“When you start doing stupid shit, like eating spaghetti with raw meatballs and going back for seconds, because she cooked it. Smuggling a labradoodle out of your house in a duffle bag at three a.m. so it’s still a surprise on Christmas Day.” His attention falls to my knuckles and his jaw tightens. “When you start using your fists because you need to the feel the bones of the man that hurt her break underneath them.” He eyes my vodka and shakes his head. “When you start drinking like a Russian, even though you own a seventeen-percent stake in one of the fastest-growing whiskey companies in the world.” Meeting my eyes again, he adds, “That’s how you know.”
There’s a fresh wave of cheers, but I hear them like I’m underwater. A very un-festive guitar riff pours through the speakers and turns my head to the stage. Penny’s standing under the lights, microphone in hand. Fuck, she looks good. Beautiful, even. Wearing a little red dress and heels that both shimmer when she does an awkward wiggle to the beat.
“I haven’t heard this song since we were in school,” Angelo says.
“What song?”
When she starts singing, realization spreads through me. I still, looking up at Penny’s shit-eating grin as she sings into the mic. FuckingKiss Me,by Sixpence None the Richer. Running a hand over my jaw, I laugh in disbelief. I’m sure there’s nothing coincidental about that song choice.You’re a little brat,I mouth at her. She winks in response.
Angelo’s stare heats my cheek. His chair groans, then he’s on his feet, his hand on my shoulder.
“When you have private jokes,” he murmurs.
He strolls over to join his wife, while my grin dampens at the edges.
Thenightisaholly-jolly blur of bad singing, mulled wine, and risky bets placed on roulette wheels with afuck it, it’s Christmasattitude. Condensation mists the portholes, and even the icy breeze trickling in from the cracked French doors does nothing to dull the searing heat burning through my veins.
I’m taking a respite in the bathroom, running my wrists under the tap. As I glance up to check on my makeup, I pause.
I’mgrinning.
I guess I get it now, why people love Christmas. I’ve barely drunk but the festive excitement has seeped into my pores and intoxicated me.
Growing up, the holidays were nothing more than a week to muddle through. Some Christmases, I’d receive the most ridiculously expensive presents from my parents, which would then be slowly pawned off throughout the year to fund their binges. Other years, I’d get our DVD player wrapped up in the pages of the Devil’s Coast Herald.
When you’re surrounded by people you actually like, it feels different. Magical, even.
I’m twisting off the tap when I hear a nasal voice seep under the door.
“Oh, boss! I’m glad I caught you. I hope you don’t mind, but I just had to use your private en-suite. Every bathroom on the yacht was in use, and after four glasses of champagne, I didn’t have the patience to wait in line for the Little Girls room.”
A bitterness fills my mouth. It’s Anna. I glare at the empty row of cubicles in the mirror and brace my hands on either side of the sink.
“Mm. All twelve of them were occupied,” Rafe muses. His tone is cashmere-clad but I catch the irritated undercurrent. “Such a coincidence.”
“Indeed. Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice all the female products. So…who’s the lucky lady?”
My brain doesn’t have time to slow my impulse; I yank open the restroom door and stomp down the hall. Rafe’s at the end of it, and Anna with her back to me. His gaze slides to mine over her head, amused and all mine. Deep down, I know why I didn’t wait for his response: if he told a lie, something in me would shatter a little.
My shoulder connects with Anna’s more aggressively than necessary as I slide in beside Rafe. I put a possessive hand on his chest, and when his hand slides around my hip and brings me closer to him, a warm satisfaction runs south.
I turn my attention to Anna. “Mine,” I say sweetly. “Now, fuck off.”
Her shocked expression tastes delicious, but the silence thrums in my ears. I know I’m dipping my toe into bunny-boiler territory but I don’t give a fuck. I guess I’ve learned two things tonight: why people love Christmas and why women do crazy shit like smash up cars with baseball bats over men.
Anna looks up at Rafe as if he’s an SOS signal. He only brushes his thumb over my hip and says, “Happy Christmas, darling.”
She huffs and click-clacks back to the party. When the door slams shut, leaving us alone in the corridor, I twist out of Rafe’s grip to face him.
A hint of a smirk pulls on his lips. He swipes at it with a thumb and slides his hands into his pockets. “Meow.”
Maybe it’s only because the heels I’m wearing are a couple inches taller than usual and all this height is giving me new confidence, but I curl my finger around his collar pin and yank him toward me.
“Call another woman darling again, and she’ll die crossing the road.”
It echoes what he said to me after I gave him a lap dance in his car. Guess that’s why he raises a brow and searches my eyes for humor. When he doesn’t find it, he nods, a small amount of satisfaction leaking through.
“If that’s what you want, Queenie,” he says quietly.