Page 20 of Elf-ish

I wouldn’t say we are tit-for-tat, but I am petty enough to request that we be one for one on our deal.

I’d also like to see her tits. I keep wondering how she’d look bare to me. If a constellation of freckles highlights the curve of each breast, and if her nipples match the color of each rusty dot on her skin.

Whoa! Not happening. Internally, I scold my dick as it stiffens. Down boy.

We are not here for that this weekend. I’ve promised myself, the board, Santa, and anyone else who wants to listen that I will behave. I will be the model boyfriend, even though I have no idea how to act like one.

My entire life, I’ve dated at random but never long-term. If anything, watching my parents’ relationship taught me to distrust the term commitment. Actually, the concept became most confusing in my late twenties, when I learned just how committed my dad, Tucker, had been to my mother. To the family. To the Ashford name.

Unfortunately, it took me almost another decade to recognize the sacrifice Tucker made for me. And still, I haven’t always been grateful.

Selfish. That’s the term best used to describe me. My younger sister, Julia, says it all the time, even if her tone is teasing. Underneath the humor is the truth. I’m a bastard, and that’s in the truest sense of the word.

As much as I portray a tough skin, with a side of don’t-approach-me, I recognize the defensiveness of my ways. If someone got too close, they’d see my faults, and they were pointed out to me often enough as a child by my mother. Of course, I thought her criticism was constructive, only to later realize how destructive her words really were. Peeling back a layer of the spoiled, entitled, selfish man I’ve become would only reveal a hollow layer within me that no one wants to see.

“So, what should I expect for drinks?” Angelica plops on the edge of the queen-sized sleigh bed and huffs while hooking her fingers in air-quotes.

“Boring conversation. Your typical my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours bullshit.”

Her eyebrows lift. The red in them almost brightens. “That’s rather direct. And I don’t have a dick.” She glances down at her thighs, like she’s double-checking.

I almost laugh. This woman has been a breath of fresh air. Quirky and quick. Mouthy, too. She isn’t like anyone else I’ve ever dated. Not that we are dating, because she is only doing me a favor, and I think . . . I hope . . . we can pull this off.

“Stand there and look pretty, is that the memo?” She folds her hands underneath her chin and bats her eyelashes, and I want to tackle her to the bed.

I’ll tell her how she can be pretty. With that vibrant red hair spread against the white pillow. And her alabaster skin exposed, letting me count every freckle on her body. Are her nipples bright red or a dusty pink tone?

These are questions I should not be considering, and I slip my hands into my pants’ pockets, attempting to subtly adjust myself. Sighing, I focus on the freckles on her cheeks. One, two, three, and that fourth near her mouth.

“Look,” I swipe a hand through my hair and tug my gaze from those marks on her face. “This is really important to me, and I know you’re doing me a solid by being here. Just—”

“Doing you a solid?” she scoffs. “Okay, bro. We aren’t in high school anymore, dude.” Her tone mocks me and our arrangement.

Maybe we can’t pull this off after all.

Angelica abruptly stands, forcing me back a step at her sudden nearness. “How long do I have?”

I glance down at the watch my great-grandfather gave me. The same man who left me Ashford’s, hoping I could bring the family vision into a new era. The last decade has been a struggle, but we’re doing it. His dream is my reality, but I’m slipping. And I need Angelica to help me.

“Twenty minutes.”

She nods. “Okay, then. I’m going to freshen up.”

We stare at one another for a minute. Her welcoming eyes have more definition than I’d initially thought. The coloring is almost two-tone, vibrant cool and softer blue, reminding me of a brilliant flame. One that might burn if I got too close.

Her mentioning time to freshen up is my cue to exit the room. There is only so much close proximity a guy can take, and knowing she’s changing her clothes on the other side of the bathroom door is more than I can bear to imagine.

My imagination and I need a drink.

“I’ll be at the bar,” I call out toward the closed bathroom door. The inn only has one watering hole.

“Be right on it,” she hollers back.

I close my eyes for a second, wondering if she knows she’s torturing me, or if she’s sweetly unaware of how incredibly enticing she is.

+ + +

The bar looks more like an English pub with dark panels and tons of plaid accents, and while I sit on a stool at the thick wooden counter, I’m approached by Walt.