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

Billing Conundrum

Damn Bondarenko with her ideas.

His head tilt intensified.

"Friends who k-kiss?" he asked, and Billie nodded. "But nothing else?" he added.

"That's right," Billie confirmed.

And now Billie Harewicke knew what they meant by 'internal screaming.' Everything inside shook. But at least she'd managed to put a label at what was happening. Labels are good. Labels make Billie comfortable.

Is it comfortable... or languid? a small voice asked in the back of her mind.

Oh bugger off, Billie snapped, once again internally. Those who preach the whole 'you'll never know until you try' philosophy clearly haven't experienced failing in every bloody thing they tried!

He got up and gave her hand a firm shake. How's his skin so warm all the time? He smiled warmly and said, "D'accordo."

That was surprisingly easy. Perhaps, she wasn't denying him anything he was particularly interested in. Sounds about right.

And then she thought that if he took her suggestion and decided to find himself a different 'therapist,' half of the village would queue! Once one got over the first impression of his Beast-ly appearance - and maybe by the modern standards, not even so... what does she know about males? - the man was rather quite a treat. Even for someone that disinterested in 'sugar' as Billie. Oh fiddlesticks.

"D'accordo," Billie repeated and extricated her hand from his gentle grasp. "And now I'm going home. I'm knackered."

"Aspetta! Ma perché?" When his eyebrows jumped up like this, Billie couldn't help but to see a glimpse of the boy from all those years ago. "We're going to dinner. I'm cooking."

Ah, and here's the 'pinecone hand.' Is it just Billie, or is he significantly more animated than usual?

Also, does he know how questions and invitations work, in theory? The man seemed to mostly state, affirm, and sometimes even command.

A long list of arguments against the whole idea of her showing up at a Holyoake residence uninvited, ran through her mind like frames of an archival microfilm. She rejected the first two - namely, her being intimidated by, and if she were honest, terrified of every single of his relatives; and all of the erroneous assumptions the Fleckney gossip mill, and especially her Aunts and sisters, would make - and she went for the weak protest of 'It's your family dinner. I'd hate to intrude.'

"You won't," he dismissed and raked his hand through his hair.

It momentarily distracted Billie from her nerves. So far, whenever they'd been in immediate proximity, she'd mostly been sort of grabbing and holding for dear life in the general area of his chest, shoulders, and - oh dear, the colossal biceps! - his upper arms. She had, nonetheless, been having half-formed ideas pertaining to his coffee-coloured mane. Who wouldn't?! The glossy, heavy, as if permanently windswept, tousled tresses, were probably styled but looked - and felt - clean and fresh. His hair vastly exceeded 1995 Fitzwilliam's in quality and density; arguably even outshining, all puns intended, 2008 Edward's; or even, Heaven above, 2007 Tom's. If at all, Billie tended to categorise men in her mind using characters in screen adaptations, mostly of Austen as seen above, since she had no interest in the actors playing them - which was twice as ironic in her current situation. The Holyoakes had excellent genes when it came to follicular matters. His Italian blood would only have strengthened his crinal abundance.

And not only above his neck.

Wait– What the steinbeck was this thought?!

Earth to Billie! Who cares how hairy his chest is! He's packing his mobile and his earphones to take you to your personal version of Thornfield!

"Eric, I honestly don't think it is such a good idea," Billie started muttering. "Or is it about your stammer again?"

He quizzically lifted one eyebrow.

"Will you–" Billie searched for the right words. "Feel better if I go with you?"

He chuckled. "I do feel good around you."

What's this supposed to mean?

"And we need to t-talk," he said and pushed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. "And you need to try my pappardelle."

"I'm not sure that– Wait, what is pappardelle?" Billie couldn't help but ask.

The left corner of his lips twitched. "You'll see. You'll love it. I'm good." He gave her a cheeky side glance. "There'll be cacciucco, bistecca, and lampredotto. Family recipes. And I brought some spuma bionda and torta di ceci, for Nana Mable from Nona Esther."

And that was when it clicked!

"Your grandmother is Esther Spruce!" Billie squalled and clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.

He barked a surprised laugh.

"Yes?"

"The Esther Spruce! Fleckney's most famous bookworm! Librarian Supreme! My personal hero!" Billie was starting to hyperventilate. "Blimey! How did I not connect it?! Your grandparents are Esther Spruce and the Reverend Roland Holyoake! Your father is Little Rhys! Rhys T. Holyoake, the boy detective from Esther Spruce's novels! And the 'T' stands for–"

He lunged ahead and pressed his index finger across her lips.

"We d-don't t-talk about it, cara," he said.

Billie's eyes boggled. "Heaven's to Betsy! Don't tell me you've inherited it!"

Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt. Just look at his shifty eyes!

"You did!" she shrieked. "So where is it? Are you Federico Giovanni– Oh, Frederic and John! That all makes sense now! Oh you poor soul!" Billie tried to hold it back, but the first snort escaped. He gave her a pretend glare. He was clearly faking it since his shoulders were shaking in silent laughter too - but yeah, that's such perfect blackmail material! "So, where among your names is it?" Billie continued teasing. "Are you Federico Gionvanni T–"

She didn't get to pronounce the blighty name, because he growled - woah, that's one deep, resounding rumble - squished her face between his large, hot palms, and snogged all sense out of her.