* * *

“Do you, Violet? Do you truly love Aiden?” Florentina’s question hung in the air like a leg of lamb hanging from hook in the front window of a butcher shop.

Did I really love Aiden Black, my fake ‘fiancé’?

He stared at me, the intensity of his gaze penetrating my brain, and alerting me to the possibilities of us being together. Kissing. Touching. Taking each other’s clothes off. Naked together. I broke out in goosebumps. His dimples were impossibly cute and I could swear he ran his tongue over his lower lip. Most likely nerves. I had to look away before I revealed what I was fantasizing about, and like an idiot, I focused my attention on my feet. “Of course, I love him, Florentina. Why else would I agree to marry him?”

“Wait, wait,” Mom said. “I need to know the important part.”

“That is the important part. What could be more important than announcing my engagement to the man I love?”

“Is Aiden Catholic?”

“Of course not. You know I would never marry a Catholic.”

“That’s silly, Violet,” Uncle Vincent said. “You’re Catholic.”

What kind of family hurtles through the air in a private luxury jet on Christmas Eve having a discussion this ridiculous? Did Santa have to put up with this shit with his helpers? Was he tempted to toss his minions from the sleigh or had he gone so far as to put them on his personal ‘No Fly’ list? Did he say, ‘Fuck you, helper elves. Get your own reindeer-driven sleigh that travels magically through the air because I am done hauling your negative nosy asses around for free?’

“Thank you,” I said and accepted a sparkling water from the flight attendant. “It’s absolutely fine if women are Catholic. For the most part women are able to separate devotional beliefs and practices from dogma that could box in their personal lives. But that dynamic doesn’t work all that well if they marry Catholic men. Catholic men are a different breed. Somewhat repressed.”

“That’s not fair,” Mom said. “Uncle Vincent’s Catholic.”

“Exactly. Repressed. Controlling. He makes everyone in the family do everything that he wants. People bow and scrape and suck up to him because he has power and money. I despise what he represents. Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant, “might I have a glass of cabernet?”

“Yes, Miss Accardi,” he said.

“Ms. Accardi.” I frowned.

“There’s nothing wrong with power or money,” Uncle Vincent said.

“I believe people should govern with an open hand, not a closed fist,” I said.

“I hear you, sister,” Florentina said. “My hand is wide open, just waiting and willing for a glass of wine to fill it. It’s five o’clock somewhere. Excuse me, Mr. Flight Attendant?” She waved a hand in the air.

“Yes, Ma’am. Can I get you something?”

“That’s Ms.,” Florentina said. “A nice glass of Vino Rosso, my friend. Don’t skimp on the pouring.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You’ve got a point, Violet, on the open hand,” Uncle Vincent said. “Join my organization. Give up that little venture of yours. I have the perfect position for you in the family business. Head of marketing.”

“Thank you, no. I already have a job. CEO of Accardiwear. My company’s building every year it’s on the market.”

“An adorable hobby for a young woman from a privileged background,” he said. “You should be very proud. Having said that, I still encourage you to change your mind about my job offer.”

“Patronizing much, Uncle Vincent?”

“The patriarchy has existed forever for a reason. Come back to the family business. Shake things up a bit.”

“Fuck the patriarchy.” I downed my glass of wine.

“Right,” he said. “Are you interested, Aiden? I took the liberty of checking out White Glove Agency’s financial stats. You’ve done quite well growing this company in the last five years.”

“Thank you, sir. But I’m good.”

“Where are my manners?” Mom said. “Welcome to the family, Aiden. Please call me Jeanie.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Jeanie.”

“I know Violet has most likely painted a dreary picture of the Accardi family. Undoubtedly she told you that we are bigoted and provincial. But as long as my daughter is marrying someone who loves her for exactly who she is, I for one am ecstatic. I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something personal.” Mom squeezed her hands together as her knuckles blanched white.

“Of course not.”

“What religion are you?” She crossed herself.

He sighed, turned toward me and smiled ruefully. “I’m Catholic.”

“Fuck me,” I said.

“Don’t swear,” Mom said then clapped her hands in delight.

“I’ll stop swearing when someone tells me where we’re going.” I stomped my foot on the thinly carpeted airplane floor, and cringed when the harshness from the underlying cold metal reverberated up my leg.

