Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I came…”
When a sob swallows his words, I whisper, “I know.”
I don’t remember much about the day my parents were found, but I felt many presences in my room and throughout my apartment. The most obvious was Pierre’s.
As his watering eyes bounce between mine, he asks, “Where have you been? I was told you went back to Broadway, but I’ve yet to see you there.”
“I… ah…” I struggle to lie. It’s worse when I am attempting to deceive someone I care about. “I—”
“Recently returned from a stint on the West End.” Christian bands his arm around my waist and tugs me into his side. “But she’s home now, ready to reestablish roots in her favorite theater.”
Pierre’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You want to perform here?” He steals my chance to answer. “We have a performance booked for this evening. You would be a perfect Christmas ang—”
Christian interrupts him before I can. “We have plans for this evening.”
“Oh.” Pierre’s accent disappears when he is upset, and its departure tugs on my heartstrings as well as it always has.
“But perhaps in the new year, I could consider a minor role.”
I can’t believe those words left my mouth. I lost the love of everything when my parents died. I pulled away from all my family and friends and canceled roles I’d been striving to play since I was a child. Part of me wanted to vanish with my parents. I didn’t because I knew that would have hurt them more than believing I wasn’t coming home for Christmas.
I should have told them about my plans. Then instead of me ringing every hospital in the county for hours on end on Christmas Day, they would have contacted my agent and learned that I was trapped in an elevator that was playing an endless loop of I’ll be Home for Christmas by Michael Bublé.
Frantically, I wipe my cheeks to ensure they are dry before acting like I didn’t spend every waking moment I wasn’t at school in this theater. “Is there a bathroom nearby? I really need to pee.”
My acting skills haven’t slipped any. Pierre gives me directions to the washroom as if I am a newbie student, freeing me from Christian’s concerned stare.
21
CHRISTIAN
For the second time today, my money is no good for the kind people of Ravenshoe. Pierre refuses the cash I hold out for him, stating that seeing Angel backstage again was more rewarding than any payment he could receive.
He’s been assisting her for the past three hours. He is the number-one costume maker in the country, but I’m still surprised by how long it has taken them to get ready.
My elf costume took twenty minutes for Pierre to whip up.
Angel’s secret project hogged the rest.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying to see her selection.
A hundred possibilities are rolling through my head. None match what I get when Pierre coughs to gain my attention two seconds before he pulls back the dressing room curtains Angel darted through almost three hours ago.
I ditched Mrs. Roach’s sweater hours ago. I shouldn’t have bothered. Hairy limb after hairy limb bombards me as I drag my eyes down Angel’s body.
Even her feet are covered with horrid green hairs.
I’ve never seen so much body hair, and I have Greek uncles.
When my eyes land on Angel’s face and I notice she’s gone all out with makeup and prosthetics, a laugh rolls up my chest.
It isn’t faint.
It isn’t polite.
It is the howl of a man beyond amused at the lengths a beautifully stubborn woman will go to make herself unattractive.
Angel is the Grinch.
Not a little.
Not a smidge.
She is the Grinch.
If it weren’t for her eyes, I’d swear Jim Carrey was in front of me, ready to suffocate me with wrapping paper and a ton of dreadful green body hair.
As I approach, Angel dons a grinchy snarl before hitting me with one of Jim Carrey’s famous lines. She sounds just like him, and I understand why Pierre is so desperate to get her to return to the theater. With one line, I’m an addict. She would sell out every show.
Once her performance for two is over, I drink in the entirety of her costume. “Is that a body suit or paint and swatches of the carpet my aunt Sue refuses to replace?”
Pierre answers on Angel’s behalf. “A bodysuit goes from her toes to her neck.”
“Her hair?” I ask, curious.
“Is tucked beneath a wig.” Pierre lifts a small portion of hair next to Angel’s hairy ear, exposing the webbed edging of a wig. “The facial prosthetic glue is temporary. It should loosen up in a couple of hours.”
“And the beer belly? Will that deflate, or do I need to order some de-gas tablets?”
I grunt as if wounded when Angel socks me in the stomach with her hairy hand. “I had to use the extra-large insert.”