The Mistletoe Motive(19)

I sip my hot cocoa and avoid his eyes. “Oh, a little bit of this. A little bit of that…”

Eli slows to a stop on the sidewalk. “Gabriella Sofia Di Natale, what have you done?”

“I might have advertised that our guest reader is a well-loved local child therapist, and that his book, Color My Feelings, was a featured title today in the bookstore, and that perhaps, possibly, he’d sign purchased copies, and sugar cookies are involved—don’t worry I have baby wipes, but that’s why I made you bring a change of clothes, just in case—I’m sorry, I know I’m the worst friend ever.” I gasp for air after spewing that in one long guilt-soaked exhale.

Eli stares at me. “You’re foisting on me not only sugared-up children, but parents who think I’m a walking free therapeutic consult on my day off.”

“I promise Jonathan will kick out anyone who’s a jerk. After I make them apologize and buy three copies of your book. Zero tolerance for assholery.”

Eli glares at me.

I stick out my bottom lip and give him big sad puppy eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m desperate.”

Sighing, he hooks arms with me and resumes our walk down the sidewalk. “I forgive you, but only if you return the favor.”

“Anything,” I tell him, foolishly.

He smiles at me, batting long auburn eyelashes, “Come with me to Luke’s hockey game tonight.”

“Tonight?” I whine. “It’ll be so late. And so cold.”

“You love the cold.”

“I love the snow,” I correct him.

Eli lifts an eyebrow. “Did you forget the part where you sold me out to boost your sales, then promised to make it up to me?”

“Uh. Maybe?”

“Gabby. I need moral support. Luke’s been so bummed that I can never make any of his games, but I’ve been secretly relieved work gets in the way, because I don’t know anything about hockey. I need you to teach me the basics so I don’t make an ass of myself.”

“El, he doesn’t expect you to do a post-game breakdown.”

“I know, but I want him to feel like he can talk to me about it and I’ll understand why it was a good game or it wasn’t, why he played well or struggled. I want to get it.”

I wiggle my eyebrows as we stop outside the bookshop. “Wow. This is serious. Elijah Goldberg wants to learn a sport for his boyfriend.”

“Exactly,” he says, opening the door, then gently shoving me past it. “So come with me tonight and you’re forgiven for everything I’m about to endure. I’ll drive. You’ll DJ a sick holiday playlist for the ride. I’ll buy you hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. You’ll explain the game to me. It’s a plan.”

“If I can stay awake through the game,” I grumble.

“Like that would matter,” he says. “You could explain it in your sleep.”

“You try having a dad who’s in the Hockey Hall of Fame and see if you come out unscathed. I mutter Stanley Cup stats when I’m in REM. Do you understand how disturbing that is?”

“Woah—” Eli wraps his hand around my arm, bringing us to a stop. “Is that him?”

I glance toward the back of the store, where Jonathan stands, facing away and restocking a fresh batch of mysteries he sold out of yesterday. Except this time, he’s placing them on the shelves right at eye level.

“That motherfucker,” I hiss, storming toward him and dragging Eli with me. “He moved my small-town Alaskan romance!”

“So that is him,” Eli whispers. “Holy shit, Gabby.”

“Shut up. Don’t even say it.”

“He’s so hot.”

I throw Eli a death glare. “What would Luke say?”

“Luke would say I have eyeballs. I said he’s hot, not that I want to bang him.”

“Good. Because I’ll be doing the banging—of his head into a wall,” I mutter.

Hearing us, Jonathan glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at Eli before they snap back my way. “Miss Di Natale.”

“You moved my romances.”

He arches a dark eyebrow. “It’s fine. I’ll introduce myself.” Extending a hand toward Eli, he says, “Jonathan Frost.”

“Elijah Goldberg.” Eli smiles up at Jonathan, a definite twinkle in his eye. I step on his toe, making him wince. “Damn, Gabby.”

“Ah, so she’s this angelic with everyone,” Jonathan says.

Eli laughs. I scowl. Jonathan smirks. If I had magical powers, I’d send the garland-strewn candelabra overhead crashing down on him.

“So, Gabriella,” Jonathan says, “I didn’t know this was Bring Your Friend to Work Day.”

“It isn’t. It’s Bring Your Roommate-the-pediatric-therapist-and-published-children’s-author-for-a-story-time-and-marathon-book-signing Day,” I tell him on a wide, triumphant smile.

“Roommate,” Jonathan repeats. His jaw does that aggravated ticking thing. He’s white-knuckling the mysteries he clutches in both hands.

Eli wraps an arm around my waist and smiles over at me. “We’re best friends, too. Since she was a lowly freshman who made a pass at my fine senior ass.”

“Did not! Saying I couldn’t find the library was not a pickup line!”