The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Sabrina

“ B race yourself.” I looked at my friend Katie Bartholomew decked out in her best ugly Christmas sweater. It prominently featured Santa Claus and Rudolph decorating cookies and had enough red and green tinsel to double as a radio antenna. My sweater had a light up Christmas tree that blinked obnoxiously, and if you pressed the button on my shoulder, it would play a meowing cat’s version of Jingle Bells .

Muffled sounds of Christmas carols and laughter punctuated by the squawk of a parrot filled the hallway. No one threw a party like my mom, especially not at Silver Palms.

“I survived the last three years. I’m a veteran now.” Katie jutted her chin at the doorknob, ready to get the party started. Her hands were laden with platters of cookies and diabetic friendly cupcakes she’d baked.

I juggled my tray of mini beef wellingtons and reached for Mom’s apartment door, stiffening my spine, ready for the onslaught of retiree holiday cheer. The mingled scents of cinnamon candles, roast turkey, and Bengay washed over us as we entered.

“Girls!” A crowd of well-wishers enveloped Katie and me. Only at Silver Palms would Katie and I qualify as girls.

My mom’s Christmas Eve party knew no bounds. She invited everyone from the community that didn’t have a family function to attend. From Jewish neighbors that had celebrated Hanukkah two weeks ago to sweet Mrs. Barns, whose family never came to visit their hundred-and-two-year-old matriarch since moving her to Silver Palms. It was an eclectic group that partied hard until about eight thirty.

Mr. Kramer spotted us as soon as we crossed the threshold. He kissed my cheek, wished me a merry Christmas, and took my tray of beef wellingtons to the buffet table so he’d be the first to have a taste. I thought about following to make sure he shared with everyone else. There had been an issue last year with baby lamb chop hoarding. Katie didn’t even get to set down her tray of cupcakes before a swarm of diabetics were stealing the low sugar treats.

“Best I’ve ever had. You must give the recipe to the chef here. He could learn a thing or two about low sugar baking from you, young lady,” a woman in a blue and white crystal spangled snowflake sweater that matched her walker told Katie. Although Katie was a well-known baker who specialized in wedding cakes for the rich and famous, she looked flattered by the lady’s praise.

“Merry Christmas, darling.” My mother swept me up in a hug, or as much of one as possible. Her sweater was festooned with a garland of Ping-pong ball sized Christmas ornaments. It was both hideous and gorgeous at the same time. She had wrapped her cane with red and white ribbon to look like a candy cane.

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” I’d been over yesterday evening to do a lot of the cooking for the party and hadn’t seen her yet today. “Great turn out.”

“Yes, the gang’s all here.” She turned and looked approvingly around the living room, dining room, and kitchen. “And a few new additions.” She pointed to the bar set up in the far corner.

Michael Steel must not have been told about the strict ugly holiday sweater dress code because he’d received my mother’s special punishment of a homemade ugly sweater. He was shirtless but for a pair of large red foil bows, the kind that went on top of a present, over his nipples. A sort of holiday bikini. And on his head was an enormous Santa hat with a bell on the end. I snort laughed.

“Mom, what did you do to him?”

“And where’s mine?” Katie floated an air kiss over my mom’s cheek in greeting, not daring to get closer lest their sweaters tangle up. “That man is delicious. Sabrina, please tell me that is the security guy you told me all about on the drive up here?”

“I may have forgotten to tell my bartender about the dress code.” Mom wiggled her eyebrows to make it clear she’d planned the outfit in advance. She better have warned the Silver Palms ladies to bring their heart medication. Shirtless Michael could raise a woman’s blood pressure.

“Yes, that’s Michael. Poor man did not know what he was in for. I tried to warn him,” I told Katie.

“He’s a big boy. He can handle it. You girls should go get your drinks.” She winked and shoved us in Michael’s direction.

“Sabrina,” Katie grabbed my arm, “You said good looking. You were underselling. He’s prime beefcake.”

Michael looked good. Really good. Like I wanted to go rip one of the bows off his nipples and replace it with my tongue good. Who knew horny and midlife went together like peanut butter and jelly?

We’d had some flirty text exchanges and a few phone conversations over the last few days, but our schedules had been too far out of sync for more. I was running on restaurant time, going to bed late and sleeping in as long as I dared before heading to Viande to check on George and his crew. Michael and the football player were on some crazy workout schedule that had them jogging on the beach at dawn.

But the few times we had connected, the spark between us had been hot as ever. Michael had been more willing to talk about himself. I could tell he wasn’t used to opening up. I attempted to ask questions that would draw out the stories. It wasn’t often a man listened to a woman’s complaints and made an honest effort to change.

Over the phone, he’d launch into a tale about his childhood or college years out of nowhere. The tentative way he spoke about himself was startling. Most people never shut up about themselves. His reticence made me wonder about Michael’s self-image and if it might need improving.

I stuttered to a stop in front of the bar and our gazes locked. It had only been a few days since we’d seen each other, but I’d missed him. The way his eyes took in every detail of my appearance made me think he felt the same. My skin flushed and I knew it wasn’t a hot flash.

In movies, there is that scene where the two lead characters look at each other and time stops. This was our moment. For the life of me I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to drink in the sight of him. His dark blue eyes, the glint of gray in the short dark hair on his head. The flex of his naked shoulders and the unexpected fullness of his lips. Exactly as I remembered him and better than ever.

Katie coughed delicately and elbowed me in the side. Time jolted back to normal speed and a blush heated my cheeks. Michael gave his head a small shake like he was clearing away a daze.

