Page 52 of Elf-ish

My eyes close. My chest pinches. I flatten my palm over my left pec, feeling my heart galloping. I catch the time on my watch.

“Fuck it,” I shout to the empty room, then snag my keys off the quartz and stomp to the front door, telling myself I’m heading out for coffee.

Screw waiting for the machine.

Back in my car, I ask my phone for a certain church’s address, then punch it into my GPS, and fifteen minutes later, I’m parked on a side street in a northside neighborhood, without having gotten any coffee.

chapter 17

[Angelica]

To cry over a fake relationship breakup would be ridiculous, so I bolster my inner strength, allowing only a brief wallow for the loss of what could have been.

The hope that Jude was different.

The wish that his kisses meant something.

The desire to be his friend.

Letting out a deep breath, I tamp down my disappointment. I’ve been disappointed before, so I recognize the sensation, but Jude doesn’t warrant the sluggish energy.

I’d done the right thing. Among all the other reasons I could list for Jude and me not being compatible, top of the list is that I wouldn’t be able to explain him to my family. How could I be attracted to a man so clearly self-absorbed he didn’t give of his time or offer apologies. My family just wouldn’t believe I’d be interested in him.

And like I told Jude, I didn’t want to lie to the most important people in my life.

Physically, I was drawn to him. He even had rare moments of playfulness and humor that also endeared him to me.

But one laugh and one afternoon do not turn a lie into a truth.

The truth is I could fall for Jude. His sad soul spoke to mine, but I was also smart. He wouldn’t be good for me, and I was trying to live my best life.

Even if it was lonely.

On that note, I check my phone as I gather my things for breakfast with Santa.

I’d gotten a few texts yesterday and quickly tackled them before powering down my phone for the evening to focus on Jude’s party.

How many red tablecloths do we need again?

Erin Cumbers can no longer volunteer.

Is Nick Santos confirmed as Santa? Want to share his number with me so I can double-check?

I chuckled at the last one. Some women are ruthless in their pursuits, even though Nick Santos is a happily married man. He plays our Santa each year because he does such a convincing job in the role, but the moms among the parent volunteers know he’s a local fireman.

Mix fireman with naughty Santa fetish, and, well . . .

Thank goodness, his wife, Holliday, is good-natured about the lust for her husband.

She once told a woman her chimney is the only one Nick goes down on, and I might have laughed a little too hard at Holliday putting that aggressive cougar in her place.

When Holliday is the first person I see upon arriving at the church community room, I’m relieved. I need a second to get my head into the spirit. The spirit of hosting two hundred families with eager children hungry to see Santa.

The lovely blonde gives me a concerned look. “Girl, you do not look well.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, waving my hand to dismiss her concern. I will be fine. This morning’s activity is the distraction I need to wipe away the question in Jude’s eyes. Did he really not see our incompatibility? Plus, Jude needs to work on himself, and I am not a life coach.

Seriously, what was I thinking by making a list of self-improvement questions based on a classic Christmas tale about transformation and giving it to him like an assignment?