Page 23 of Santa Baby

“A kissing booth?” I asked.

“Yeah, you’re signed up to do the kissing booth,” she replied with a laugh.

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, you are. After Gabby emailed me,” she said, panting, then held the phone away from her ear to tell her Dad to turn the volume of the TV down. “I checked in with someone named Shelly, who I guess is overseeing the whole event, and she mentioned how you have a time slot at the kissing booth.”

“If I’m kissing anyone, it’s going to be you.” Oh, my God, what was wrong with me? “Because you’re my fake girlfriend.”

“Just this once, I’ll let you smooch other ladies. It’s for the library, remember? You have a reputation to uphold, being all giving and whatnot.” She squeaked with alarm suddenly, which was followed by a deep male voice telling her to get off a ladder. My chest tightened with sudden unease. But Fia charged forward, asking, “What do I wear to this thing? Are we dressing up?”

“I was told it’s casual. Wear whatever you want.”

“Oh, you might regret telling me that,” she said with a hint of mischief. “What size shirt do you normally wear?”

“Oh no. Why?”

11

FIA

The library was definitely my favorite building in all of New York City. Sometimes I would go there just to sit with my laptop and stare up at the ceiling, at the incredibly intricate Gilded Era architecture that set the entire place aglow with history and made my chest all warm and fuzzy. Seeing it decorated for Christmas?

“Oh my God,” I gasped, clutching Mason’s arm as we walked through the crowded lobby. “Bury me here.”

“You’re a little young to be thinking about that.” He smirked. His cheeks were the pinkest I’d ever seen them as he reached up to tug at the collar of his sweater. “My family has a plot upstate, anyway. You and I will be buried there, side by side. Obviously.”

“You’ve really thought this scheme all the way through, haven’t you?” I whispered the words as my heart thumped out of rhythm. I took in the massive, beautifully decorated Christmas trees as we walked up the stairs. It smelled like pine and spice, and classic Christmas music blared above the hum of the crowd moving from booth to booth, from event to event.

“You’ve already killed my reputation tonight,” he replied dryly, tugging on his sweater again. “I might as well start thinking about the end of my life as I know it.”

“It’s a sweater, you Grinch! You look great. Handsome, even.” I pinched his side. He didn’t even flinch, but he did look exceedingly uncomfortable in the Nordic style Christmas sweater I bought for him last night at a department store I’d just happened to pass on the way to my parents’ house to finish decorating. It was several shades of green and red, with Christmas trees and other details stacked in tiny patterns in varying colors.

“It has puppies on it,” he practically growled, looking down at me.

“Puppies on skis, Mason. That’s a crucial detail. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Plus, we match.” I motioned to my nearly identical sweater with a mischievous smile. “I think they’re the best thing I’ve spent your money on so far. And you’re colorblind. It’s not like you can even tell what color the sweater is, anyway. Just pretend you’re back in your drab blues and grays you like so much.”

“What have I gotten myself in to?” he grumbled and turned us toward the Heritage Spirits booth, which was serving hot apple cider and fancy hot chocolate, sans alcohol, since this was technically a family event.

Mason motioned to one of the guys serving the drinks, however. A barely twenty-one-year-old intern deftly pulled a flask from under the bar and poured a dram into Mason’s cider before anyone else could see. “You look great, Mr. O’Leary. I love your sweater. My dad has one just like it.”

“Did your mother get it for him?” Mason asked dryly, shooting me a look. I grinned as the intern nodded, doing his best to smile and not tremble in the presence of Heritage Spirits’ head honcho.

We stepped away from the booth and turned to watch the crowd. I nursed my hot chocolate, impressed by it, honestly. Mason, however, scowled as he noticed the kissing booth on the far side of the balcony overlooking the increasingly crowded lobby.

I gave him a little nudge. “Smile, darling. People are looking at us.”

He turned his expression to steel instead of smiling, of course.

I sighed, tapping my fresh manicure on my paper cup. “Okay, fine, go take off the sweater. I know you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You do hate it,” I pressed, then murmured into my hot chocolate. “I think you look really good in it, though.” I watched the color rise in his cheeks again, and there it was, the ghost of a slightly tender smile on his lips.

“It’s not that bad, I guess.”

“I think you look like someone who’s ready for their shift at the kissing booth.”