“Traveling to the motherland for Catholics,” Uncle Vincent said.

“Heaven?” Florentina looked toward the ceiling and crossed herself.

He threw his head back and laughed like the devil. “Close, Florentina. We’re flying to Italy. Sicily to be precise.”

* * *

How do you kill ten hours with the hottest guy in the world whose bones you are dying to jump but you can’t because you’re in close confines with your family on a small jet? This was definitely not heaven. Rather, I suspected I’d landed in Christmas from hell.

My mom stared at us and smiled knowingly. Rosalia shot vindictive looks in my direction as she paged through a copy of Italia Weddings. Auntie Florentina drank wine, ate appetizers and played games on her tablet. Uncle Vincent was absorbed in his laptop. Salvatore the Meatloaf slept the entire time, his chin resting on his thick chest, snores rumbling from his open mouth.

Being that Aiden was poof, like magic, my pretend fiancé, I figured some closeness and occasional displays of PDA were expected. But I’d never been ‘engaged’ before, so what did I know about this kind of stuff?

“How do you want to play this?” I leaned in and asked him. “A little smoochie? Or reserved and old fashioned? You know—here’s the bad example—we share the occasional longing look.”

“How do you want to play it?”

I turned to the back of the plane and thought of the Mile High Club. I was not yet a member of this exclusive alliance. I’d wait until all the ‘adults’ in my family were snoozing, quietly make my way to the back of the plane and enter the cubicle. A minute later Aiden would squeeze inside and lock the door. He’d kiss me. His lips would be delicious and soft, unlike the hardness of his arms that I brushed my hands over. I’d unbutton his shirt, run my hands over his muscular chest, grab his tight ass with one hand and pull him against me.

He’d slip one hand under my top, trace his fingers across my stomach’s bare skin, and unhook my front clasp bra with a flick of his fingers. He’d move up my breast with one hand, kneading it, rubbing his thumb across my nipple, and it would harden under his attention. I’d moan. He’d lean down and kiss me ravenously, his mouth claiming mine, the stubble from his skin scraping across my face. I’d sigh and lose my breath.

I’d unzip his pants and watch his cock spring free and bump against me. It would be big and thick and just as beautiful as him. There would be no way in the tight confines of the bathroom that I could pleasure him with my mouth, but there would be plenty of other fun things I could do with his beautiful dick. And then, just when things were getting good, no doubt there’d be a knock on the door.

“Violet?” my mother would ask. “What are you doing in there? Do you need help? Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine. Just fine,” I’d say, and plant my hands on Aiden’s sweaty shoulders and stare up at him. I’d reluctantly shrug my bra back on and he grudgingly clip the front hook. “I’m sorry,” I’d whisper, and run a hand over his cock.

“You’re not the only who’s sorry,” he’d say.

“Violet?” Florentina would ask as she pounded on the door. “Just say ‘No’ to the marriage trap. You’ll regret for the rest of your life!”

“Oh God,” I’d say and bite my fist. “Welcome to your typical fucking Accardi holiday nightmare.”

“No bloodshed yet,” he’d say and zip that beautiful prick back in his pants.

“Another time?” I’d ask and check the mirror for unseemly makeup smudges or hickeys.

“Definitely, love,” he’d say, and wrap his arm across my chest and kiss my hair with his warm lips.

And sadly, my fantasy ended as quickly as it started.

“A little smooch is good,” I said, in real life, in real time to Aiden who—sadly—was fully dressed and sat in the airplane seat next to me. “People expect that display of affection from engaged couples. Maybe a light brush of your hand across my cheek. Something sweet with a hint of sexy.”

“Like this?” He leaned in so close I could smell the soap on his skin—something subtle, earthy with a hint of bergamot. Hot. He smoothed a wisp of hair off my forehead and kissed me lightly on the lips. Hotter.

Tingles erupted down my spine making their way uninvited to my sex and I shivered. “Yes. Exactly like that. In fact, I think you should do that again. Just so we can be sure that move works.”

“I agree.” He kissed me again, and brushed back another errant strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Wouldn’t want this to fall into your pretty eye, Violet.”

