Page 80 of Crazy About Love (All About Love)

“Why are we eating ice cream on Christmas?” Alec says, nodding at my bumpy bare skin before scooping a spoonful into his mouth.

“We eat ice cream when we’re sad.” I flick an Apple Jack from the top of my third scoop and it lands near a hole in his jeans. “Have you learned nothing, young Padawan?”

He scoots in closer to me, his cool arm pressing against my cardigan. “I can’t say that I’m surprised, though. We all knew this was going to happen.”

“They didn’t have to drop the bomb on Christmas.” I frown at my bowl, jabbing at the strawberry swirl, which looks a lot like California. Curse that place and its opportunities.

“Hmm.”

I toss him a glare. “ ‘Hmm’? That’s your input?”

His dimple creases as he half smiles. “I’m trying to figure out what’s the most helpful way to respond right now.”

“Aloof is not the most helpful,” I tease, tapping his nose with the business end of my spoon. He wipes away the ice cream residue, even though it looks ever so adorable on him.

“All right. Do you want me to deliver an abundance of optimism to drag you out of your sad ice cream eating, or would you like me to piss and moan, indulging you in your fear that things won’t go the way you hope they will?”

I shake my head, biting back a smile. “Curtain number two, please.”

“Damn those bastards,” he spits, getting a genuine laugh out of me. “I mean, really, how dare they.”

“Right? Moving across the country like that.”

“Getting movie deals and making money.”

I nod, scooping another bite into my mouth. “Having their dreams come true without us? What are they thinking?”

His half grin slowly morphs into a full one, making that dimple in his cheek so deep I have the sudden urge to kiss it. A schoolgirl butterfly flaps around in my chest, and I let it multiply until there’s no more room for sadness. I set my bowl down and reach to the open fridge door for the whipped cream. Alec shakes his head as I fill my mouth.

“Wam sum?” I ask, pointing the nozzle at his lips. He gently parts them and I press the nozzle until there’s nowhere for the cream to go but out his nose. I allow myself a few romantic thoughts, imagining that we’re not just two friends who just learned that their childhood friends are leaving, but perhaps two lovers who have no money to spend on a fancy date and are choosing to binge on whatever is in the kitchen. My eyes float down from his cheeks to his open collar and rolled-up sleeves. The muscles in his forearms are to die for. I remember holding on to them when we kissed so long ago, when we danced at Liz and Landon’s wedding, when he told me he loved me in the rain. I stare at his arms, wondering if they still yearn to hold me up.

“I never gave you your present,” I say, voice barely over a whisper.

“Ice cream and Apple Jacks aren’t it?” he teases, coaxing a small laugh out of me. I roll onto my stomach and stretch my arm out to the Christmas tree just outside the kitchen, set up in the dining area I never use. My fingers snag the ribbon and I carefully pull the gift back until it’s against his leg.

“You can listen to it later,” I tell him as he unwraps the USB and sheet music. “I wrote lyrics for it too, but I’m not exactly confident enough to sing them for you.”

The corner of his mouth picks up and he gives me a sidelong glance. “I’m going to listen to it now.”

I shake my head, cheeks filling with heat despite the cold from the open refrigerator. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You wrote me a song,” he says, hopping to his feet like his body can’t stop his inner childlike enthusiasm. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to wait.”

I get hold of his ankle and latch my arms around it. “Alec, not now,” I scold as he drags me into the living room, my legs kicking all the food on the floor. “Don’t you dare play that, or so help me, I will punch you in the butt cheek.”

His whole body shakes as he laughs, still pulling me literally kicking and screaming to the laptop. I reach up and grab the fabric around his thighs.

“Whoa!” he says, taking hold of his pants before I pull them down. I crawl my way up his body, jump onto his back, and reach for the USB, which his long arms keep just out of my grasp.

“Why give it to me if you don’t want me to hear it?”

“I want you to hear it. Alone. Far, far away from my very red cheeks.”

He manages to insert the USB into the laptop and tap on the mouse pad. I clap my hands over his ears, my heart spinning. His hands come up to my wrists, using gentle, playful pressure to get me to let go. He has no idea how much I want to keep holding him, though, and not just for the purpose of our game.

The first note echoes through my tiny laptop speakers, and he stops struggling under me. My hands drop to his strong shoulders, giving up, since he can hear it anyway. Landon helped me record it, using his studio equipment. It’s still fuzzy, not a professional recording by any means. Didn’t help that my hands were shaking for nearly the entire piece.

I press my nose into his spine, breathing hard into his button-down. My face is on fire, my palms sweaty, my throat dry and unable to swallow. He’s silent until the descant, and then his hands, his gentle, comforting hands, find the crooks of my knees, prodding me to slide off his back. He looks at me over his shoulder, showing off his one dimple.

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