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“Pulp Fiction!”
He points at me and touches his nose. Sonofabitch, itwasPulp Fiction.
Every seat is taken in the living room, the fire is blazing, and with each glance in his direction, the room seems to get warmer—this wine is not helping to control my ogling. Probably time to switch to water, but after the last few days I’ve had—taking my first plane ride, meeting my biological family, being interrogated at the police station, and fucking my childhood crush, I deserve this big-girl sized glass of wine.
The only thing that sounds better than wine is a good night’s rest—or getting put in my place by Brown Eyes over there. I could use a solid eight to ten hours before tomorrow’s Christmas festivities. Christmases with Julianne consisted of the two of us at the apartment, it was low-key and quiet. The contradictory chaos of the Hayes house is a welcome one. I’m enjoying the lively commotion while everyone is laughing and so happy to be with one another. A true Merry Christmas. It’s another Hallmark qualifier, but I’m embracing it with the rest of them. Sitting back and watching it unfold fills me with happiness too.
Lonan takes off his sweatshirt, and when he pulls his fully tatted left arm out, a silent curse leaves my lips. He’s definitely nailed the bad-boy-next-door look.
I, too, want to nail the bad boy next door. Again.
I swallow and try to look away, but as he peels the heavy layer away, the shirt underneath clings to it, exposing a delicious wall of abdominal muscles.Oh, holy night.He pulls the shirt down, and my gaze returns to his face. He gives me a cocky half smile and winks, letting me know I’ve been caught. It sends equal amounts of thrill and embarrassment through me.
Dear God, it’s me, Birdie. Why the fuck are you punishing me like this?
My cheeks heat, and I’m seriously considering flinging myself into the fireplace. The last gulp of wine is my only cover, it’s the perfect opportunity to step away from the game and get that drink of water from the kitchen.
I’m washing my wineglass in the sink when Lonan’s deep voice catches me by surprise, and I flinch.
“So, what do you think of your first Pajamarades?” I keep my back to him so he doesn’t see the lingering blush on my face.
“Oh, um...” I rinse off the soap.Focus, Birdie.“It’s a lot of fun! Maddie is so funny when she gets up there and starts giggling.” I laugh, drying my glass, thinking about her adorable fish lips when she acted out Finding Nemo a few moments ago. I let it derail my thoughts from him.
I’m forced to face Lonan when I slide the now-clean wineglass back into the rack under the kitchen island. Then I open and close cabinet doors in search of a tall glass to fill with water. My mouth is as dry as a desert, and I’m hyperaware of my every move.
“God, I know. She’s such a cute kid,” he says as he twists off the cap off a new beer.
Jesus, where the hell are the glasses?
As if the Lord himself is answering my plea, Lonan, without turning around, reaches behind him and opens a cupboard door. And lo and behold, there they are. He doesn’t hand me one.No, that would be too easy.Instead, he positions himself in front of them, watching me with a wicked gleam in his eye. I walk toward the glasses, but his feet remain firmly planted, blocking me from the shelf. I stand there like a petulant child, my heartbeat racing, letting the anticipation of whatever game he’s playing build and build. He studies me over the lip of his beer as he slowly takes a swig. Why is he doing this? His throat bobs as he swallows, and it’s strangely erotic.
We continue to stare at each other until I break the silence. “Could you hand me a glass?”
He takes another drink.
“What’s the magic word?”
I reach out. “Please?”
He grabs a glass and holds it out to me.“That’s a good girl.”
The muscles in my core tighten, and I pray my face doesn’t show any tells. I snatch my hand back and steel my demeanor, thankful he can’t hear the pulse that’s ringing in my ears. The room is filling with sexual energy again.
“I’m going to call it a night,” I say, turning on my heel.
“Just like that? I thought you wanted a drink.”
“I’m not thirsty,” I respond. Hoping he picks up on the double meaning.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he backpedals, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
He sets his beer on the counter and stalks toward me. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he averts his gaze to the floor.
“I, ah... I haven’t had a chance to tell you I’m really happy you’re home.” When his gaze lifts to meet mine, his eyes are glassy. My shoulders relax at his candidness.
“Thanks,” I say cautiously. “It’s been a pretty surreal experience, to say the least.”
“In a couple days, I’ll be traveling for a game, but I’d like to stay in contact. I’m in Vancouver and Seattle several times a year, if you’re up for it, I’d like to see you when I’m in town. That is, if you decide not to move here.”
