Christmas from Hell
Page 15

 
“And what exactly is this favor that you need?” he asked, pausing by the bathroom door, too damn curious to pretend otherwise. His brother was offering to let him into his sanctuary, which meant that whatever he needed, he was desperate.
 
“I need you to handle something for me,” Lucifer said, muttering a curse as he shook his head in disgust at whatever text message had just come through.
 
“What kind of favor?” he asked, placing his hand over his stomach, damn near crying in relief when his stomach stopped threatening to knock him on his ass and keep him there.
 
“I need you to go down to Dixon Bakery and place an order for me,” Lucifer said, saying the magical words that had him running to the bathroom and cursing his fucking brother to hell and back for asking him to do the one thing that was guaranteed to make him lose his fucking mind.
 
*-*-*-*
 
Sunday, November 29th.
 
“We’re still not talking, sir!” she said with a vicious glare even as she gently placed a bowl of steel cut oatmeal on the table in front of her Grandfather and gave him a kiss on his freshly shaved cheek.
 
“Still?” he asked with a pout that had her rolling her eyes and pushing the bowl of fruit towards him.
 
“Are you going to promise to stop trying to have the ‘talk’ with me?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared down at him, trying to intimidate him into eating his oatmeal as well as stop giving her reasons to one day write to Dr. Phil and ask for his advice on mental health facilities.
 
He took a sip of his coffee as he considered the question and then finally with a sigh and a sad shake of his head, he said, “I don’t think that I can do that.”
 
“Oh, my God, Grandpa,” she said, rubbing her hands down her face, because honestly at this point she didn’t know what else she could do to make it stop. “I’m a virgin!”
 
“Which sadly probably won’t last much longer if you keep having men spend the night in your bed,” he said with a wistful sigh that had her wondering why she’d left Boston.
 
Oh, that’s right, because she’d been fired, left without much of a choice, and honestly, no matter how much he aggravated her, she’d missed him like crazy.
 
She groaned pathetically as she sat down on the chair next to him, reached for a banana and with a sigh, peeled the banana and-
 
“Do you want to give it a try?” her grandfather asked, pulling out a condom and making her seriously wonder about all those late night visits he used to make to Widow Johnson’s place.
 
“No,” she said with a shake of her head as she placed the banana down, not sure that she would ever be able to eat a banana ever again thanks to him, “I’m good.”
 
His eyes narrowed dangerously on her. “You’re not depending on him to do it right, are you?”
 
“There is no ‘he,’” she said, deciding not to point out that there probably never would be either since that would just start another conversation that she didn’t want to have.
 
“Really?” he asked, reaching for the bowl of brown sugar.
 
“Really,” she said, grabbing the bowl away from him before he could ruin his diet.
 
“So…Duncan Bradford? he pointedly asked, bringing up the one subject that she’d thought they’d had an agreement never to discuss.
 
At least in her mind she had.
 
Apparently, her Grandfather felt differently.
 
“Can’t even stand me,” she admitted, moving the bowl of sugar out of his reach.
 
He chuckled as he leaned over, grabbed the bowl and helped himself to a heaping spoonful of brown sugar. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, making her roll her eyes, because they both knew she didn’t have a chance in hell at getting Duncan Bradford to notice her, never mind talk to her.
 
 
Chapter 8
 
Monday, November 30th.
 
Nothing was worth this, not even a chance to finally eat at the Fire & Brimstone, he decided, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped back down from the small porch and headed back towards his house.
 
He should have just told his brother to fuck off when he had the chance. Now he’d be lucky to make it back to his house without the little disaster crossing his path and leaving him with another concussion or maiming him for life because she felt the need to take the trash out at eight at night.
 
This had been a really stupid idea, he told himself with a sigh and a shake of his head as he headed back next door, deciding that no meal was worth this bullshit. He was halfway across the Dixon’s driveway when a very familiar and very enticing scent stopped him in his tracks.
 
“Double fudge brownies,” he said, scenting the air to make sure that he wasn’t imagining things.
 
“Oh, hell,” he heard Mr. Dixon mutter with a heavy sigh as Duncan turned around and headed towards the back of the house, careful of the black ice coating the driveway, to find Mr. Dixon huddled on the back porch, holding a brown paper bag and looking guilty as hell.
 
“Are you okay?” Duncan asked, sending Mr. Dixon a questioning look as he watched the old man noticeably swallow as he placed the paper bag behind his back.
 
“Yes, yes I am,” Mr. Dixon said as though he hadn’t just been caught with a shitload of sugar, “why do you ask?”
 
“Because you’re outside without a coat or gloves and it’s below freezing,” Duncan pointed out, curious to see how the old man was going to try and play this one off when everyone in the neighborhood knew that sugar, butter, salt and everything yummy was off limits to him.
 
His granddaughter had made damn sure that everyone knew that those “minor misunderstandings” that had landed the old man in the hospital had been anything but, and if anyone in the neighborhood felt the urge to share baked goods with him that they should seriously reconsider that urge or she’d show up at your door to have a “talk” with you.