Page 54 of Elf-ish

“His name is Jude,” I remind her. “We . . . we went to high school together.”

“And you recently reunited?” Holliday arches a brow.

“Something like that.” I sheepishly glance away.

“Something more than that,” Holliday chuckles.

“Not more,” I argue, holding my head a little higher.

“Girl, the way his eyes latched onto you, I could feel the burn standing beside you.”

“I know his eyes are a bit icy, but—”

“Icy?” Holliday interjects. “They were fire. Pure flames. And he wants to heat your chimney.”

My face heats to inferno level. “He does not.”

“He certainly does.”

“Who does what?” The deep masculine voice behind me turns my head, and I’m met with the dark eyes of our resident Santa, Nick.

“Angelica has an admirer,” Holliday explains to her hot husband.

“Admirer?” I counter. “What is this? 1940?”

“Nope. 2025, and that man wants to eat you alive.”

Nick snorts at his wife’s brazen comment before wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Behave.”

She wraps her arm around his back and pats his chest. “We need Miss Angelica to misbehave a little bit. With him.” She hitches her thumb toward the kitchen.

Suddenly, a loud clanging comes from the enclosed area and a muffled shout. All three of us race for the swing door, entering the kitchen with haste, where we find a bowl of cracked eggs dripping off the worktable and onto the floor. Jude is holding up his hand, blood dripping from his palm.

“Get him away from the food,” I demand, dropping my iPad on the nearest counter as I rush toward Jude and pull him toward a sink. I instantly hit the cold water, adding in the hot, and checking the temp before forcing Jude’s hand beneath the faucet.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Stupid.” Jude shakes his head. “I was using a knife to slice open a package of sausage and cut my hand. Overreacting, I hit the nearest bowl with my elbow and sent the eggs flying.”

Jude glances over his shoulder, noticing the crew of people working to clean up the mess and disinfect the worktable.

“Fuck,” Jude mutters as he turns his head back toward the sink and closes his eyes. “I made a damn mess of things.”

I focus on rinsing his palm and inspecting the cut when I say, “As long as you are okay.”

“But you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.” I lift my head, meeting his eyes. What is there to be mad about?

“Disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” I question next, tilting my head.

“You know, like spilt milk. I spilled the eggs.” His eyes are focused on mine, as if trying to read me, searching for something.

I shrug. “I mean, it sucks that the eggs are a lost cause, but your hand is more important.” I glance back at his palm, noticing the cut runs clean. Industrial-grade brown paper towels aren’t soft, or particularly absorbent, but will have to do until I can find the first aid kit. With a wad in my hand, I press it into Jude’s palm.

“Hold this.” I force his fingers to fist around the clump of paper towels.