Page 46 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“Are there any objections to?—”
“Oh, shit! I forgot!” She slapped her hand over her forehead and fumbled around in her pocket for her phone.
“What?”
She opened up her calendar and groaned. “My last catering gig is tonight, but I told someone I’d cover their earlier shift, which is right before mine. They’d done a favor for me a few weeks ago, and it totally slipped my mind that I was pulling a double tonight.”
He tried to conceal his disappointment. “Oh.”
“I won’t get home until around eleven. It’s the last one I’m taking before Christmas, though. After that, I’m free to work on the treats for the Ball.”
He took out her hat and adjusted it on her head, trying to ignore the flutters of frustration knocking around his stomach. “Text me when you get home tonight.”
“But it’ll be late.”
“Just promise me.”
She blinked. “All right. I promise. I’ll text you the moment I walk in the door.”
He nodded, then stole a quick, searing kiss before he winked at her, grabbed Hugh, and led them out of the woods, where they could still pretend to be a proper couple for both their sakes.
And so no one could blame him if he picked up where he left off: regarding her with a bit more affection than was strictly necessary.
For the benefit of the bit.
Chapter 19
It was almost midnight by the time Marisa finally plopped her exhausted ass into bed, though not before creeping around her living room like a teenager who was afraid of getting caught out after curfew.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of getting caught, per se, but more so shamed.
By her once again neglected menorah.
It was the fourth night of Hanukkah, and there she was, thirty years old, coming home from a double shift and speed walking in the dark past the only relic of her own damn holiday that, despite the inanimateness of the menorah’s silver-pedigreed existence, seemed to judge her more than her family. For a microsecond, she thought about making a cup of Earl Grey tea and lighting the candles just to show some belated form of solidarity, that she hadn’t forgotten about Hanukkah entirely, that she was, hand to God, still Jewish—though perhaps with a bit more emphasis on the ish part. But she just didn’t have it in her to fight sleep long enough for the things to burn down on their own.
Maybe she could plug in a night-light in the outlet next to the mantle? Would that qualify enough to be considered conciliatory?
Likely not.
In the end, bed won out, which sucked on multiple fronts because, up until then, she’d been relying on her supreme exhaustion to keep Alec and the events of the morning from her mind and focus on what she was being paid to do. However, once she was finally alone with her racing thoughts, there was nothing to prevent her from simply plugging her phone into the charger, opening up her texts, and typing out the bare minimum of a message.
Except it was late. Like, so so so late. Nearly-the-next-day kind of late. And bothering someone during what she considered emergency hours with a nonurgent thumbs-up emoji was the epitome of rude in her book.
But he was expecting to hear from her.
Her thumbs, locking up with indecision, hovered above the keys, while she took out the sweet memory of Alec’s departing kiss and replayed that reel for the umpteenth time.
The smoky, scratchy insistence in his voice when he demanded she text him after she got home.
The way her skin prickled beneath his regard, which had nothing to do with the snow or cold.
The entire lungfuls of breath he’d stolen when he’d snuggly tucked her back into her hat and thieved a kiss, which all happened right before her nerves said to hell with ground rules and she almost started shimmying up and down his body like Santa short on time and long on chimneys.
“Fuck a giant Christmas duck. What the hell am I doing?” Marisa fell back onto her pillow, flung her arm over her eyes, and waited. And waited. And waited for the excuses to come, for the reasons why she shouldn’t do what she wanted, what he’d freaking asked of her, and just text him.
And they were there, the reasons. There was the whole he’s not your real boyfriend one, followed by the he’s leaving after the holidays one, and rounded out by the ever-popular besides, wherever he winds up, it’ll be on a literal other continent, and whatever you might think of Phoebe, you can’t fault her for her reasoning on long-distance relationships and wanting to settle down when Alec couldn’t.
Plus, your passport’s expired. And you hate flying.
