Page 16 of Santa's Wish
"Is that what you're wearing to dinner?" I asked. He was dressed in faded jeans with wear spots behind his knees.
"Dinner?"
"It's Monday. Did you forget about our date?"
"You asked what I wanted to do," he reminded me. "I suggested ordering a pizza."
"You did, but I already made reservations."
"Is this going to be one of those situations where you order dinner for me, too, and tell me what I can and can't eat?"
"You can eat whatever the fuck you want." I frowned at him. "Seriously, who are these people you've been dating?"
He scoffed. "No one, believe me."
"Let me indulge." I swept into the room and closed the door behind me. His eyes dilated even more when I invaded his space, forcing him a step back. "I haven't eaten a decent human meal in almost 200 years. I want to live vicariously through you."
"Me?" Boz squeaked. "I'm a picky eater."
I grinned. "Thought so, but you've liked everything I sent you." I checked the garbage after his deliveries. Every good landlord should. So far, he'd only thrownaway an extra-spicy batch of wonton soup from the Korean market down the street.
"You've been testing me." He took another step back. "All these food deliveries. Did I pass?"
"Tonight's the final test. Go put on your best suit, and I'll handle the rest."
He backed away from me, almost tripping over the corner of the couch before veering around it and running for his life. If I'd wanted to catch him, I could have, no problem.
He rustled around in his closet, probably thinking he was hurrying. "Where are we going?" he asked me.
"You'll see." I didn't want to spoil the moment.
Boz's suit was well tailored to fit him, but the cheap fabric worried me. In the blink of an eye, before he could finish asking the "How" in "How do I look?" I zipped down to my apartment and yanked a slipcover off a hanger from my tailor. The waxed paper triangle was stamped with their logo, address, and phone number.
" … Look?" Boz said as I rushed through the door.
I handed the information to him with a slight bow of apology.
"That good." Boz sounded defeated. "This suit's brand new, too. Colette's recommendation."
"I don't like how cheap fabric feels against my skin."
"You're not the one wearing it," he said.
"No, but I'm still touching it." I closed the gap between us, and this time, Boz didn't back away.
"Here," I took hold of his sleeve just above his wrist and held his arm out in a waltz pose. "And here." I rested my palm on his hip.
"Are we going dancing?" Boz's throat clicked as he swallowed.
"Depends on how well you like the food." I was surprised he picked it up so quickly. So few humans these days knew how to dance, really dance. I'd given up on them after the disco craze.
"We're going to Irena's?" he asked.
"You know of it?"
"Who doesn't?" He laughed. "My mom was just telling me I needed to find a girl and take her to Irena's. Russian cuisine and ballroom dancing. My mother was certain I could put my skills to some use."
"You dance?" I should have expected that. He was exceptionally light on his feet once he drank the awkwardness out of his gait.
