A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,4

throws some marshmallows on top.

“I like it.”

I stick my hands in my pockets and try to figure out why I feel all keyed up looking at Mila.

It’s just a dress. How can it change the way she looks so completely?

I clear my throat again when my brain starts going to what she looks like under the dress. “Let me know what I should chip in. I mean, I think we should keep her around, right? I kinda like being able to see the floor.”

Mila waves her hand and passes me a mug, turning to get whipped cream from the fridge. She shakes it and sprays a huge amount on my cocoa.

“Let me pay for it. I’m glad to help her out, you know. Um, are you okay?”

I take the mug, but I’m staring at the whipped cream container in her hand and thinking about...Mila.

And whipped cream.

And that red dress.

And getting her out of it.

What the hell is going on in my brain? Maybe it’s the apartment. I feel completely out of place in my own space right now. Maybe the heavy pine-cleaner scent is screwing with my ability to think properly.

“I’m fine. Uh...we have rum, right?” I put the mug down and go to the cabinet under the sink, looking at the smooth, gorgeous length of Mila’s legs while I do. Yeah, I definitely need a drink. I unscrew the rum and pour a generous shot or two into my mug and hers. “Let’s celebrate. Right? To friends and celebrating the holidays without all the damn stress. Cheers.” I bump my overfull mug against hers as gently as I can, but my hand is a little shaky.

“Cheers.” She takes a sip of her cocoa and coughs. “Whoa! Mmm. That’s good. Strong. No, wait, put those down! We are not eating out of takeout boxes, Landry. Sorry. It’s Christmas Eve. Well, Christmas Eve-Eve. Real plates and silverware, please.”

I’d usually argue, but I feel weird with her tonight. I feel like she’s a powerful, sexy woman telling me what to do, and I’d better listen.

I grab real, if mismatched, plates and we scoop the food onto them. It’s exactly the same scenario that we’ve been in a million times before, but it feels different. When I brush by her to open the cranberry sauce or slide by to get silverware, I feel a little rush.

What the hell?

It’s just a dress. It’s just Mila. Maybe if I tell myself that a few more times, the truth will actually make its way to my brain, because right now, my thoughts are elsewhere.

I take another quick shot of rum directly from the bottle as I follow her way-too-distractingly sexy ass into the living room.

She puts in the movie and plops on the couch, but, instead of the waft of dirty laundry and the chaos of our cluttered little living space, there’re all these softly flickering candles in this neat little room and Mila wrapped like the best possible Christmas gift in that damn red dress.

When I find myself looking away from Jimmy Stewart and over at Mila’s cleavage for the hundredth time, I finally break down and snap a little.

“You wanna change?”

Her head whips up and she faces me, her mouth stuffed with turkey and mashed potatoes, her eyes wide and startled.

Shit.

Maybe that came out a little gruffer than I meant it to.

“Um, okay?” Her entire face and voice twist into one huge question because I’m acting strange, antisocial, out of line.

I attempt damage control.

“I just mean...your friends bought that dress for your New Year’s party. And it would suck if it got food on it. Or whatever.”

What am I talking about? Why does it matter what Mila wears or doesn’t?

“Oh. Yeah. Duh.” She hops up and heads down the hall. “Good thinking!” she calls before she turns into her room. A few seconds go by. “Um, Landry?”

“Yeah?” I gulp down some of the cocoa, wishing it was less chocolate and more rum.

Way more rum.

I need anything to take the edge off.

“It’s got this zipper? In the back, I guess?”

She sounds so confused. Has she never worn a fancy dress before? Not that I have, obviously. But I’ve helped my fair share of horny, dressed-up girls out of theirs.

I go into her room and find her trying to hold the top of the zipper with one hand behind her neck while she curves the other arm up and under in an attempt to pull it down. But it’s not as easy as it looks.

“Stop before