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Then he opened his mouth.
What an asshole.
I barricaded myself inside his bedroom the moment I slammed the door last night. Now that the sun is up, it’s probably time for me to leave. Will I tell a slightly embellished version of this story to my friend group next week? Probably. Did I steal his t-shirt to make said embellished story more believable? Yes. Yes, I did.
I zip up my coat, take a deep breath, and open the bedroom door, surprised that he let me sleep this late.
“I’m ready to—”
Loud, obnoxious snores draw my attention to the couch. The rugged man—Jake—is out cold on the stiff leather sofa. One arm hangs over the side, hand dropped against the floor. The other rests on his chest, revealing the same flannel shirt he wore last night. I can’t help but stare at him for a few beats longer than is appropriate. The man is gorgeous. Like something out of a firefighter calendar. I yearn to comb my fingers through the beard that’s a couple days overdue for a trim. All that’s missing is a cute puppy snuggled against his chest.
“Jake?” He doesn’t flinch, so I tiptoe closer and try again. This time a little louder. “Jake?” Nothing. I nudge his shoulder with my leg. “Jake, you’re kicking me out, remember?” Several attempts to shove him awake fail.
My stomach rumbles.
“Well, if you’re going to sleep like the dead, I’m not going to starve.”
I shed my coat and drape it over the suitcase I’ve left by the door. I didn’t bring fixings for a healthy breakfast. Just a tube of cinnamon rolls, extra icing, and enough coffee to keep an Army alert for a week.
I’m not quiet in the kitchen. Metal pans bang and clang at my not so gentle attempts to free the baking sheet I need from the back of a lower cabinet. When I finally get a grip on the damn thing and poke my head above the island counter, I notice Jake still hasn’t budged. If it weren’t for the snoring, I might worry he was dead.
I preheat the oven, start the coffee pot, and position the cinnamon rolls on the pan.
The snoring continues like a freight train barreling off the rails.
Oddly, I’m not annoyed. Probably because Jake sawing logs is still preferable to my mother criticizing my hair, or my clothes, or my weight. My tiny stick of a sister, who never gains a pound during the holidays, isn’t devouring Christmas goodies in front of me.
A glance at the Christmas tree causes a fit of giggles I can’t seem to tame. The damn thing is hideous. Garland is vertical in places. Ornaments are bunched together in clusters, leaving portions of the tree completely bare, and the star at the top is crooked. I’m pretty sure I was drunk last night when I decorated it. The empty bottle of wine on the counter would agree. It’s a wonder I got all the empty totes back in the crawlspace without breaking a limb.
I could leave the tree the way it is for the grumpy man on the couch to deal with. It’d serve him right for how rude he was last night. I bet he’s the Grinchy type that hates Christmas. I start to giggle again as I imagine the horror on his face when he sees the tree in daylight.
But there’s an itch inside me—probably a sober one—that begs me to fix the lack of symmetry. Because at the end of the day, I like things to be even. Maybe it’s some coping mechanism I acquired growing up in my unstable family. Whatever the reason, I decide it’s my tree and I’ll fix it if I want to. Not because someone is nagging at me.
As soon as I’ve slipped the cinnamon rolls into the oven and set a timer, I set my sights on the seven-foot-tall tree. Before I pull up a stool next to it and get to work evening things out, I snap a few pictures for the late Christmas cards I’ll send my family.
As hard as I try to keep my back to the sleeping stranger on the couch, I catch myself constantly sneaking glances. He’s not so bad when he’s asleep. He’s … gorgeous. I’m caught in a trance, watching the rise and fall of his bulky chest when the oven timer goes off.
Because my wild imagination has starting undressing him, I’m not paying attention to my footing and misstep.
Gravity fights my determination to stay upright. I scream. My body rocks unsteadily, leaning just a little heavier toward the Christmas tree. “Shit, shit, shit!”
A horrific image of me hugging a fully decorated Christmas tree as the two of us sail right through a picture window and land unceremoniously into a snowbank flashes as my arms flail for anything I can grab. Anything but the tree.
There is nothing.
I scream again as my body falls forward into the tree.
This is it.
This is how I ruin my own special Christmas. I’m definitely not getting my deposit back. Or a refund, for that matter.
Oh god, is this how I die?
Two strong arms wrap around my thighs and pull me back half a second before I shove the tree into the window. I flail and scream some more as my body rocks unsteadily through the air. When I land, it’s technically on the couch. Except my ass is suffocating the previously sleeping mountain man.
“Little help?” he mumbles, his words vibrating through my leggings right at my core. I have no idea if my moan is silent or not, but one thing is certain. The Ice Age is long over. “Mallory?”
“Hmm?”