“Is it a little chilly in here or is it me?” Michael asked me and Katie, rubbing his bare arms with his hands. Of course, he made a joke about his missing shirt.

I was mortified. Katie giggled.

“I’m sorry for this.” I waved at the bows clinging to his chest.

“Nah, I’ve made twenty bucks in tips already.” He chuckled good-naturedly and pointed to a jar with cash rolled up inside, perched on the corner of the bar.

“You’re sure it’s alright?”

Before he answered, Ms. Fieldman scooted between us to thank him for her drink with a sexy smile. He replied with a wink and a knowing look.

I ignored the tiny stab of jealousy that his flirting with an eighty-year-old spawned and decided he didn’t miss his shirt at all.

Katie prodded me with her elbow again. Right, introductions.

“Michael, this is Katie, my good friend. And the world’s most amazing pastry chef. She’s going to come work with me at Viande when we open.”

“Nice to meet you.” Michael gave her a fist bump over the expanse of the bar. “She’s the Katie you called before Cuba, right?”

“Yep, she’s my bestie.” Katie and I shared a smile.

“Thanks for keeping her safe through all that.” Katie’s voice had turned serious, and Michael nodded solemnly in reply. I told Katie everything that had happened with Sandoval, from the catering job on the Jabberwocky to fleeing Cuba on the go-fast boats.

“It was a privilege.” Michael held my gaze as he said the words, and a trail of goosebumps rushed over my skin. His sincerity was one of the best seduction moves of all time.

“Enough of that. It’s Christmas Eve,” I plucked at the front of my blinged out sweater to wave cool air over my hot skin. “I’d like to try one of your infamous Cranberry Margaritas. Quinn said they are deadly.”

“Anything for you, Siren.”

And bam! My ovaries went up in flames. How early could he and I duck out? Oh yes, I’d planned ahead, catching a ride with Katie so I’d be free to leave with Michael and not worry about a car. Minerva didn’t raise a fool.

Michael got to work crafting the cocktail. I watched him work, impressed by how comfortable he was behind the bar. He mixed, poured, and measured like a pro.

“And, for you, Katie?” he asked as he threaded an orange wedge on the rim of my glass and offered me the cocktail with a flourish.

“I’m a designated driver.” She frowned, declining a cocktail.

“Never fear. I have the non-alcoholic sparkling cider and cranberry mimosa for the festive non-drinkers.” He mixed the mocktail in a crystal flute. Mom would never use plastic at one of her parties.

I took a sip of his signature drink; it was delicious. “I’m impressed. Your bartending credentials are impressive.”

“I have it on good authority a man needs to offer more than muscles and a big dick.”

Katie choked on her drink. I shot Michael a look of astonishment that he’d tossed my words back at me. The spicy banter was totally unexpected.

“You alright?” I patted Katie on the back.

“I’m going to leave you two alone… for a bit. Thanks for the drink, Michael.” Katie, still red-faced, melted into the crowd. I was sure she was on her way to tell my mother everything.

“I don’t think I said big.” I tore the flesh from my orange slice with an aggressive chomp.

“Meh, that’s how I remember it.” The playful smile and twinkle in his eyes made him that much better looking.

“Oh, my God. You’re bad.” I tossed the orange peel at him, and he caught it.

“You like it.”

I did.

He cocked his head and looked at me. Something shining from his eyes that made my heartbeat speed up. A flush of something bigger than attraction and more powerful than lust washed over me.

“I missed you.” The words weren’t exactly what I wanted to say, but blurting out something like I’m falling for you in the middle of my mom’s holiday party would have been too much.

“I missed you too.” His sincerity and implied sentiment matched mine.

The party ebbed and flowed. Michael escaped from behind the bar when I forced Mr. Kramer to take his place as a punishment for hoarding cocktail shrimp. We mingled with partygoers, the ladies patting Michael’s biceps appreciatively, the men telling me the same stories of their glory days that they’d told me in the past. Katie and he lamented the lackluster performance of the Miami Heat so far this season.

Then it happened. Someone, I’m assuming Mom, played the song: Domnic the Donkey . The world’s most annoying holiday classic, especially when a certain parrot has learned to sign/screech the heehaw refrain.

I grabbed Michael’s arm as soon as the distinctive first bars of the song filled Mom’s apartment. “I’m going to apologize in advance for the vocal styling of the murder chicken.”

“It sings?”

“I wouldn’t call it singing.”

Captain Morgan’s first round of braying was enough to bring the party to a halt. Every eye trained on the bird, and he preened, weaving back and forth as Lou Monte sang about Christmas in Italy. The parrot’s performance was a highlight of the party every year.

“Why?” Michael’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“Mom’s second husband, Vito Colasanti, loved this song and played it fifty times a day in his repair shop until the Captain learned the refrain.”

Michael shook his head. I put an arm around his waist and encouraged him to sway with the music like the rest of the guests. As much as I hated this song, no Christmas Eve would be complete without it.

The bird outdid himself this round, fluffing his feathers out and tipping his head back to give full throat to the heehaws. The guests applauded. Yes, a room full of septuagenarians were clapping for a bird imitating a donkey.

The party guests, now totally swept up in the moment, sang along with the chorus. Captain Morgan loved it. His wings flapped, and he bobbed up and down, a parrot high on the Christmas spirit. People in the lobby of Silver Palms could probably hear his heehaw finale.

Michael was speechless.

“Other people do advent calendars and secret Santa. We do that.” I shrugged, hiding my smile behind my third Cranberry Margarita.

“I’m not sure I can even explain what happened here without triggering myself. Will it happen again next year?”

“It’s a tradition.”