I closed my eyes and stifled a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Not to be a dick, but this is a total turn on,” he whispered. “How often can we do this fake fiancé affection stuff and get away with it?”

“How often do you want to do this stuff?”

“Too much.” He stared into my eyes and I caught my breath.

“You’re tempting me, Aiden Black.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“You two are impossibly cute,” Mom said. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out her camera. “I’m just dying to snap a photo of you and post it...”

“No!” I yelled.

Spell broken.

“Spoil sports.” Mom reluctantly put her phone away.

“What shall we do with the elephant in the room?” Aiden whispered.

“I’m so sorry about my family.”

“Not your family,” he said. “I’m impossibly attracted to you. But technically, because you are a White Glove client, Ms. Accardi, I’m not allowed to act on my attraction.”

“Really?” I stared into his beautiful eyes.

“Really.”

“Those seem like stupid rules. Who made those rules?”

“Me.”

“Okay. Maybe the rules aren’t stupid. Maybe they are smart. Are there exceptions to the rules?”

“I’m not supposed to make exceptions. Someone has to run a tight ship at White Glove.”

“How tight?” I wet my lips.

“You’re killing me, Violet.” He dropped his forehead into his hand.

“That’s not what I meant!” I felt myself flush a thousand shades of crimson even though that was exactly what I’d meant. “Let’s do a lightening round of ridiculous and embarrassing personal facts. Take our mind off…stuff.”

“Ridiculous and embarrassing?” he asked.

“Go big or go home. When I spotted you at the White Glove Christmas party at Positano Trattoria, I asked my matchmaker about you.”

“How is that ridiculous or embarrassing?”

“I revealed that I was checking you out. Exposing my vulnerability.”

“Got it. Hot. When I saw you at the White Glove Christmas party in that black dress I wanted to rescue you from that thug.”

“You’re a gentleman. I like that. When I was fifteen I talked my parents into letting me enter Ms. Teenage Illinois Contest.”

“I can see it.”

“I had a unibrow and no talent.”

He squinted. “I can still see it.”

“The unibrow?”

“No, the genuine reasons why you entered the contest.”

“I made it past the first round but was kicked out after the talent competition. Apparently my rendition of “Hopelessly Devoted to You” was sub-par.”

“Those judges were probably jealous.”

“They were discerning.”

“When I was seventeen, I made the mistake of confessing to my parish priest that I was having a sexual relationship with my first girlfriend.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Lucky girl.”

“Asshole priest. He used the information to his advantage.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t have shared that with him. It came back to haunt me. Haunt a lot of people.”

“You can share anything with me,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“We should probably do one of those fake fiancé affectionate things. Keep them believing.”

“What do you have in mind?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“Hold hands.” He held his out to me.

I took it, intertwining my fingers between his.

“You can lean your head on my shoulder if you like.”

“You’re a sweetie, Cuoco.” I rested my head on his shoulder. My cold heart was cracking open and I wondered what the fuck I’d gotten myself into.

* * *

Ten hours after we took off from Midway Airport we landed in Trapani, a mid-sized coastal town on the Mediterranean coast of Sicily. I woke up, face planted into Aiden’s shoulder, my lips swimming in a puddle of drool congealed on the arm of his triple blend thermal shirt.

“Morning, beauty,” he said, and fired off a text with his free hand.

I blinked in horror, extricated myself from his solid, muscular shoulder, brushed away spit tentacles, and wiped them self-consciously on my skirt. “I’m sorry. I owe you a new shirt. At this point I probably owe you an entire holiday.”

He smiled, twinkle wrinkles creasing around the corners of his gorgeous eyes. He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Valentine’s Day in Paris.”

“Sorry to say, my budget is more President’s Day at Red Lobster.”

“We’ll compromise.”

“I owe you big time, Cuoco. And I always pay my debts. Why are you even here? You’re far too nice to be hanging out with the Accardi family.” I reached for my purse and pulled out a compact. I snapped it open and frowned at my makeup-smeared reflection. “By the way, thanks for not telling me that I look like shit.”

“That’s because you don’t look like shit. Besides, we do crazy things for family.”

“I hear you loud and clear on doing nutty things for our family. I look like Big Bird.”

