Christmas Kisses

9. Angel

9

ANGEL

E ventually, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.

I should have remembered my father’s favorite saying before executing my ruse. Nothing good comes from an attempt at revenge. I was too angry at another one of Mrs. Richler’s scheming tactics to remove me from the tenant ledger that I took it out on Christian instead of her.

She will get her just desserts. It won’t be in the form of several abdominal cramps, though. I called the reception desk earlier to tell the concierge not to pick up the supplies I repackaged early this morning when Christian only consumed half the dish before racing for the bathroom.

I barely survived a finger lick. I don’t see Mrs. Richler being as lucky. She is as old as dirt and just as flakey, but I don’t want to kill her. Murder won’t look good on my resume. It is barely a step above “Broadway Star.”

I blow a wayward hair off my ashen face before slowly rising to a standing position. I couldn’t garner the strength to make my call out of bed. That’s how exhausted my muscles are from the endless cramps and spasms of the lower half of my body. I struggled to walk to my room.

Thank god Christian accepted the wave of my invisible white flag, or I may have camped out in the tub as he had for the prior four hours.

Remembrance of how he came to my aid early this morning should lower my suspicions when I enter the kitchen and watch him serve an oversized omelet on a paper plate.

When he senses my presence, his eyes drop to my bare legs before they shoot up to my face. I’m showing as much skin as him, but we’ve gone tops for tails. He’s naked from the waist up. Whereas I’m wearing a shirt minus the shorts I lost somewhere between flopping off the toilet and climbing into the bathtub.

“Morning.”

I remind my heart that he’s the enemy before returning his greeting. “Hi.”

As I plop my backside onto one of the stools I salvaged from the skip bin when the apartment beside mine was renovated, I peer out the window to validate his greeting.

The sun is high, but not high enough to correct him. Instead, I act like I’m not mentally packing his bags. “I’m glad you skipped the ‘good’ part of your greeting.”

His laugh is as sexy as his panty-wetting body. “It was a close call.” He places down a takeaway cup of coffee in front of me before winking. “I wouldn’t have issued anything but a grunt if I didn’t have a handful of them in my system.” He nudges his head to a half-consumed coffee next to mine during the “them” part of his statement.

I love coffee. So much so that I almost fall for his trick. Instead, I wait for him to turn his back to me before drizzling a quarter of my coffee into his almost fully consumed one.

When he twists back to face me, you can’t miss the trail of coffee from my mug to his, but he says nothing. He smirks as if amused before flopping a second omelet onto a paper plate.

I’m envious when he spears a plastic fork into the eggy goodness before he washes it down with a large gulp of caffeine. I am starving and severely dehydrated, but not enough to spend the rest of the day in the bathroom. So, instead of enjoying the breakfast treats he reheated for us, I watch him eat them.

“Not hungry?” Christian asks, still consuming.

I shake my head, preferring to lie without words.

He scoffs, discrediting my lie with as many words as I used to deliver it.

I hate how easily he reads me.

I get snappy when railroaded.

“I’ll eat… after showing you out.”

“Out?” he asks, speaking through a mouthful of crumbs. He didn’t just order omelets from the number-one restaurant in town. He also got a fresh batch of scones and a carton of crumbly cookies from my favorite baker.

My wish to devour my weight in carbs is heard in my reply. “Out of my apartment.”

Another bite before he says, “Are we going somewhere?” He emphasizes “we” with the same claiming authority I did when I said “my.”

“Not us. You. ” The hem of my shirt creeps up high when I fold my arms over my chest. “I know about your...”—I take a moment to consider a word that won’t place me on the same level as him. When I cannot come up with anything, I go with honesty—“ploy. I overheard you and Mrs. Richler speaking in the living room. The air vents in this apartment are the equivalent of wireless walkie-talkies.”

He smirks.

What the?

“How is anything I said funny?”

“I’m not laughing at you. It is acknowledgment as to why you camped in the hallway all night. I thought it was because you cared.”

“As if.”

I am the worst liar in the world. I camped outside the bathroom because I felt horrible when I received a text from Aarav Deepak. He only arrived at his restaurant after my order had been delivered and partially consumed. The new chef was not aware of the powers of the capsaicin chemical. He used it excessively in the dishes I ordered.

His mistake could have killed us—literally.

The remembrance lowers my attitude to manageable. “I found a hideout as far away from the vents as possible.” I lower his smirk by adding, “The noises barreling through them were horrific.”

I can barely hear his reply through a second stint of laughter. “Hence my earlier chuckles.”

Although I shouldn’t, I take a moment to relish his mannish laugh before slipping off the stool and heading for the entryway.

I’ve only just opened the door when Christian pops his shoulder onto the framework separating the kitchen from the living area.

He looks so comfortable in my space that I have to add words to my nonverbal reply for him to leave. “On your bike.”

He angles his head to the side like a disobedient dog about to get smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. “I lied… but that isn’t enough cause for an eviction notice. I figured you’d know that better than anyone.”

He looks so smug that it is only fair I knock him down a peg or two. “I don’t need to give you an eviction notice.”

“Yeah, you do,” he interrupts, his cockiness increasing. “Not only am I a paying guest, but I also have your verbal agreement to stay here until another placement becomes available.”

Paying guest? What does he mean he is a paying guest? I haven’t received a dime from him.

Like the stars aligning in the wrong manner, my phone dings twice, announcing two new messages. When I yank it out of my bra strap, I read the first message about a payment notification from my bank account.

Trust Bank:

You’ve been paid $2,327 that transferred into your account ending in 7195.

The second is a message from Airbnb merchant services.

Airbnb Services:

New booking confirmed. Christian arrives Dec. 22 and leaves Jan. 2.

As my jaw spasms, I open the app for Airbnb Hosts and reply to the inbox message at the top of the screen.

Me to Christian:

Hi there! Thank you for your interest in my Airbnb. Unfortunately, I need to decline due to the “no asshole policy” not being agreed upon in your booking request. The best Airbnb experiences for both parties are found when a host’s House Guidelines are fully read and understood prior to booking. Sorry things didn’t work out, but best of luck finding the perfect Airbnb for your needs! –Angel. PS. I was never going to fall in love with you anyway.

Christian’s cheeks lift when his phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. He knows what is coming even without reading my message.

As he pushes off his feet, his abs moving in sync with his strides, he says, “Refunding my payment won’t work. We have a verbal agreement.”

“That was made before I knew of your plans to force me from my home.”

He appears remorseful. His words aren’t. “Timing doesn’t matter. An agreement is an agreement.”

“You can’t stay here.” My voice is as high as my disbelief.

“I can,” he repeats. “And I am.” He nudges his head to the kitchen. “So how about we eat while our food is still hot before working out how we can get back your belongings so we can occasionally cook. I can’t survive on takeout alone for the next two weeks.”

His pledge of assistance excites me before I remember it is all a part of his plan.

Then I call the police.