Page 63 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“Who’s hungry?”
Marisa had never been happier to hear that rumbling R tumble off Alec’s tongue. The man waltzed into the kitchen, his bulging arms laden with five pizza boxes from Sal and Enzo’s, along with an assortment of bags that, based on the smell, contained a spirit-fortifying selection of fried food.
Manic lifted his chin. “What’s in the bag?”
Alec plopped the essentials on the counter, along with—bless him—two more six-packs of beer. “I wasn’t sure what everyone wanted, so I got?—”
“Everything on the appetizer menu?” Eden asked, her voice full of hope.
“Basically.”
Soon, the kitchen was filled with the unctuous aromas of garlic knots, mozzarella sticks, hot wings, chicken tenders, onion rings, and enough french fries to fill out a few McDonald’s worth of deep fryers.
It was all gloriously greasy and far too perfect for the occasion, given that it was still Hanukkah. To say nothing of the wink Alec fired her way.
This man, I swear.
Then he clapped his hands. “So, once you get yourselves all fed and watered, what’s my next assignment, general?” The two-fingered salute he threw her way garnered more than one inquisitive look from those around them, but Marisa was too hyped up on good sex, sugar, and saturated fat to bother explaining.
“Did you bring your rugby uniform?” Marisa said.
“Aye. Though I can’t for the life of me figure out what my kit has to do with all of this.” He gestured to the grand sugar spectacle around them. “Or how it ties into fudge.”
“Gingerbread fudge.”
“Right,” he said, the word suspended in the air, waiting for the explanation she’d been holding just out of his reach for the past few hours.
A good thing, too, because for better or worse, she was so far beyond anyone talking her out of it.
At this point, it was either this or giving up on the Crystal Christmas Ball altogether, and she hadn’t suffered through a dozen sugar burns just to admit defeat.
“I can’t pull off the flavors I wanted to, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pull off the flavors people need me to. Gingerbread. It’s a Christmas classic for a reason. I’ve decided to make a gingerbread fudge. Super simple, super basic, and can easily be made in large quantities within a day. It’s honestly the perfect mass-produced holiday product. But what won’t be basic about my version is the edible image adorning the top of every piece, capturing the eyes and hearts of anyone who walks past our booth.”
Marisa held her breath a moment, then let out the kernel of genius that had hit her earlier that morning when she’d gotten an eyeful of a post-shower Alec looking all dewy and dreamy. “Alec Elms, the number one player for Great Britain Sevens and one of the most famous rugby players in the world, on full display in his uniform, personally wishing everyone a Merry Christmas with each bite.”
Alec laughed and shook his head, a hint of, well, she hoped it was eager mischief dancing in his eyes. “You’re crazy, woman.”
“Crazy brilliant, though!” Eden chimed in. “Think about it. If Phoebe’s playing her game where all her bullshit volunteers get free access to you and the festival’s wares, essentially taking money out of Marisa’s pocket, why not beat her at her own game?”
Sid stroked his beard, gesturing toward Alec. “She’s not wrong. If that plant lady is more than happy to exploit you for her own recruitment purposes, wouldn’t it be better if it was Marisa’s products that left the strongest lasting Alec impression?”
Manic waggled his eyebrows. “Hey, man. The ladies think you’re a stud.”
“A stud whose face they’ll want to eat,” said Captain.
“A stud who’ll gain lasting and literal face time with every one of Arthur’s sports media buddies who have to show up at an event their wives dragged them to when you know those romance-clueless fuckers would rather be working,” Eden pointed out, brandishing her fried mozzarella like a pointer stick.
Marisa slipped her hand into Alec’s arm and slyly walked her fingers up his taut chest before he caught them against his heart. “What do you say? Are you up for a little Hanukkah photo shoot?”
The room fell as silent as it could given everyone’s aggressive nervous chewing while Alec carefully assessed her, keeping his decision locked tight behind those discerning eyes. She hugged his arm closer to her chest, granting him a good-natured squeeze, and though she’d never been able to claim a pair of sweeping lashes, she batted the hell out of what she did have until, finally, a hint of a smile cracked his stony expression.
Alec leaned forward and held her chin so it was impossible for her to look anywhere else but at him. “You’re ruthless when you’re determined. You’re like the goddamn Tony Soprano of Christmas.”
“Hmm . . . maybe Willy Wonka would be a better comparison?”
“I couldn’t say, honestly. I haven’t seen you wear that much purple, but I have seen your fondness for Italian food.”
Eden swiped a garlic knot. “And she is from North Jersey, so . . .”