“I like big birds,” Florentina said, dragging her purple suitcase past us down the aisle. “My Scandinavian lover, the famous artist, Peter Swenson said I looked like an erotic version of stork when he painted me in the nude in 1965. I do believe that piece hangs in the Tate Modern in London.”

“That’s nice, Florentina,” I said.

“Very retro, Florentina,” Uncle Vincent said, stood up from his seat, and stretched, his arms creaking overhead.

“Violet, why don’t you borrow my brush,” Mom said, making a face, and pointing to my head with one hand while rifling through her purse with her other.

“Jeanie, our ride’s waiting.” Vincent said. “She can beautify on the way.”

“I’m saying hi to grandpapa and then I’m booking a flight home.” I stood, stretched my hips side to side, and glanced at Aiden. “And I’m taking him with me.”

“Sono a casa. Grazie dio!” Rosalia pushed past Florentina, and exited the plane, the first passenger out the door.

“Now that the reluctant tourist is home,” I tilted my head in her direction, “I don’t have to look out for her anymore. Right?”

“Yes, Scrooge,” Mom said. “Where’s your Christmas, spirit?”

“Back in Chicago with my business.”

Florentina paused at the front of the plane, sunlight framing her high cheekbones, lighting her pretty blue eyes, and wild silver hair cascading down her back. She looked like a goddess.

“Rosalia is kneeling on the tarmac and kissing the ground,” Florentina said. “Is this a Sicilian holiday custom? I don’t think I can kneel. I had to give up giving blowjobs on my knees after the left one was replaced. Once I’m that far down it’s almost impossible to get back up.”

Mom slapped her hands over her ears.

I glanced at Aiden. “You didn’t hear that.”

“Hear what?” He whistled under his breath.

“Not a Sicilian custom, Florentina,” Uncle Vincent said.

“Do not kneel,” Mom said. “Salvatore, help Florentina with her bag, please.”

“Hang on, Florentina,” He walked down the aisle toward her.

“I am so sorry about my family,” I whispered to Aiden. “They’re too much—okay, let’s just call it—they’re batshit crazy.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No, it’s not. It’s going to get worse.”

“Bloodshed worse?” Aiden asked, his eyes narrowing with worry.

“Probably. There will be horribly embarrassing moments. Inappropriate comments. Uncomfortable situations. And when you’re around the Accardis—always bloodshed. Name your nightmare you’ll find it in an Accardi family holiday.”

“Other than the bloodshed I’m up for it.” He stood and held his hand out to me.

I took it. His hand was large, warm, and for some reason, it made me feel safe.

He interlaced his fingers between mine and helped me stand up. I could smell the dark undertones of his cologne, and was aware of his hard, defined forearm muscle that flexed and corded under his warm shirt that I’d just slept on.

Yum.

“Ready?” he asked.

Oh, yes, I was ready for a lot of things…

“Indeedy.”

I walked behind him and stared at the way his shirt hugged the planes of his wide, muscular back. I imagined tugging that warm shirt off. I’d run my hands down his neck, shoulders, chest, moving slower, more appreciatively the lower I got. I’d take my time and brush my fingers down his ripped abdominal muscles, appreciating Every. Single. One. Oh, yes, unlike Florentina, I loved to work out, had healthy joints, and could drop to my knees at a moment’s notice.

I was half tempted to do just that right now.

If we were alone, I’d push that shirt up and kiss his ripped, bare stomach, asking him if he liked this in between licking and nibbling each abdominal muscle on my journey south to his big, thick cock. How much fun would it be to unbutton the top of his jeans, and lower the zipper—slowly. Inch. By. Inch. Feel his dick grow hard, warm, pulsing under the pressure of my fingers as it strained against the tough fabric.

I’d tug those pants down, maneuvering them over his hips, bite my lip in anticipation until his dick sprang free, already big and hard and up for whatever was going to happen next. I’d hold it in my hands before I took it in my mouth, circled my tongue around it, licked it from head to base and then back again, his heat, his hardness spurring me on. Feeling him respond to my mouth, my breath, would make me even hotter for this man. Wetter for this man. Ready for this man. And suddenly I wondered—

When was the last time I’d had sex with someone I was seriously attracted to?

