Page 28 of The Christmas Mistake

I guess we’re still teasing each other, then.

Nothing’s changed. If she wants to play that game, then I’m more than willing to participate.

I open my car door and call across to her.

“I would love to have that tongue around my cock. Again.”

She looks aghast.

“I thought we promised not to talk about last Christmas,” she retorts as she gets out of her car. She’s now without her sunglasses and protective coffee cup. Her hair hangs down over her face, unbrushed.

“You really look like a mess,” I say. “It looks like you need to get under the covers. How about we call this whole thing off and you come back to my bed? I know plenty of ways to warm you up.”

Chastity scoffs at me. “You’re such a boy, thinking with your tiny dick. That’s all that’s going on between your ears? How sad.”

“You might think my dick’s tiny,” I reply. “But I didn’t hear you complaining when your tongue was wrapped around it last year.”

Chastity tries to elbow me in the stomach, but I dive away in time.

“Let’s just go in,” she says. “I don’t want to spend a minute more with you than I can.”

* * *

Mariah fucking Carey. All I want for Christmas is you.

Who actually listens to this shit? Who are the losers that fall for this cheesy crap every fucking year?

Of course it’s the song that greets us when Chastity and I step into the shopping mall, like a jingle welcome into the gates of hell. This song is my idea of a living nightmare. Knowing I’m about to hear it on repeat for the next few weeks before Christmas is a new level of headache that I can’t begin to process.

“Oh, Mariah Carey,” Chastity says as she hears those ominous opening notes, smiling. “I love this song.”

Ah. She’s one of those losers.

“Of course you love this song,” I reply with a grunt. “This song is for babies and the insane.”

“Hey, just because the entire world isn’t miserable like you doesn’t mean you can stand there and judge, dickface. You’re so sour all the time. Cheer up, it’s Christmas.”

“You know how much I hate Christmas,” I grumble. “And I especially hate Mariah Carey. Don’t get me started on Michael Bublé.”

“I love Christmas,” Chastity says. “It’s cold outside, the fireplace is burning, you have a cup of hot cocoa between your fingers watching Elf for the eighth time this week and you’re admiring the lights on your Christmas tree cuddled up in a warm blanket. It’s bliss. I don’t know anyone who could possibly hate this time of year.”

“I can’t think of anything worse.”

She scrunches up her cute little nose at me. “That’s right,” she says. “You’re the actual living, breathing Grinch. I nearly forgot that. The problem with you, Nicholas, is that you have no heart. You know that?”

“And you love nothing more than sentimentality and commercial shit.”

“You’re so stern, Nicholas. I bet that gives you a stiff neck being so serious all the time.”

“And you’re so bubbly.”

“Well, at least people like to have me around. Unlike you, Mister Grinch.”

I roll my eyes at her again and point at a woman approaching us with a clipboard.

“Here comes trouble,” I say.

“You two must be Nicholas and Chastity,” the woman says, offering her hand for us to shake. “I’m Annie, the manager here.”