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And if he did—well.
I know how to kill a mood, don’t I?
TREVOR
Meg’s at it again.
She’s playing Christmas music, humming along, and my house smells like sweets. It’s all subtle—I can’t see her, because I’m still being a lazy-ass and haven’t gotten up yet, but I can hear her, and I can smell her, and I can see a rotating glow of colored lights from the crack under my door.
It’s not all that different from the dreams that plagued me all night, with one singular exception.
In my dreams, Meg was doing all of this naked, and I couldn’t keep my hands off her.
And yeah, hello, morning wood. It isnotnice to see you. We do not get to think about our best friend’s sister, we do not get to dream about our best friend’s sister, and we do not rub one out while imagining it’s her hands all over us.
What wedoget to do, though, isget the fuck over ourselves.
We’ve known and abided by these rules foryears, and we are not going to change that now.
I wince through warming up my shoulder enough to comfortably roll out of bed, check my phone, and instantly feel my heart drop.
I texted Jude last night.
Fuck.
I texted Jude last night.
That wasnotpart of my dream.
But I did.
I texted him a confession that I had to walk away from his sister last night before I kissed the ever-loving hell out of her.
And he hasn’t replied.
He saw it.
That little message under the text clearly saysread.
But he hasn’t replied.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I need to leave.
I need to go get a cabin in the woods for the rest of the Christmas season, possibly well into January, and stay thehellaway from Meg.
And apologize to Jude.
Claim I was drunk, that someone else stole my phone, whatever it takes, no matter the lies I have to tell.
He’s been the most constant friend in my life for my entire career.
And I just fucked it up.
Worse?
I still want to kiss Meg.