I counted silently in my head. Twelve months…eighteen months? Twenty-four—no, that could not be. I hadn’t had hot sex with someone I was crazy about for two years? That was sad. A personal tragedy. Okay, better question. When was the last time I’d actually had any kind of sex?

A year ago?

Um… yes.

I’d been laid by what’s-his-name, the cute blonde I’d met at the Memorial Day picnic. He was thirty. I was in my early twenties. I was in the prime of my life and I hadn’t had sex in a year? My story was growing even sadder by the second.

“Earth to Violet?” Aiden asked.

I blinked, shaking off my hot Aiden fantasy. “I’m here.” I bumped my shoulder against his as we stood at the top of the jet’s staircase. The Mediterranean air was crisp, and my nostrils crinkled from the hint of salt. The temperature was in the forties, practically a heat wave compared to Chicago.

Jets were parked, only a few with a smattering of activity around them: luggage carts, guys wearing earphones directing them to taxi forward. “I’ve got an idea, Cuoco.”

“I like your ideas,” he said, holding tight to my hand as we descended the stairs.

“See the direction my family is headed?”

He squinted. “Yes. Toward the terminal. What’s your idea?”

“I’m healthy. You’re healthy.”

“Agree.”

“Would it be so terrible if, when we got to the bottom of this staircase…” I tugged on his hand.

“What?”

“We made a run for it in the opposite direction?”

He squeezed my hand tighter an burst out laughing. Our clenched hands brushed against his muscular thigh and an unexpected shiver raced up my arm.

“Ha!” he said. “That won’t work. We have to go through customs first.”

“I have nothing to declare. How about you?” I smiled up at him as our feet hit the pavement.

“Ditto. But the airport guards are carrying Uzis. They might see things differently.”

“Chances are they have nothing to declare either.” Aiden Black was like a drug. Inspiring colorful delusions, magical feelings. I needed to ground myself, stick both feet firmly in reality, which reminded me I needed to check what was happening with my business back in Chicago. I reached for my phone to text my assistant.

The winds blew around us. I was halfway through a message when I glanced up at the winds ruffling Aiden’s thick hair and stopped in my tracks. Good God, this man was startlingly handsome. His clothes were casual, yet they fit him like they’d been crafted for his body. I doubted he was wearing custom made clothes. He didn’t seem the type. I didn’t recognize the signature touch of any of my designer pals or icons.

I wanted to touch his arm, run my hand down the fabric, feel the muscles cord under my hands. I wanted to touch his ass, pull him toward me, grind up against his cock, hopefully at the same time that he kissed me. It was obvious he worked out. He was muscular but still lean. He took care of his body but wasn’t a steroid gym rat. And he was smart as shit. What in the hell was he doing here with me? In a foreign land? Under false pretenses? With my crazy family?

A delicious feeling tingled down my spine, making its way to my sex. In spite of all the holiday stress, my nutso family, and the fact that I was exhausted, Aiden Black was making me dripping wet. If I was a betting woman—which I was on occasion—we’d be getting into trouble sometime soon.

I wanted to test these waters. I wanted to play dirty with Aiden Black and I went for it. “Come on, Cuoco. You’re already throwing caution to the wind. Seriously, you wouldn’t go to mass with me but now we’re halfway across the world? I don’t even know why you’re here. It makes no sense. But all this holiday lunacy just makes me want to do something even wilder.”

“Miss Accardi,” he said, raising one dark eyebrow. “Are you challenging me to a dare?”

“Perhaps. Look over there. To our right. The Air Italia jet. If we hit the ground hard we might be able to reach it in time.”

“What do we do then?”

“I’ll give you a leg up and you knock on the cockpit window. Flirt shamelessly with the co-pilot. Convince him into sneaking us on board.”

He grinned, sexy twinkle wrinkles crinkling next to his eyes. “If only it were that simple.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “You crack me up, Violet Accardi.”

Goosebumps sprouted on the back of my arms. Maybe this holiday with my family wouldn’t be as bad as I had imagined. Maybe all I wanted for Christmas was standing right next to me, holding my hand. Maybe all I wanted for Christmas was Aiden Black.