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I do.
I want to kiss her.
Her insistence that I’d be great on the Fireballs’ staff? Her belief in me when I’ve been nothing but an ass the past few weeks?
I believed her. She made mewantto go back to baseball as a coach.
And I want to kiss her.
She’s a grown-ass woman. I don’t need her brother’s permission. Neither does she.
But the fact that getting involved with her could ruin the longest friendship I’ve ever had if it doesn’t work out—yeah, I’m sweating.
I take longer than necessary in the shower, andnotbecause I’m jerking off.
That part doesn’t take long.
And not taking long is a solid reminder why I shouldn’t kiss Meg.
If I kiss her, and she kisses me back, and we end up in bed, and I come as fast as I did in the shower as soon as her face popped into my head, she’ll be allthat’s okay, I know it’s been a while and you’d be better if we did it a second time, which I’m probably not in for, because this was just a pity fuck for both of us, but I won’t say anything bad about you to anyone.
That would basically destroy the little bit of ego I have left.
But if I kiss her and she kisses me back and then we both have the best sex of our lives with each other, and then Iwantto finish decorating a tree with her, and fantasize about fireplaces and hot chocolate and gingerbread men…
I shake my head, tweak my shoulder, stifle a grunt, and then I pull my head out of my ass and decide to be a grown man who owns this house and can handle having an attractive but off-limits, cheerful, holiday-loving woman making herself happy in my kitchen.
And now I’m imagining Meg naked, with her hands between her thighs, and didn’t I just get rid of this boner?
“Head in the game, Stafford. Head. In. The. Game.”
I text Jude an apology—a very sincere,I would never do anything to fuck up our friendship, and I promise not to make Meg uncomfortable and will probably just head up to visit some friends in the mountains for a few days to get my head back on straightapology. Then I make myself think about my career in the toilet. And follow it up with that one Christmas when I was little and unfortunately watched a snowman ice sculpture get taken down by an angry chef with a kitchen torch, and my junk gets itself under control.
Good thing too, because I think it would break if it was already hard when I walk out of my bedroom and down the short hall to the kitchen.
Meg has her back to me as she’s bent over the counter, shaking her heart-shaped ass, which is wrapped in tight denim. She’s still using the reindeer towels and the multi-colored light rays are coming from a miniature tree on the counter. Even from this angle, I can tell she covered her tight red sweater with an apron dotted with candy canes.
And she’s making cinnamon rolls.
Cinnamon rolls.
“Hey, Trev! Happy morning. That’s not a new baby Christmas tree in the corner. It’s an unfortunate superstition that’s necessary when I work with yeast. And these arenotChristmas cinnamon rolls. They’re birthday cinnamon rolls.”
“It’s your birthday?”Dammit. Why didn’t someone tell me that?
“No, it’ssomeone’sbirthday. I have no idea whose. I just know that I wanted them, they seemed Christmasy, but also, I’m respecting your Christmas boundaries, so we’re celebrating a random stranger’s birthday. Surely someone named Jennifer is turning some year older today. That’s why it saysHappy Birthday, Jenniferon that pan over there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m notavoidingChristmas on your behalf. I’mmeeting you halfway.”
I open my mouth to answer, and that’s when I hear it.
“Carol of the Bells” is playing.
But those arenottraditional words.
It sounds like—
