“Would it?” He finally looks up at me.
I shake my head because the lump in my throat isn’t going anywhere.
“Didn’t think so,” he says, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. “We’ll figure something out when the time comes, I guess.” He holds his empty glass out toward me.
I reach over to pour the champagne, taking in a shaky breath and clearing my throat. “You still haven’t actually told me about your family.”
“Right. We’ll be having dinner at my parents’ house. Mary Margaret and Tony Cannavale. They still live in the house I grew up in. My mom’s from Boston. My dad grew up here. His mother—my nonna—is from Italy. She’ll be there tomorrow. She’s always here for the holidays. She’ll hate you, but she hates everyone, so don’t take it personally.”
“Does she hate you?”
“Nobody hates me, Cooper, I told you. But she isn’t nice to me. She isn’t nice to anyone. All my brothers and my sister will be there, and their families. Aiden, Brady, Casey, and Eddie. Casey’s the girl. Her daughter Penelope is my favorite person on the planet—try to contain your jealousy. Eddie’s my baby brother.”
“Aww.” I’m picturing some adolescent boy around the same age as Piper. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-six,” he deadpans. “He’s an ugly little fucker and not at all charming—you won’t like him. Women never like him,” he says, trying not to smile “So he won’t take it personally.”
“Poor guy. Who are you closest to?”
He blinks and then polishes off his champagne in one big gulp. “What do you mean?”
“Which sibling are you closest to?”
He frowns, resting the glass on his knee. “It changes.”
“Okay. What about now?”
“My sister, I guess. And Eddie. They’re great. But stay away from Eddie. He’s trouble.”
“Please. I’m your girlfriend—what am I gonna do? Hit on your brother at Christmas dinner?”
And that’s when any normal human would at least offer a polite fake laugh or a raised eyebrow perhaps, but Declan Cannavale’s mood shifts, and I swear, the neon pink lighting flickers and it gets a little bit darker all around him. Men are always complaining that women are impossible to read—like the Sphynx. But sometimes this guy’s thoughts are hieroglyphs written in invisible ink on papyrus and then folded up and shoved inside a flaming bag of dog poop. I could try stepping on the flaming bag of dog poop to put out the fire, but I’m still not going to be able to read that folded-up note inside.
“Is there anything else I should know about your family, Declan?”
He shakes his head. “If you have a specific question, just ask.” He places the champagne glass on the strip of counter beside him and opens up his laptop again. “Otherwise, I’ll be using the next hour of this drive to catch up on work.”
“You’re not going to ask me about the important people in my life?”
“Well, I already know about the most important person in your life.” He points his thumbs at himself. “And I already know about your parents. Carly and Joe Cooper. Right?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I heard you say their names on the phone once when you were ordering something to be delivered to them on their anniversary. They live in Murray Hill.”
“Yes.”
“Which is where you grew up.”
“Yes.”
“But your mom’s from Staten Island, and you have at least one aunt who still lives there.”
“Yes.”
“Your sister Rebecca is your best friend, and her daughter Piper is adorable and has a massive crush on me.”
“Bex. I call my sister Bex. How do you know all that? Did you do a background check on me or something?”
“Sure, if paying attention and remembering things counts as a background check. I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of a loudmouth, Coop. I can always hear you yammering when I’m in my office with the door open.”
“My apologies. I guess I didn’t think you were listening.”
“My apologies,” he mumbles, staring at his laptop screen. “I guess I thought you wanted me to hear.”
And I don’t even know what to say about that, so I turn my attention back to Ralphie and his family. I honestly do not understand this man. And I don’t understand why I want to understand him. I want to slap him and understand him and lick him and ignore him. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand myself anymore.
But I think I might care less about all of this once I’ve finished off this bottle of mediocre champagne.
Thirteen
Declan
THE BALLER EXPRESS
Maddie Cooper is fucking adorable and extra annoying when she’s tipsy, and it just makes me want to punch a wall and kiss her.
She isn’t trying to be adorable, but she is actively trying to annoy me. It’s the easiest job in the world, trying to annoy me right now. That shitty stretch limo did it. All of Youngstown is doing it. This terrible hotel is definitely doing it. But Maddie Cooper is making a special effort, now that we’re checked in, and for some reason it’s really doing it for me.
How sad of a lonely sack of shit do you have to be to get turned on by a woman who’s trying to annoy you?
“Are you going to call or at least text your family members to let them know we’re in town?”
“Absolutely not, and I forbid you to contact them.”
She doesn’t even roll her eyes at my use of the term “forbid.” That’s how annoyed she is with me right now. And I’m not even trying to annoy her. “Why not?”
“Because I agreed to come for dinner on Christmas Eve. I did not agree to spend over twenty-four hours with them, and that is what would happen if they find out we’re here. I’ll be working in my room all night. If you would care to join me for whatever subpar in-room dining they have to offer here, then you may.”
“No thanks.”
“Fine.”
“Great. Would you like me to order dinner to be served in your room?”
“Would you be ordering it as my girlfriend who’s pretending to care about me or as my assistant who did not get us the adjoining rooms I requested?”
