Page 2 of A Loser by Christmas
I’m not so sure about that. Neither are the ducks in this marina. They paddle away from decibel levels more suited to a boat-building factory, and I’d paddle away with them if I had any other option.
I don’t. Not while my own boat is still held hostage over a year since killer whales nibbling on her rudder meant I had to beg Dad to save her. That means all I can do is pause with him at the foot of a red carpet and listen.
“Here’s what you need to do to be successful. Stop pretending to clients that you only speak French.” Dad switches to that language. He’s rusty, his accent still appalling. “And stop wondering out loud if clients know there’s a cost of living crisis. That isn’t any of our business. What is?”
He waits until I answer.
“Stuffing their stockings with a Juno speedboat?”
“That’s right.” He reverts to English. “It doesn’t matter why they buy from us, just that they do.” He adds a sweetener. “Makea sale tonight and the commission will more than cover the repairs you asked me to make. I’ll move that old tub of yours right to the top of my workshop schedule.”
There’s nothing tub-like abouta boat I inherited at eighteen and promptly sailed away on. Yes, she’s elderly in boat terms, but she’s also all I have left of my grand-mère.La Sylvieis my home. My edit studio. And she’s my one and only way to get back to chasing what really gets my heart pumping.
The truth.
Dad tells the whole of central London a truth of his own. “If you want those repairs made anytime soon, go all out to make a sale by midnight. That’s your deadline.”
No. It’s his.
Two other deadlines of my own are more important. In fact, both of my goals are life-or-death related, and one is so close to expiring that I can’t help checking my watch.
Shit. Nearly three o’clock already.
“I need to go.”
Again, Dad doesn’t listen, which would rankle if not for the sliver of me that remembers sitting on his lap each Christmas Eve. He did more than help me piece together puzzles. Dad’s visits made me believe in magic.
Fast forward a decade or two and I’m pretty sure he’s still talking about boat sales. His mouth is moving, so he must be. I tune it out, but I can’t help studying his face and seeing worry. The filmmaker in me spots so much more silver in his hair than in the photo I used to kiss bonjour and bonne nuit when I was little—the same photo I learned to hide as soon as I was transplanted to a boarding school where British boys called me a French cry-baby. Today, it’s impossible to ignore how deeply his brow creases each time he saysourandweandusas if Juno blood and Christmas jigsaws aren’t our only real connection. His recent determination to involve me in his business is anotherpuzzle I set aside when Dad heads inside the sales tent without me.
I turn away, then bump straight into this boat show’s real biggest loser.
Ugh.
Lito Dixon.
London’s sleaziest event photographer snags my elbow. “You’re not leaving before the party, are you, gorgeous?” He’s stalked the marina all day on the hunt for hookups in the boat show’s bathrooms. Now his eyes sparkle, no doubt due to whatever left his hairy nostrils dusted with white powder. My hand drifts to my chest on instinct. I ease down the zipper on my jacket just enough to record a visual of the first snow in London this December.
Lito is too busy blocking my exit to notice. “You can’t go yet, darling.” His voice is a slick reminder of engine oil on water. So are the shoulder-length strands he flicks like he’s a supermodel instead of this city’s saddest wanker. That hair isn’t his sole greasy aspect. Lito easily glides so much closer that his shoes must be slick too. “I’ve got an early Christmas gift to give you.”
“If it’s sexually transmitted, I don’t want it.”
I might feel bad about him looking so affronted if everyone on the boat-show circuit didn’t already know that Lito Dixon is a one-way ticket to a clap clinic. He blocks my escape route, a hairy-nostrilled spider still trying to lure me into his web of STDs. “You can’t leave without giving me one little Christmas kiss.” He unfastens his jacket and points a nicotine-stained finger in the general direction of his penis.
Mistletoe dangles from his belt buckle.
Hell will freeze over before I’d ever drop to my knees to blow him underneath it. The one thing sucking right now is that he hasn’t yet got the message that nothing could make me want to. I’m not saying that I’m averse to kissing under mistletoe, or togetting into the Christmas spirit in boat-show bathrooms, just not with someone like him.
Adventurous is my type. Men afraid of nothing. Big and brave does it for me, with bonus points if they can help me repair a boat still at risk of sinking. Believe me, I’ve tried to make those repairs myself.La Sylvie’sproblems are beyond me. We both need a hero to come to our rescue or I’ll end up working for Dad forever.
Lito isn’t hero material, but he is determined. He snags my elbow again. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not letting you go yet. Not before we finish our little chat about your career.”
He waggles his eyebrows as well as his own camera, and moments like this are the only time I hate being a little on the short side. It means Lito gets to look down his snow-dusted nose at me. He leans in even closer, his breath scented with mulled wine and halitosis.
“One studio session with me could make you famous. All you need to do is ask me nicely. I’ll even sweeten the deal by giving you a discount on some party powder.” He cocks a hairy lobe in my direction. “Go on,” he says while I try to push past. “Whisperpleaseinto my ear, but use that sexy French accent that you fake for your YouTube channel.”
That stops me dead.
“You watch my channel?”
