Page 21 of Elf-ish

Fucking Walt Witticker, whom I’ve jokingly called dick-icker behind his back.

The seventy-something man with snow-white hair and a paunch belly is old school, preaching family first while occasionally dipping his wick on the side. He’s another example of my resentment toward commitment. His behavior matches my mother’s past actions.

On that note, I take a sip of my whiskey neat and brace for Walt’s onslaught of questions.

What’s your vision, Jude? Where’s your head lately? What would your great-grandfather think?

I don’t know what he’d think. He was an old man when I was young and an even older one when he died, leaving me too young to run a company. By then, my father had stepped away from Ashford’s, finding his own footing in marketing and branding with his half-brother.

Impact Media is proudly owned by Tucker Ashford and Machlan Wright.

I’d like to tell Walt what I really think about my great-grandfather. As for where my head is at . . . I just don’t know anymore.

The one thing I do know is I fucking hate Christmas and—

My thoughts screech to a halt like Santa’s sleigh skidding on a rooftop when I catch a glimpse of a vision in the reflection of the bar mirror. Needing to see for myself if I’m imagining her, I spin on my stool, continuing to ignore Walt’s questions, and take in the lady in red.

I swear a tune plays in my head, accentuated by trumpets blaring like announcing royalty.

Holy . . . “Angelica?” My mouth gapes as I take in her red hair, folded around itself and pinned against the back of her neck. The same place I want to cup my hand to pull her closer to me. I want to breathe in that cherry-red lipstick on her lips and inhale whatever that sweet scent is she wears. An odd combination of sugar and spice.

Walt’s voice drowns out, or maybe he’s as gobsmacked as I am.

Slowly, I slip off my bar stool and approach my date, who is wearing a form-fitting, garnet-red dress that accentuates the paleness of her skin and the heat in her eyes.

“Angel,” I whisper as I approach her, like she’s a mythical creature, but she’s made me a believer.

“Jude.” The sharpness in her voice is like someone snapped their fingers, and I flip out of hypnosis. At the same time, I blink, wondering what the attitude is all about, while Walt approaches behind me.

“Angelica, you are a vision,” Walt mutters while I’m coming out of my stupor. Without looking at the old man, I sense his eyes wandering over her form. Her breasts, emphasized by the slight dip in the top of her dress. Her hips are the perfect curve for my hands.

Instantly, I feel obsessed. That Clara sensation returns. This new toy is mine, only I’m the toy soldier, and she’s my human.

I slip my hand around Angelica’s back.

“Baby, you look beautiful,” I mutter to her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Baby,” she mocks. “I wish you’d told me you wouldn’t be coming back to the room. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Shit. Walt misinterprets what Angelica means while I surmise more than twenty minutes have passed. I hadn’t mentioned coming back to the room. Nor had I specifically suggested she meet me here. I’m already failing at boyfriend material.

Still, Walt hammers on my shoulder blade. “Now, now. Plenty of time for that later.”

“We—” Angelica begins, but I squeeze her side where my hand rests just above her hip, tugging her closer to me.

“Angel, baby,” I counter, dipping my tone to match the edge in hers. “Walt doesn’t want to hear about how I can’t keep my hands off you.”

The comment is lewd and a little too much, but I want Walt to know one thing—hands off. Eyes too. Actually, don’t even breathe in her direction.

Walt chuckles, the sound like a cymbal, a clang of camaraderie, like we’re both part of that good ol’ boys club I’m getting sick of participating in. Playing a game with their attitudes and their threats like I’m still a teenager. Always acting a part. Always trying to prove myself.

“Actually, what I’d like to know is how you two met? And why haven’t we heard about you before today?” Walt lifts his glass, which he must have dragged off the bar while I left my drink behind. His distrustful eyes narrow as he takes a sip.

“It’s a funny story . . .” I begin, like my great-grandfather taught me when I needed a moment to think of an answer. Pause for effect, he’d said.

“We met in high school,” Angelica completes for me, turning her head in my direction and causing me to focus on her face. With those sapphire eyes on mine, she continues. “He was part of the in-crowd. You know, the popular kids.”

What? That can’t be true. How could I have missed her?