A Festive Feud: A Holiday Romantic Comedy(17)

“After you, Snowflake,” he murmurs when he catches me looking at him, his dark amber eyes smoldering in the way only they can.

Ignoring the nickname, I brush past him toward Town Hall and pull open the heavy front door, letting myself inside.

My first thought is how dark it is, with little to no natural light, and it smells like stale, old mothballs. It’s probably been a year since Town Hall has been used, judging by the amount of dust coating every surface.

My nose scrunches at the sight. God, I have so much work cut out for me.

“Fuck yeah. There’s a bar!” Jackson says excitedly.

Of course, the primary thing he’s worried about is alcohol. Not the place being outdated, dirty, and barely inhabitable.

Why am I not surprised?

“Can you channel your excitement for drinking into something productive like… helping me measure or, I don’t know… figuring out how to let this place air out?”

Jackson walks over, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with this place, Emmie. Very… vintage. Little spit and shine, and she’ll be good as new.”

“Please never say that. Ever again.”

“Why? Making you think about the other night?” He smirks.

Saint Nick help me, but I am. Apparently, my vagina is a ho ho ho for this man, which is very, very problematic.

I close the distance between us in two short strides. “I thought we agreed that we would never, ever, under any circumstance bring that night up again?”

He shrugs. “Did we?”

“You’re infuriating. Has anyone ever told you how absolutely infuriating you are?” I retort, rolling my eyes. “Look, clearly, that was a mistake. One we agreed we would never bring up again, so please, can we… not? This is already complicated enough as it is, and we don’t even like each other, Jackson.”

“I mean, you liked when I had my coc—” Reaching out, I slap my hand over his mouth to silence him, feeling his lips tugging up beneath my fingers.

Asshole.

“Don’t. Seriously, Jackson, this is truly never going to work if we don’t both act like adults and realize that it was an error in judgment and move on. We fucked. It happened, and now we’re moving past it like it never happened.”

I remove my hand from his mouth, and only then do I notice that his whiskey-colored eyes have darkened. He steps forward until the tips of his dirty boots touch my stiletto boots. “Don’t worry, Snowflake. You’ll be begging me for my cock again soon.”

My jaw drops in shock. Excuse me? That… He’s…

Before I can even form a response to that, he’s halfway across the room, pulling a measuring tape out of the back pocket of his sinfully tight, faded jeans.

I don’t let my gaze linger and instead stride over to him. “So you’re just going to measure… What, exactly?”

“Clearly, we’re not getting anywhere standing around, talking about things that don’t matter, right?” His brows rise as if repeating my own words back to me is going to win this argument. “Might as well make good use of the time. What do you need from me?”

Sighing, I walk back over to my bag and pull out my notebook and pen, opening it to the last page I took notes on before… that night happened.

“Uh… Theme. You said you’re against a black-tie cocktail affair, but we have to meet in the middle somewhere. Can we at least have a sit-down, formal dinner? If not, I worry my parents might not even come to the damn party, and it’s important to them, okay? I know you probably don’t care, but this party is a centuries-old tradition for my family.”

“Sure, but I’m not using five forks, and I’m definitely not eating some crazy shit like caviar. How about a sit-down dinner with regular Christmas food? Turkey? Roast? Something everyone likes?”

I nod, brushing my hair out of my face as I write it down in my notebook. “Fine. Champagne? Beer?”

Even though the thought of drinking another beer makes me want to gag, I know we should have a variety for everyone.

“Definitely. Maybe some seltzers? BYOB or a paid bar?”

“BYOB? Oh no. A paid bar,” I say, jotting it down. “What about hiring someone to play piano?”

Jackson’s brows tug together in obvious distaste as he sighs. “Emmie, listen, I understand that you want this to be something fancy, and that’s what your family has always done. I get it. I do, I really do. But I also need you to understand that my family parties… aren’t like that. We’ve got to meet somewhere in the middle,” he says, parroting back my earlier words. “No piano, but what about a band? Something festive and fun and not so… cold? No offense.”

I try not to take offense at that as I scribble it down. “Okay, we can decide on which band later, but the rest sounds okay. For an overall theme, what about… a winter wonderland? We can dress that theme up or down?”

He nods. “Don’t really care about the decorations, Snowflake.”

Thank God. I can’t imagine fighting with him over the color of the decorations.

“Okay, well, I was thinking maybe some real fir garland here? And a few candles on each table to set the tone. Even just a few pieces here and there can make it look classy and elegant. Could you, uh… measure the wall right there?”