“I’d be ordering it as the woman who plans on eating dinner in the very nice hotel restaurant and wants to make sure you stay in your room so you don’t ruin it for her.” She sticks her tongue out at me. Actually sticks her tongue out at me, and it’s somehow sexy and makes me want to impregnate her.
And it also makes me want to stay away from her because I’d just fuck everything up.
“I can order it myself, thanks. But don’t you dare eat dinner by yourself in that dress.”
That. Dress. That fucking sweater dress. Those fucking boots. Those fucking black tights or whatever you call those things that I can see through just a little bit and they make me want to rip them off her.
“I’m not going to hook up with anyone else while I’m with you here, Declan. But I am going to wear whatever I want, whenever I want to.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
She realizes she just said she isn’t going to hook up with “anyone else” and turns a bewitching shade of pink. “You know what I mean.”
“I always do, Cooper. Even when you don’t.”
“This building is so beautiful,” she marvels, trying to change the subject.
“This is the ugliest carpet I’ve ever seen.”
She shushes me. “Then don’t look down.” When I stab at the elevator call button, she pins me with a glare, lowering her voice. “Would you like me to see if I can find you last-minute accommodations at the YMCA? I seem to recall driving by one on the way here.”
“You looked up alternate accommodations for me when you booked this place, didn’t you?”
“I’m very thorough.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily, girlfriend.”
If she’s smart, she’ll try to. And I hope, for her
sake, that she stays smart. Because I no longer trust myself around her.
The elevator dings and the doors open, and we step aside to let the elderly couple disembark, and then we get on the elevator together. I suppose my face must be doing something weird right now, because the old lady appears to be afraid of me—but that’s just a misunderstanding. “Happy holidays!” I call out to them. And it’s not my fault that I sounded a little too aggressive.
I press the button for our floor and wait for the doors to close and for a trapdoor in this car to open up and drop me into the fiery pit where I belong.
“You want to play with fire, you’d better be willing to get burned.”
“By your terrible mood?”
“By the hot sting of my bare hand on your ass,” I mutter.
Shit. Too far.
She meets my gaze in the reflection of the shiny brass doors in front of us and holds it for a fucking eternity, while I get all cozy here in the second circle of hell. “I don’t seem to recall a separate spanking clause in our agreement, Mr. Cannavale.”
Well, well. Now the jingle hop has begun.
Before I can even form another thought—I drop my bag, take her face in my hands, and kiss her.
Her lips are exactly as soft as they’ve threatened to be, and they part so readily for mine that I have to wonder if I’m dreaming. Both of our tongues taste like expensive mouthwash and cheap champagne and anticipation and dread. There’s a moan and then a thud as she drops her bag to the floor too, and I feel her clinging to the lapels of my coat. I push her back against the wall. I don’t remember if we’re going up or down because I just want to go in, hard and deep.
The worst season ever just got awesome, and my hands are celebrating by sliding south to her waist, squeezing her sexy fucking hips. I pull that sweater dress up so my knee can rest there, snug between her legs, and she squeezes her thighs around it, rocking the night away. Good, naughty girl. Grunts and sighs and gasps echo around the elevator like the chorus of a dirty Christmas carol that we’re both making up as we go along.
My hungry mouth finds her long, smooth neck, and I grab that tight bun on top of her head and tug on it so it comes apart, her dark hair cascading all around her, all around me. I want all of her to come apart for me like this. I want to spill every terrible thing that I am into her, every real part of myself that wants to be welcomed home. I need this right now, more than I need my dignity. I need this woman. This is all I want for Christmas.
My cock responds immediately to her throaty voice, but my brain is not registering a word she’s saying.
My name, my name, my name is all I hear.
Maddie, Maddie, Maddie is all I’m thinking.
And then all I can feel is the hot sting of her bare hand on my face.
Chapter Fourteen
MADDIE: Declan. Answer your phone.
MADDIE: Oh for crying out loud. I’m sorry I slapped you. I’m so sorry. It was a reflex. Instinct.
MADDIE: I’m sorry if I hurt you. I’m really sorry. I panicked.
MADDIE: But you need to signal before changing lanes!
MADDIE: I mean, I guess I should have known what lane you’re in. You haven’t exactly been subtle. But there’s a big difference between flirting and kissing. And you’re just so damn slappable.
MADDIE: Declan. Open the door. We need to talk.
DECLAN: We don’t need to talk. And you don’t need to apologize. I’m not mad at you. I should not have done that. You should trust your instincts. That was the right instinct. It won’t happen again.
MADDIE: Declan. Now I feel bad.
MADDIE: It’s not that I didn’t like you kissing me. And touching me. And pulling on my hair. I just need a minute.
DECLAN: Trust me, you’d need a lot more than a minute to prepare yourself for what I’d do to you.
DECLAN: That probably sounded salacious, but I meant it in the other way. A warning. I appreciate that you came here with me. It means a lot. But it’s best we stay away from each other until we have to go to my parents’ house tomorrow.
DECLAN: Is that okay?
MADDIE: Just when I think you couldn’t possibly find yet another way to be infuriating, you prove me wrong again.
