Page 43 of Not Home Alone

“Thank you! Happy holidays, Gretchen,” Merrily says, with all of the holiday cheer she reserves for everyone but me.

All of a sudden, Gretchen holds her hands up, halting us. “Ope! Stop right there and give each other a kiss!” She grins, pointing above our heads.

I don’t have to look up to know there’s mistletoe.

“Aww, what do ya know?” Merrily says. “That is so cute, but Grant is really shy. He’s opposed to public displays of affection as well as holiday traditions in general. Isn’t that right, babe?”

I see what this is. She’s afraid her knees will give out in public if I kiss her here. I don’t blame her. Except there are at least twenty people watching us. Covering their mouths and leaning in to chat with each other. Isn’t that Merrily Tucker? they’re whispering. What’s she doing with that rich dickhead who humiliated her?

This is what she’s doing with me, folks… “Not exactly right, Babycakes. I’ll do anything for you.”

I turn her to me, cup her face with both hands. This is the least romantic setting I have ever kissed anyone in, but I am going to kiss this woman until everyone in this restaurant forgets what I did ten years ago.

Merrily’s breath hitches as I lower my mouth to hers. Her lips part in surprise, and I can feel her entire being tense up and then relax within two seconds. She grips the lapels of my coat, and I can’t hear her little moan so much as I can feel it.

Her lips remain parted, a warm invitation that feels real and slightly terrifying, just like the woman herself.

This was my chance to totally melt her. To win. But I’ve already made the mistake of losing a little bit of control.

My tongue sweeps inside her open mouth in the most family-friendly way possible. And when she receives it, and counters by slowly probing with her own tongue, I forget why I’m doing this. To convince other people. To mess with her. She tastes like apples and peppermint and another decade’s worth of regret.

I start to pull away, but her hands slide up behind my neck, prolonging my agony.

I can feel her lips tightening into an evil grin.

She’s doing this on purpose.

I see how it is. Well, if that’s how she’s going to play it… I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her in tighter. There is nothing sexy about the puffy coat she’s wearing, but her pillowy lips are a different matter. They are soft and welcoming, and they are taunting me as much as the sharp words that usually expel from them.

Why isn’t she swooning?

Why is she still so steady on her feet?

There is hooting and hollering from diners. The polka bandleader says into his mic, “Hey now! That’s what I call oom-pah-passion! When I say oom, you say pah. Oom!”

A room full of diners shout out “Pahhh!”

“Maybe get a room-pah, huh?” he says. And then they get back to their song as if nothing happened.

She’s starting to nibble on my lower lip and, god dammit, I gotta tap out. I pull away first, holding onto her arm in case she stumbles into me.

She doesn’t. She pulls me down so she can say into my ear, “I win!” She actually said that.

Congratulations, sweetheart, my semi and I concede that round.

“Well, that was a very affectionate public display, indeed!” Gretchen says. “We’re pretty full tonight. Are you okay sitting at a communal table?”

“Perfect,” I say. Bring it. Normally, I would rather starve to death than eat at a table with total strangers, but this is exactly what tonight is all about. Pretending to be down to earth—I mean—showing everyone how down to earth I am.

Gretchen leads us over to the end of one of the communal tables with the only two available chairs. That is unfortunate since there are only people to the right of us, which means fewer citizens to win over, which was the whole point of this outing. Merrily waves and introduces herself to the family we’re being seated next to. It turns out they’re tourists from Nebraska. That is extremely disappointing. Nothing against Nebraska, but charming them isn’t going to do anything for The Moody Group. I offer them a nod and a stiff wave.

We remove our coats as Gretchen places menus on the table in front of us. When she sees our matching sweatshirts, she slaps her cheeks with her hands and squeals. “What are you two wearing? That is so darn cute!”

“Grant had them made,” Merrily says, loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Isn’t that so sweet?”

“That is just too cute,” Gretchen says.

With a quick scan of the room, I’m able to confirm that there are, in fact, zero patrons wearing ugly Christmas sweaters tonight. Aside from the polka band members. And us. So that’s fun.