?”

“Thank you!” Alessia says emphatically, jutting her hand toward the screen. “Some misogyny is to be expected with this era, but ew. He’s not much of a hero.”