I’m not.
I don’t want all that happy holiday bullshit. I don’t want to be a happy couple. I don’t want to sit on a couch and watch Hallmark movies and argue about the tree topper.
I just want to see Ellie come. Over and over. I want to tear that neat little sweater off her, toss her clipboard across the room, and make her forget her goddamn name. I want to ruin her for every guy who comes after me, especially the one who eventually marries her.
The lights blur for a second. I clench my fists. The need to do something buzzes under my skin like static. Fight. Fuck. Play hockey. Break something. Steal something. Score something. Her.
It’s dark now. The stalls are dressed in glowing pinpoints of light. It nags at me. Once upon a time, I used to like Christmas. Love it, even. I don’t now—I love hockey. For a little bit. Until Hudson tells me they have the data they need. Then I guess it’s over. My dream is done. No more Ellie.
Today in her office can’t be the last time I see her.
I take out my phone—nothing from Lawrence.
It’s easy, though, to find her address. Nathan Clarke is a midlevel hockey star, and his house is listed on one of those creepy fan websites. I’m not Lawrence, but I can work Google.
It’s right around the corner, past the ancient library and the bakery that has the creepy gingerbread people that they’ll customize like your family.
The sounds of town merriment filter behind me as I head away from Main Street—bells and cider and snowflakes and “Merry Christmases.”
The Clarke house looks like a postcard. I circle it in the snow, searching. The oak tree is missing leaves, so it’s easy to jump up and grab the lowest hanging branch and pull myself up until I’m at the level of the glowing window, holding my breath. I hope it’s not her parents’.
Fuck.
I freeze in the dark, wishing I had my balaclava on. There’s Nathan Clarke in the window. He’s still got the NHL goalie reflexes. He catches the motion in his peripheral vision. He goes to the window.
Do I drop out of the tree and break my leg? Get caught sneaking around in the tree outside of his youngest daughter’s bedroom?
His wife calls to him. I catch snatches of their conversation:
“… need to be more supportive…”
“… don’t understand…”
Trina throws a pillow at her husband. He goes into the bathroom.
I scurry up the tree, very well aware that I’m a walking cliché, and if I had any honorable intentions with Ellie, I’d put on a clean shirt, comb my hair, for God’s sake, shave, and introduce myself to her family.
But I don’t have honorable intentions. I don’t want to marry her or fall in love with her. Don’t want to stroll through the Christmas market with her. I just want to fuck her into her mattress then fall asleep with my nose buried in her soft honey hair, drunk on the faint gingerbread scent.
I easily make the jump to the roof then curse because I’m pretty sure Nate will pick up the vibrations.
I wait. I don’t hear him shouting or anyone cocking a gun.
There’s a low roof in front of the other glowing window. I drop onto the slate tiles, lighter this time, absorbing the impact into my thighs.
Then I lose my breath as I stare into the window.
She’s sprawled out on the bed, her legs hanging off the side, her tits rising and falling under the thin spaghetti-strap T-shirt. All I can think of is sucking her tits through the thin shirt fabric then fucking her into the mattress until she screams so loud her father comes running.
25
ELLIE
“Iliterally can’t,” I groan as I pull up on the car-lined street.
“There she is! There’s my favorite NHL coach!” my uncle booms drunkenly when Aunt Stacy throws the door open before I can get my keys out.
“Eggnog!” she yells. “Someone get this girl a drink!”
