Page 36 of A Cozy Holiday
“You’re gonna have to pace yourself. I plan on keeping you here long enough to dance.”
“I dance better with a few drinks.”
Before Jamie has a chance to answer, Winnie materializes from the crowd wearing a striped scarf and red, square glasses that swallow her cheekbones. She hugs me so hard I’m pretty sure my face looks like one of her taxidermy fish. “Look who it is! Star of the week! That video was hysterical—” She launches into a dramatic impression of me flailing while ice cubes rattle out of her drink and onto the floor.
I glare at Jamie over her scarf.
“Winnie, be nice,” he says, but he’s grinning like a jerk.
“Nice. Pfft.” She turns to hug her brother. “Look at you in your fancy jeans. You’re really pulling out all the stops for this one, huh?”
“Don’t you have someone else to terrorize?”
“You’re my favorite brother to fuck with, you know that.” Winnie swivels back to me. “Joy! How’d you like those snowshoes?”
“I’m gonna get you back for that,” I warn.
“Perfect. Let me buy you a shot, and then we’ll be even. Also, this dress? Ten out of fucking ten.”
“Thanks, but I don’t do shots.”
“Just one,” she insists, already flagging the bartender. “Also, your supplies came into my PO box. I’ll drop them off at the barn tomorrow.”
I look to Jamie, hoping he’ll rescue me from this situation. He just shrugs.
Traitor.
Winnie hands me a glass crowned with whipped cream. “Mrs. Claus’s Blow Job,” she announces. “Peppermint schnapps, don’t ask questions.”
I drink it, brace myself…and…it’s actually not bad.
Which is why I order another.
And another cranberry mule.
There’s still a buzz in my ear to check my email or download more research papers, but maybe if I drink enough, I can actuallyforcemyself to relax.
By the time Winnie bounces toward the dance floor, dragging a stranger behind her, I’m giggling and rippling all over. My eyes admire the people dancing, the Christmas lights strung about the room, and…Jamie’s jeans, which is the place they’ve been avoiding but really, really want to be.
He folds into my space. “You gonna tell me why you’ve got a personal vendetta against Santa hats?”
“You’re not gonna believe me.”
“Try me.”
I twirl the tiny red-and-white straw in my mule. “Six days ago, I walked in on my boyfriend of a year”—I take a sip of my drink—“fucking a Grinch while wearing an assless-chaps Santa suit.”
He blinks rapidly. “No.”
“Yep.”
“Hence the aversion—”
“To Santa hats. Exactly.” I roll my lips into my mouth, probably smearing what’s left of my lipstick.
“Fucking asshole,” Jamie mutters.
“And thenhecalledmean ice queen.”