DECLAN: I know it isn’t fun, but you know I’m right about this. Good night, Cooper.
Fifteen
Declan
AWAY IN MY ANGER
EDDIE: Dude. When are you getting here? I’m pretty sure Nonna just served us a platter of deep-fried dog dicks.
EDDIE: They were pretty good though.
ME:
EDDIE: Are you drunk? Where are you? You’re coming to dinner tomorrow, right?
ME:
EDDIE: When were you planning on telling me about your girlfriend?
ME:
EDDIE: You’re a dick.
ME:
EDDIE: WHAT???
ME: Your girlfriend. You didn’t tell my. Me. When.
EDDIE: Are you drunk right now, or are you having a stroke? Because either way, you haven’t answered my question. When are you getting here?
ME:
EDDIE: You ducking better be here tomorrow. Dick.
Yeah. I’m the dick. Declan Cannavale is the dick, everyone! Welcome to Dickville—population Me.
Corporate lawyers are easy targets.
Even when they totally aren’t dicks.
Not really.
Would a dick order a Hot Toddy at a shitty hotel bar—three times?
“Another whiskey Hot Toddy, Rick,” I say to the bartender, who may or may not be named Rick. But hey—sometimes people get mistaken for a dick, and sometimes they get mistaken for a Rick. “Hot Toddies for everyone!” I call out. “On me!” The pathetic crowd of about ten lame people cheers in a half-assed loser-y kind of way.
They certainly seem more excited to hear about the free Hot Toddies than they do the shitty band that’s been playing shitty jazz versions of Christmas songs.
I’m having fun though. I’m having a great time. This is exactly how I pictured things going with Maddie once I’d gotten her away from the office, to a hotel in another city. I definitely did not plan to get her naked and fuck her fifty different ways into the New Year. Because that would have been wrong and bad. It would have been good and wrong, but it would have been bad in the very bad way. And she deserves better. “So damn slappable,” she said. “Infuriating,” she called me. I might be those things. Sometimes. To some people. But I’m also fun. I’m more fun than eating in a shitty hotel restaurant by yourself, that’s for sure.
I check my phone again to confirm that she has continued to heed my warning to leave me alone.
She has. Good. Now she does what I ask her to do. Because I’m the Grinch who tries to make out with her in an elevator, and who’d want to hang out with that guy?
Except I’m fun. I am the axis around which all festive gatherings revolve. I’ll show her.
I gulp down my Hot Toddy—fuck, I shouldn’t have done that because it’s hot—and then I hop off my seat at the bar. And I strut on over to the shitty little stage with all the swagger—swagger and fun—of a great entertainer. Because that’s what I am. A fucking entertaining delight who’s about to save Christmas for these pathetic losers in Whoville tonight.
The “singer” finishes the shitty song and says that they’re about to take a break, and that’s when I step up and take the mic from her.
“Thanks, Shirley—let’s hear it for Shirley and the band, everyone!” Her name might not be Shirley, but I usher Shirley off the stage and signal to the band to stay where they are. I tell them what to play next—because I’m the boss here—and say into the mic again, “Let’s get this party started, Youngtown!”
I’m gonna jingle the fuc
k out of this Christmas carol. I’m gonna sing it like the badass crooner that I am, because fuck you, Michael Bublé. Dean Martin is better than you, and so am I!
“Dashing through the snow—sing it with me!
In a one-horse open sleigh
O’er the fields we go
Laughing all the way—because we’re happy!
Bells on bobtails ring—what’s a bobtail?
Making spirits bright—am I right?
What fun it is to ride and sing
A sleighing song tonight—we having fun yet?!
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way—can’t hear you!
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh, hey
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh.”
I signal to the band to stop playing. “You know what—this is wrong. Stop! Nope. Fuck the happy songs. Not everyone is jingling all the way through the holidays, and they deserve to feel like they’re a part of this too. Y’know? Because they aren’t a part of anything else right now. If they were, they wouldn’t be here in this shitty hotel bar. Who’s feeling sad this Christmas? Show of hands.” My hand, the one that’s not holding the microphone, stays exactly where it is. Because I am not sad. Sad is for other people. Sad is for people who aren’t fun or cool enough to be angry.
I see a couple of guys and one messy-haired drunk lady with their hands up. “Okay, good. Sad is good. Sad is real. Sad…is beautiful. Good for you—sad, lonely losers! Good for you! I’m gonna ask who else is angry next, okay, but sad people—this one’s for you.” I turn to the band and tell them what to play. “This is a song about a reliable little fir tree I like to call…Tannenbaum. We don’t have enough songs about trees, you know that? Why is that? All songs should be about trees. All year long. Trees never break your heart. Trees don’t wear sweater dresses and then slap you in the face when you’re kissing them. Trees aren’t a constant reminder of how little you have to offer them, even when you really, really want to give them…something…anything…any broken piece of you that they’re willing to take… Fuck yeah, trees. This one’s for all the sad people and all the awesome Tannenbaums out there who never make people sad.”
A Very Bossy Christmas Page 7