A Villain for Christmas (The Holyoake Christmas Series, Book 2)

Billie and an American Shot

Firstly, that was one of Billie's first, few, and far between - and also, sober - kisses, so her assessment couldn't be considered conclusive. She only had her books to use as a reference, and the belletristic evidence available to her was far too removed from reality. The Brontës and Tolstoy, after all, provided no basis for comparison when it came to the texture of lips or the skill - or the lack thereof - of moving the latter. Although she had a suspicion that the actions of the man-mountain she'd just been subjected to were somewhat on the same level of chasteness as those that Gaskell tactfully described as 'some time of delicious silence.' Meaning, the man's mouth remained demurely closed; the pressure was light; and he'd closed his eyes a millisecond before his fresh, minty breath brushed at her lips.

There was only one thing that she'd noticed and managed to comprehend somewhat consciously: he smelled amazing! It was a mixture of some sort of a very expensive cologne, and also of fresh crisp air, and something citrusy, and... a humbug sweet?! The latter would be more of a taste than a smell, to think of it.

And then it hit her - she was being kissed!

Billie made a noise that, if she weren't snobbishly against onomatopoeia in fiction, could be written down as mmmhmm-uh-ee! - and jerked away from him. Her feet immediately started sliding on the tightly packed snow of the pathway. She gasped, promptly impersonated Don Quixote's famous adversary - and the man grabbed her scarf on her chest. Her boots went v-v-zh-zhhhhh, shifting her even closer to him - and there she was, bending backwards, suspended in his tight grasp at her scarf, in an ungraceful, pitiful parody on the character of The Matrix. And of course even she had seen the film. She was bookish, not a hermit. She'd found it lacking, thank you very much.

Her mind screamed in panic, mostly due to acute embarrassment. He grabbed her shoulder with his second hand - and Billie instinctively karate-chopped his forearm. Except, Billie knew no karate; and the only chopping she'd ever done had to do with carrots for a soup. What's wrong with you these days?! her inner voice hollered. A-a-a-a-ahhhh! she mentally answered to her inner voice.

Her blow had zero effect on the man, and something told her it wasn't because his too-thin-for-actual-outdoors, stylish, quilted down jacket provided no protection. Is he made of stone?!

"Let me go!" she shrieked - and he did.

Her tailbone met the ground, and she cried out.

They stared at each other. An untimely question popped up in Billie's head: what does he even look like under all this... fur? His chocolate brown hair was long, below his chin, curling on his nape, and tucked behind his ears; a few coiling, heavy strands having fallen out. Or at least she assumed that's where his chin was located. The bottom half of his face was obscured by a thick full beard.

"Um... I didn't– It wasn't–" she started muttering, and floundering, and scooting away from him. "That was– Um..."

He stretched his hand to her, his palm open - and she squeaked; rolled onto her side; rose on all four, and for some bizarre reason, crawled a couple of metres away from him. He made a low noise behind her, rumbling like Billie's vintage kettle when boiling; and Billie jumped up, threw a panicked glance at him over her shoulder - and fled.

***

When she finally came to a halt in the vestibule of the Hall, she'd realised two things. Firstly, her knees, her right buttock, and her hands in formerly soft mittens, were wet. She was dressed in her usual baggy trousers, and they now clung to her skin like some sort of a disgusting amphibian. Secondly, she'd just made an excruciatingly awkward situation at her temporary workplace ten times more excruciating and hundred times more awkward.