Page 40 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“Which you ate up. Literally.” Eden’s smile invited an argument Marisa was just not in the mood to have.
Marisa rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her laptop. “Anyway, thanks to, well, that, I’ve got quite a few more eyes on my social media accounts than I used to, so I did a little poll.” Then she flipped her screen around to show the latest post to Eden, whose eyes widened at the number of votes for the Jamaican gingerbread to be featured at the Crystal Christmas Ball.
Impressed, Eden said, “Wow. That’s?—”
“A lot of enthusiastic people who are interested in attending Monica’s shindig if I can keep them flowing in treats. I’ll be making one treat box filled with an assortment, as that’s easier to manage. It’ll have the Jamaican gingerbread, a sampling of old-fashioned ribbon candy, and hand-twisted mini chocolate peppermint candy canes. The sugar work I can bang out in advance and can store easily at Manic, Sid, and Captain’s warehouse until I have to truck it over to the event. It’s a solid treat box offering for sure and one that’ll definitely put me on Monica’s radar, but it’s all hinging on the gingerbread.”
A low whistle rumbled through Eden’s lips, which was followed by a slow clap of dramatic proportions. “You’re a goddamn evil genius, and I’ve never been so proud to call you my best friend.”
The corner of Marisa’s mouth ticked up with pride as she went to the website of the small West Indian grocer about an hour away that always had plenty of the good Jamaican ginger extract in stock. “I’m not an evil genius, just an incredibly stressed-out woman who doesn’t like Santa breathing down her neck.”
“You’re right,” Eden agreed, her voice turning silky as she plucked another fistful of gummies from the dish, leaned back, and plopped them, one by one, into her mouth like a Grecian goddess at a bacchanalian festival. The Cheshire Cat grin that surfaced after the swallow was concerning, to say the least. “You’d much rather prefer that a certain other man do the breathing.”
Marisa’s fingers stumbled across the keys, nearly making a mess of her search bar. Not enough of a mess, however, to prevent her from erecting her Jersey-born-and-bred, always-at-the-ready middle finger. “A gift, madam.”
“Aw,” Eden said, hugging a throw pillow. “And here I was hoping my true gift would be hearing about a steamy holiday tryst featuring a sex-starved candy maker and a hot Scot in a kilt. Either that or something smothered in chocolate.”
Marisa resumed her focused searching, though not without admonishing Eden with a single raised eyebrow. “He doesn’t wear a kilt. And the rest of the chocolate I have is reserved for guests of the Ball or the few family members I always give care packages to. I don’t have any supplies left to spare.”
“Great! Then I’m your cousin now. See? We’re family!”
“That’s so crazy, because my cousin owes me money.”
The raspberries Eden blew at her were a bit much but not entirely out of the realm of what Marisa expected. But once the grocer’s webpage finally finished loading, a new annoyance managed to successfully cling to her cranium.
“Out of stock?” she barked.
Eden tossed the pillow aside and scrambled to see what Marisa was looking at. “Damn. That’s not good. Is this the only supplier?”
“The only one who’d be willing to work with me on such short notice, yeah. If I had more time, I might have been able to go to the city, but not now.” No way was New York a viable option. The upcharges for the last-minute order alone would kill her, and New York suppliers were so expensive, to begin with.
“Well, what are the odds his website’s up to date? You said he was a small grocer, right?”
“I did,” Marisa said, letting her worry stretch out the words.
“Then I’m willing to bet the online inventory hasn’t been updated since the Netscape days. Watch, after Christmas Eve, I’m sure the owner’s got some college-aged nieces or nephews who’ll be home for the holidays and will be tasked with updating things.”
The logic was there. Marisa couldn’t argue with that, no matter how much she’d like to. “I don’t use them often, but now that I think of it, I do usually just call them. I only ever go on their site to check their hours of operation.”
“Exactly! Give them a call tomorrow morning. I’m sure they’ve got exactly what you need. Oh!” Eden grabbed the remote and unmuted the K-drama that had been languishing in silence for the past twenty minutes. “No freaking way. Do you see that? Do you see that? Quick. Get your phone out and pull up the timer.”
Uncertain of what the hell was going on, with her mind still chewing over the worry of not getting the single-most important ingredient she needed, Marisa blindly did as ordered.
“Aaand stop. Okay, how long was that?”
Marisa looked down at her phone. “Um. Twenty-three seconds.”
“Now that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is some goddamn romance. That was twenty-three seconds of a solid hand linger. Not even a full holding of hands. Just a linger. His index finger was the only thing touching her pinky!” Eden said with her hands on her head, her eyes alight with amazement. “I’m telling you, Western media would just about shit their pants if they had to spend that much time on two fingers barely brushing against each other. The Koreans, man, they know a thing or two about yearning. That and fried chicken.” Before Marisa could respond, the doorbell rang. Eden paused the episode and popped up off the floor. “I’ll get it.”
“It’s probably the boys picking up the shipments,” Marisa said, though the daze that still held her enthralled had nothing to do with helping Eden load orders into Manic and Sid’s car.
Slowly, she closed her laptop and tried to make sense of the lingering hands on the TV, but her mind kept tripping over other images. All starring emotionally charged moments where Alec, as if on instinct, had captured her hand, always pressing and prodding his reassurances into her tension points every time her doubt began to creep in.
The Hanukkah party . . .
The car outside the Hanukkah party . . .
The pizza parlor . . .
