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"Cock." Ford’s baritone voice boomed across the broad bottom floor of the Plaza Hotel.
"That thing is a weapon," I muttered, refusing to hang my head as every eye turned to focus on the tall Aussie.
Ford’s voice might have it all going on, but the rest of him seemed...wilted. Dark circles hung under his eyes. Reddened flesh overlaid by fresh ink peeked out from the top of his black, tight t-shirt.
Dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, he looked ready to rumble.
In a cage fight, maybe.
Or the docks.
"What the hell happened to him?" I hissed over my shoulder at the drooling receptionist.
But seeing as Ford already shouted the word ‘cock’pretty much to the entire ground floor, there really weren't any eyesnotfixed on the alpaca farmer.
"The cowboy and the elfling," Ford answered my question. I hadn't aimed at him.
"It is weapons-grade." The receptionist fanned herself shamelessly, still several steps back in the conversation.
Ford’s cheeks tinted pink.
"If you say so. Come on. We have a boat to catch. Wait. Where's Pickles?"
"Sleeping off a hangover."
"You sure that's not you?"
"Pretty darn sure, elf girl." His voice still didn't match up to the story his face told, and there was no way I wasn't asking what he got tattooed on his chest overnight.
We are halfway along the block before I mention my first question, glancing between him and the harassed looking Christmas shoppers. “So – how did the par–?"
"Finish that sentence, and you’ll never cuddle Pickles ever again,” Ford threatened.
"Ouch. That’s just nasty. Are you sure I can’t ask–"
"What happens after the rehearsal dinner stays at the– well. Wherever we went," Ford closed the subject off firmly.
I exhaled through my nose, and made a decision that could lose me my cute client. Without taking another breath, I rose on my toes, grabbed the collar of his tee, and took a quick peek inside.
A familiar snout and ears stared back at me with a spectacular underbite beneath his Santa hat. Laughter lodged in my throat that ended in a coughing fit as my eyes welled.
"Tell me Pickles has your face tattooed on his rump." I struggled to catch my breath, doubled over as the giggles escaped me. Tears followed, coursing down my cheeks as I howled on the sidewalk.
"Really? That’s professional?" Ford grumped, but the hint of a smile curled the corner of his mouth.
"I'm wearing an elf costume. Several that I have in my closet with a fresh one each day for the twenty-four days of Christmas. How much more professional would you like, Ford?" I sassed him back. “Besides, I had to drag you out of bed. And you didn’t bring your cute alpaca.”
“Not the point.” His tone shifted.
I twisted around, walking backward along the sidewalk. "Not the point?" I asked incredulously. “I waited for an hour, Ford. That’s one good hangover.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about."
Huffing, I led the way to the small private dock I booked out for the season, waving to the older gent with his small ferry waiting for us. "Probably a good thing. They wouldn't let Pickles on board."
“Maybe. I have my ways.” Ford gave me a smile that left the solid ground wobbling beneath me, and I hadn’t even gotten on the boat yet.
Putting on my best tour guide smile, I waved to the dock staff I recognised but the moment I put a foot out, Ford stepped up beside me. His hand outstretched, the hooded look that made it past his exhaustion giving me pause. Calluses covered his hand, and small scars.
