Page 70 of Elf-ish

“Tell me I’m better than any audiobook or a movie.” While his tone is demanding, his expression is sheepish, like he needs this confidence booster when he’s the most confident person I’ve ever known.

“You know what I love best about an audiobook or a movie?” I counter, not admitting to anything quite yet. “You can always re-listen to a book or re-watch a movie, and have a totally different experience the second time.”

He drops to his hands, giving my breasts a quick glance before meeting my eyes again.

“Are you saying you need a do-over to decide if that was good?”

I chuckle. “Oh, no, I’d say it was plenty good. Five stars.” More like seven in heaven, but that’s not a rating.

Jude slowly smiles. The corner of his mouth twitches, and that apostrophe pops, like it has possession of his lips. His wicked mouth, which just brought me two orgasms in mere minutes.

I run my hand over his cheek. “I’d return the favor . . .”

He catches my meaning, then grabs my wrist and turns my hand so he can press a kiss into my palm.

“Always a chance for a re-listen or a re-watch, right?” he mutters to the inside of my hand.

I laugh again, embarrassed that I’d said such a thing, but don’t miss the implication.

Is he suggesting we have more than tonight together? Hope feels like too much to ask for.

Instead, I slip from the couch and quickly use the bathroom. When I return to the living room, the movie is still paused, and I take a seat on my end of the couch. Jude leans forward, grips my ankles, and repositions us in our original entanglement. He reaches for the blanket on the floor and tosses it over both of us, and we settle in for the not-so-surprising conclusion of another holiday movie.

chapter 22

[Angelica]

Sunday morning is the breakfast with Santa at Ashford’s, so I’m not surprised when Jude is gone, and I awake on the couch, tucked underneath the throw blanket.

I flip to my back and stare at a crack in my ceiling, replaying all that happened over the weekend, but specifically what happened last night.

The shift in his eyes from icicle chill to hot springs. The drop in his voice, seductive and low, enticing as he spelled out what he’d do to me. And then what he did. His fingers. His tongue. His mouth.

I tug the blanket over my mouth and scream into it, whacking my heels into the couch cushion, like a teenager. My smile is almost too wide and my face flushes.

What did I do? And why do I want more? The answer comes quickly. Jude.

The way he took care of me this weekend, when no one else ever does. I’m confident in my ability to care for myself, but it was a pleasant and welcome surprise to have someone else here for me. The most surprising thing was learning that Jude read the list I made him. He’s attempting to complete it. He’s willing to change. Not for anyone but himself.

Reaching for my phone on the coffee table, I open the original list I made for him and check off what he’s already completed. Hope blossoms in my chest that Jude can do this. Transformation is inevitable.

On that positive note, I spring from the couch. I have laundry to do before I head to Gran’s.

Cookie baking is on the agenda for the day.

Gran has three cookie exchanges to attend, requiring that she bring three dozen cookies to each. She also selects this date and considers it an annual cookie bakeoff, which includes the entire family. She doesn’t always wear her glasses while baking, swearing she knows every recipe by heart; however, her memory isn’t the best either, and a few too many times, flour has been substituted for sugar. Or cayenne pepper for cinnamon.

Hence, the need for my supervision.

Her three-story building consists of a garden apartment; the raised, first floor flat, and the second level, where my sister lives. Gran’s official address is the middle floor, where her front door is open, allowing Christmas’s boys to run from the upper level to the lower one, like they are already hyped up on cookies.

“Gran,” I call out, entering her apartment. Instantly, I am hit with a wave of nostalgia, both joyful and melancholy, while standing in her dated living room. Decades of holidays have been held in this space. The doors from one floor to another were always open, allowing the family to meander from one place to another, but this apartment was the prime gathering spot. Holiday dinners were served here. Birthdays celebrated. Presents unwrapped.

Riotous laughter pulls me like a magnet through the dining room toward the kitchen.

When I reach the arched entry, I stumble to a halt. The countertop is littered with bowls and ingredients. Flour. Sugar. Food coloring. Sprinkle packages. The round table to the right of the U-shape of cabinets and appliances is covered with a plastic tablecloth decorated with giant holly leaves and red berries.

However, what stops me short is the man on one side of the table.