Page 9 of The Hanukkah Hoax
And he would have let it go, if not for the brush of Ms. Silver’s starchy uniform against his suit coat as she took a step closer to him.
“Yup,” she said. “This is, uh, Alec. My boyfriend.” She’d said the word boyfriend with an exhausting accusation that was part incredulity and part relief.
None of which Phoebe cared for or bought, judging by the unnatural arch of that damn left eyebrow she’d always leveled at him when she was about to call him on his bullshit.
“And I love Christmas, as she said,” Alec added, moving closer to Ms. Silver—crap, what the hell was her first name?—and farther away from Phoebe, who he’d not yet dared look in the eye.
“Hold on,” Arthur said, putting his palms out and bringing them to his head as if in the throes of prophecy. “What if Alec came to the Christmas Ball as a special guest and was willing to sign a few autographs? It would be a huge draw for the event, having a local sports celebrity in attendance. You know how Jersey’s always getting New York’s leftovers when it comes to holiday festivals. Well, now we would have our own headliner! We could promote it in our marketing, and I can see if any of my sports buddies in the city would be interested in sponsoring, given the rugby angle.”
Alec couldn’t be sure, having not died and checked out the Pearly Gates himself, but Monica’s excited gasp may have been the closest sound to a full-on angel chorus. “That is such a marvelous idea, love! Oh, there is just so much I can work with there.”
She curled her long fingers into a dainty fist beneath her chin and eyed Alec like a bird whose hide was worth more than his plumage. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened, but given the way this woman seemed to work men to her advantage, it seemed wise to harbor a bit of both.
Then a wall of yellow consumed his periphery as Phoebe literally and figuratively moved into position. “Not that I don’t applaud your ingenuity, Mr. Doley, or your many talents at turning the mundane into marvels, Ms. Freeland,” Phoebe finally said, though it was clear her words were directed at anyone but the two. “But I worry that, despite a few enthusiastic pockets of interest, rugby might not hold the draw of other professional sports. Especially in Jersey, I’d argue that very few even know how to play the game, let alone what a team looks like and who to cheer for.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Monica trilled, her voice like that of an alluring siren. “It is my profound experience that people will get excited about what I convince them to. Besides, celebrities are only as big as their following, and I am an expert at curating such followings. Don’t worry, Mr. Elms. By the time I’m done with the preparations, you’ll be the first and last name on everyone’s lips when they leave the Crystal Christmas Ball.” Then she took a careful sip of her champagne, and Alec could have sworn to every god his Pictish ancestors had once prayed to that this woman could convince volcanoes to erupt at her command with no more than a smile.
Truly frightening, that.
“You know, another idea just came to me,” Monica added before indulging in more champagne. “There are few things people love more than a good celebrity to idolize, except for the one thing that always gets people through the door and dropping cash.”
“What-what’s that?” The squeak at Alec’s elbow was a bit closer than its owner had been before, a comforting sign that his accomplice was warming to the role, a partnership he was coming to require more and more, given the stakes.
“Competition.” Monica smiled. “I think it would be wonderful to have both of your businesses provide confections to serve at the Ball. Whoever can draw the largest crowds will receive equally large sales numbers, I imagine. Plus, the winner will have my professional and personal regards.” The champagne hit her lips again and punctuated the implications of her statement as the luxurious wine slid, bubbles and all, in a dramatic glide down her throat. Then Arthur took the empty flute from her, and she smiled.
“I don’t know if you know this, ladies, but I do have somewhat of a reputation in West Meadow. My philanthropic endeavors over the years, along with holding several seats on various local boards and councils, have allowed me to curate a rather exclusive list of vendors I have come to recommend highly. And if the townspeople of West Meadow happen to declare their new favorite candy purveyor at the Crystal Christmas Ball in front of unprecedented crowds, well, how could I not add a business that has garnered such local favor to my list?”
“Ms. Freeland, that does sound like a wonderful idea,” Phoebe said, her lips tightening at the corners, “but wouldn’t it be a tad unseemly if one of the competitors is supposedly dating the star attraction? I get the premise of the event for the guests is couples-only, but surely it would deliver an unfair advantage to have that messiness spill over into business in this regard.”
Alec narrowed his eyes and moved a shoulder—his good shoulder, the one he’d use in countless rucks to protect the ball and maintain momentum—in front of Ms. Silver. The movement was far more instinct than reason, a behavior that had always served him well in the face of any opponent, whether they wore a mouthguard or lipstick. Regardless, she didn’t need to see Phoebe’s claws aimed at her. Lord knew she’d dealt with enough of them earlier.
All because he’d fancied a pretty face in a crowd.
Arthur downed his drink and handed it off to passing waitstaff. “My dear, we really should get over to the Athertons. If I don’t let David brag about his new property in Boca, I’ll have to hear it in the sauna at the club when he knows I only have so much capacity for hot air. I’d rather be agreeable for as long as my martini holds out,” he said and laughed at his own joke.
“Of course,” Monica said, enfolding her hand within the crook of her date’s arm. “Ms. Boyle, how large of a following do your social media accounts have again?”
“Well, to start, I have three and a half million on?—”
“Then I can’t imagine why you’d worry about anyone having an advantage over you, especially with all those followers on just one platform, after all.” Monica squared her shoulders and patted Arthur’s bicep, settling and dismissing the matter like a judge’s gavel adjourning court.
Except Alec had no freaking clue just what he’d sentenced them all to.
Chapter 4
It had taken all of three seconds for Marisa’s soul to settle back into her body. It was the only plausible explanation for her lack of involvement in a discussion that, one, very much concerned her love life, and two, determined the fate of her business. She of Many Words, as Eden liked to call her. And she’d had none to fling! Still didn’t, truth be told, given the shock of it all. But oh, they’d come, and as soon as they did, Marisa would be laying down some goddamn ground rules, not the least of which would be?—
“Why are you here, Alec? Really?” Phoebe asked, her tone taking on the bored yet agitated note of a woman not used to repeating herself.
The man Marisa had yet to look too closely at simply folded his arms across his wide chest and lifted a shoulder. “I heard they had good raspberry and brie bites.”
“Not here. In Jersey,” Phoebe seethed, but even that was too strong a sentiment for how her words maneuvered around the coiled tension.
“Visiting Cal.”
Phoebe twisted her lips and arched one slim brow. “During the season? You’ve never visited him before between tournaments. Unless there’s another reason you’re not on the circuit.” She narrowed her eyes at him and raked that razor glare over his finely tailored suit, as if on the hunt for answers Alec wasn’t willing to give.
He was having none of it.
