“Um. Hi. I was wondering if you have wiper blades? It’s starting to sleet, and one of my blades is just dragging and streaking.”
I whirl so fast that cookies go skidding off the plate. Manny catches them like a star outfielder, and they disappear into his mouth. “Victoria!” I gasp.
“Told you,” Rhea mutters.
Victoria smiles. She’s in a slinky little black dress. Dressed up for this Christmas party.
“Uhhh... You know what, I’m sure I do. But I don’t want you two to be late for the Christmas party.” Manny takes his keys from his pocket and passes them to me. “Take my truck, and we’ll bring over Victoria’s car when I get the blade on. Won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protests softly, eyes wide.
“It’s no trouble, and it’s getting slick out there,” Rhea urges, her hand out for Victoria’s keys, which she slowly hands over. “You two run along. Lazarus, wrap those cookies up tight—after Victoria tries one. Victoria, Lazarus made these himself. They’re divine.”
“He can bake?” One smooth brow arches, and she tentatively walks over and takes one of the cookies.
I watch the way her mouth closes over the first bite and...
I swallow hard, pointed canines digging into the inside of my lip. Victoria was there during the great squash fire. In fact, I blame her for it—at least, partially.
“Amazing,” she praises, the tiniest smile on her lips, but real light in her eyes.
“He made them because he knew you would be there,” Manny says, because he has no idea how uncool and overeager that makes me sound.
But the tiny smile turns into a big one, and the little light becomes a high-intensity beam. “You did?”
I wave the accomplishment away like it’s something I do every day. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to think that I’m a total screw up in the kitchen. I can cook, not just set an oven on fire.”
“I’d love the recipe for these.” She takes another one.
Another one!There’s a victory parade in my head. “No problem. I’ll write it down for you.”
“Hurry up, kids. Hungry people, eggnog, and mistletoe await,” Rhea urges.
I scowl. Victoria nods, expression flat—but she’s going to ride in Manny’s truck with me.
“Brings back memories,” she says.
I saved her life in this truck—not knowing she was there to end mine. “Seems like old times. Here, hold the cookies?”
She puts them on her lap after she climbs in, long, long legs crossed at the ankles.
I try to act like I’m just making sure the cookies are secure. “Got ‘em?”
“You’ll have to pry these things out of my cold, dead hands.”
I flex mine. “Join the club. I’m actually sort of room temperature.” I put us in drive and carefully ease out on the streets, following a salt truck as it swooshes by.
“Room temperature hands?”
“Or warmer. Not just my hands. Everywhere.” I don’t know why I tell her that.
“That’s good to know,” she says, and my mind goes to stupid places. I need a distraction. “Pass me a cookie?”
“Keep your hands on the wheel. I don’t want to die going to this dumb party,” she murmurs, and pops the cookie in my mouth, letting her fingers brush over my lower lip for the slightest second.
“We could go somewhere else? Get a drink? I don’t want to deck the halls with the squeaky clean suburbanites, either.”
“We have to go. Your family has my car.”
