Page 9 of Holiday Hostilities
Christmas is simplynotthe most wonderful time of the year. All I remember from Christmases growing up is the distinct feeling of being let down and disappointed. The fighting and arguing. My parents eventually went through a messy and bitter divorce—over Christmas, of course—and forced Jake and me to pick who we’d spend the holidays with.
When each of my parents subsequently remarried, they began to create new Christmas traditions with their new families. Traditions that Jake and I never really fit into.
Jake didn’t seem to care one way or the other about the holidays, but I guess I became jaded.
And so, since becoming an adult and moving out on my own, I’ve always chosen to opt out of Christmas all together. Just like Zooey Deschanel’s character inElf, my goal each year is simply to make it through the holiday season with as little fanfare as possible, preferably as far away as possible.
While I’m happy to be living in Atlanta and able to spend more time with Jake, that doesn’t change my feelings about Christmas.
And this year, I hope to be eating moo ping skewers at a Bangkok street market, or barbecued bonito on the beach in Bora Bora. Anywhere that I can blind my thoughts in sunshine and breathe in a brick wall of humid heat and pretend it isn’t Christmas at all…
“Yams,” I say suddenly, changing the subject away from my most hated time of year. “For Thanksgiving, I’ll bring yams. And pie.”
“Sounds perfect,” Sofia replies. She then proceeds to tell me that Jake has been YouTubing how to deep-fry a turkey, and that she thinks his apartment balcony is a terrible place to test this cooking method. You know, in case the whole building goes up in flames. Her concern earns a multitude of protesting grunts from my brother, who insists that he knows how to do it.
Which he obviously does not.
I laugh along with their teasing back-and-forth, and by the time we pull into Essy’s parking lot, the sun is coming up and I’m kinda looking forward to a lowkey, burnt-turkey Thanksgiving here in Atlanta with my brother and his girlfriend.
With a smile, I step out of the vehicle.
“That happy to see me, Lil Griz?”
The smile falls off my face when I notice Aaron Marino.
He’s lounging against his obnoxious sports car in the next parking stall, wearing a wolfish grin as he surveys me and my scrubby outfit with glee. He’s got those traditional Italian good looks—flawless olive skin, tousled black hair, and strong angles to his bone structure that are juxtaposed with long, sooty eyelashes and full lips that always seem to have a smirk playing on them.
You know, the type of good looks that makes you remember life really isn’t fair.
Why on earth does Aaron getthoseeyelashes and I get stuck with little stumpy ones?
“Who invitedyou?” I demand. I cast an eye at Jake, but he’s still in the driver’s seat talking to Sofia. Why, oh why, would my brother do this to me so early in the morning?
“Good morning to you, too,” Aaron replies, his tone smooth as butter. “Although, looks like you’ve had a bit of a rough start to your day. Did you not get enough sleep?”
He’s doing this thing where helooksgenuinely concerned about my well-being, but I know better than to fall for that. He’s clearly taking a dig at my disheveled appearance.
Passive-aggressive prick.
Since moving here and starting my new job a couple of months ago, I’ve managed to only see Aaron a handful of times (lucky for me). Unluckily, though, in those few interactions, we’ve pretty much fallen back into our old ways, bickering with one another like children. But we’re not children anymore.
I know I should rise above it all, but…ugh.The man makes me crazy.
“Had the best sleep of my life actually,” I lie cheerily. “And Iwashaving a good morning up until, oh, thirty seconds ago.”
“When it became agreatmorning, because you saw me,” he finishes my sentence (not), green eyes flashing with mirth.
“Agree to disagree,” I huff as I turn on my heel and march towards the diner’s front door.
Maddeningly, instead of waiting for Jake and Sofia to get out of the car, he follows me.
“I’m having a great morning, too, thanks for asking,” he goes on. “Did a workout and got myself nice and stretched out. All while working up an appetite.”
He runs a big hand over his torso, smoothing his shirt against his impressive abs. I try not to look at him, I really do. But I inevitably fail.
This fine morning, Aaron’s wearing a black t-shirt that shows off every inch of his long, perfectly muscled, darkly tanned forearms, and a pair of black gym shorts that show off a lot of long, perfectly muscled, darkly tanned legs.
As if that wasn’t enough, he’s also sporting some annoyingly sexy stubble, alongside an even more annoyingly sexy backwards hat.