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“Numb is good,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “No. It’s awful. What’s the point of being here if we don’t feel anything? I sobered up, and I let the pain in. Then I was diagnosed with narcolepsy which one doctor thought might have been triggered by my husband’s death and the alcoholism that ensued. My publisher threatened to drop me after the golf cart incident. Then I wrecked my car, completely sober, because I fell asleep at the wheel at three in the afternoon. I hit a tree. There were some pictures of it that got out and rumors of me falling off the wagon. My blood test came back negative for alcohol, but my publisher was not in the mood to believe me. Without proof, they had to give me one more chance. So now, I have to stay out of trouble. They couldn’t care less if I’m driving drunk or driving asleep.”
“No police reports,” I say.
“No police reports.” She returns a sharp nod.
“I’m a dick. Staying here. Wrapping the whole damn house in decorations which must cause you more pain—”
Serena shakes her head. “I’m not triggered by the holidays. I’m just not in the mood for them. I don’t know … it feels disrespectful to him to enjoy this time of year. Is that weird?”
“No. I mean … you’re asking the guy who’s pretending this is still his house so he can lie to his mom. Oh … and he’s told her you’re his girlfriend.”
A beautiful, although hesitant, smile graces her face. “I’m sure there’s worse things in the world than being your girlfriend.”
It gives me a moment of pause. Is she … flirting with me? Have I been right this whole time?
“So what do you do to escape the pain if you don’t drink?”
She glances over her shoulder at the window and the picturesque view of the swirling snow above the river. “I write,” she whispers before turning back toward me. “What do you do to escape the pain if you don’t gamble?”
“Drink.” I give her a sheepish grin and shrug a shoulder.
Her eyes widen for a second, lips parted, then she covers her mouth and snorts.
I smirk, scooting the chair closer to her. Why? I have no clue. It just feels necessary.
My invasion of her space sobers her humor rather quickly. She drops her head and clears her throat while squirming a bit in our now confined space. “Did you ever sit on Santa’s lap at the mall?” she asks, scraping her teeth over her bottom lip. It’s unexpected.
It’s also sexy. Is she trying to be sexy? If so, it’s working. Wetting her lips. Asking me ridiculous random questions. It’s all working.
My socked feet slide next to hers. “Maybe. Haveyouever sat on his lap?” I lift my gaze from our feet to her slow blinking eyes, her soft parted lips, and her long black hair pulled over one shoulder with a few strands falling in her face.
She eases her head side to side while pushing off the desk. I lift my hands, pausing a second before pressing them to the back of her legs, the thin material of her leggings soft against my calloused palms. I’m way out of my league. Lost in a forest without a compass. For once, I don’t mind feeling lost.
It’s been a shitty few years. Inches of snow barricade us in this house. And I can’t help but touch my fake girlfriend.
“Is this how you would do it?” she asks, crawling onto my lap, hands sliding around my neck.
I return a nervous laugh. I’m not sure why since I was the brave one to make the first move. “I wouldn’t choose this exact position, but I’m one hundred percent certain Santa would be fine with you sitting on his lap like this.”
Serena grins, bending forward. Her lips brush my ear as she whispers, “Are you going to ask if I’ve been naughty or nice?”
I retract my earlier statement. If she did this to the old guy at the mall, she’d give him a heart attack. Granted, he’d die a happy man.
“I uh … I think it would be nice if you just decided to be a little naughty … with me.” My hands mold to the curve of her ass while she presses her palms to my cheeks and kisses me. An inferno of lust heats my face; her hands might burn. It’s hard to breathe. Suffocation has never felt so good.
Fuck, I hope I’m not the schmuck who has a heart attack.
Her tongue slides along mine, and she tastes sweet like cookies. I don’t know if it’s the massive amount of blood my dick is demanding, but for some reason I’m dizzy.
Lost.
Floating.
“My husband died three years ago … My lover … My best friend … The good morning kiss I miss … The warm embrace that lulled me into a peaceful slumber.”
Her words replay on a loop in my head. My fingers ghost up her back on the inside of her sweater only to find she’s not wearing a bra. This discovery sends another round of blood to my dick, making things really uncomfortable.
