An Ex for Christmas(16)

Well, then. That’s sexy.

His eyes lock on mine just for a second as he touches my face, then he pulls his hand back.

“You can put your gloves back on now.”

I take a deep breath. Right.

Mark disappears once more beneath the tree, and after verifying that Rigby’s out of the way of the falling tree, he quickly cuts through the last bit of the trunk.

I push as instructed, and a second later the tree drops softly to the ground.

I extend a hand to help him up, and he lifts his eyebrows at the offer. “You realize I’d be pulling you down rather than you pulling me up.”

My hand shifts until I’m giving him the middle finger, though I doubt he can tell with the gloves on. “I’m trying to be nice. Also, is it just me, or would that entire process have gone a lot faster without me?”

“Probably,” he admits with a grin, pushing to his feet without my help.

I extend my arms to the side so he has to take in the fact that I’m now completely covered in mud on one side. “I’m a mess.”

He looks pointedly down at himself. “So am I.”

“Yes, but—”

I break off, realizing that I’m about to give away the real reason I’d wanted to cut down the tree today as opposed to waiting until tomorrow, when it’s less crowded and when Mr. Gavelroy gives a discount on weekday trees.

“But . . .” Mark lets the saw swing from one finger and leans forward slightly.

I cross my arms. “Nothing.”

He smiles. “Bullshit.”

“What—”

“That was Joey Russo helping the Culvers attach a tree to the roof of their car, wasn’t it?”

Damn. “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh.” Mark gives the saw a little swing. “And you used to date him, right?”

“For a few months, junior year.”

He shakes his head. “I could have saved you the trouble. That’s not the ex who you missed out on keeping around.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he comes into the restaurant once a month and insists on slathering my ribeye with ketchup,” Mark snaps, moving toward the base of the downed tree and motioning for me to move toward the top.

I do as instructed. “Okay, so he doesn’t have great taste in food. But—”

Mark gives me a look as though to say this should be good.

I try to think of a defense for Joey, but I don’t really have one. Not only is Mark prickly about anyone “adjusting” his dishes with anything more than basic salt and pepper preferences, but he’s got a point. The steak at his restaurant is perfect as is, with delicious butter flavored with delicate herbs and just the right amount of red pepper flakes. Ketchup would ruin it.

He picks up the base of the trunk, and I reach down, fiddling with the branches until I can find a spot on the trunk that’s sturdy enough so I won’t risk snapping the top.

Together we hoist the tree to carrying position, and Mark whistles for the dog, who comes bounding through the bushes.

I groan when I see Rigby. His holiday sweater is now totally covered in brown mud. “Oh, baby. You’re a mess.”

“Sort of like his mom.”

I glare at Mark as I begin to walk backward. “If you knew I was here to see Joey, why’d you let me get all dirty?” I grumble.

Mark’s grin is all the answer I need.

He’d made me get dirty because I’d be seeing Joey Russo.

Saboteur!

“Oh well,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately light and breezy. “A little mud won’t matter much if I can get him into the gift shop.”

Mark gives me a sharp look. “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t you see it when we passed?” I ask innocently. “Big old piece of mistletoe right over the door. Couldn’t be more perfect for my mistletoe test.”

Mark’s grin vanishes completely, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why that pleases me so much.





December 17, Sunday Afternoon


So, Joey doesn’t even recognize me.

I can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or not. I mean, I wasn’t the hottest girl in high school, but I wasn’t a complete train wreck either.

So either I’ve improved so much since then that he was like, “Damn, who’s this babe talking to me?” or I’ve deteriorated so much that he’s like, “Why’s this hag wasting my time?”

But here’s the kicker: I live in a small town, remember? It’s not like Joey and I have stayed besties or anything, but I just saw him a few months ago at his uncle’s retirement party.

And we talked.

Either he’s forgotten me since then or he didn’t remember who I was when we discussed the merits of bratwursts versus regular ballpark dogs.

You know what? I’m overthinking this. I’m going to just go forth as though I’m getting a glorious fresh start, a chance to put my best foot forward.

And lure him beneath the mistletoe.

“Oh right, Kelly. Hey,” he says, already looking bored with the conversation.

Hmm, this won’t do.

Maybe he’s more of a touch guy and needs a tangible reminder of, oh, say the time I let him get to second base after junior year homecoming.