Page 20 of Presley's Christmas Catch
PRESLEY
“What happened here? Did someone break in?” Brock teases when I open the door.
He has a fair point. My tree is up but bare. A couple boxes sit at the foot of it and some decorations are pulled out and strewn around the tree. I was contemplating how to arrange everything when he texted. I’ve also dug around for my best ugly Christmas sweater, though it’s no match for Brock’s. It’s green and has Santa’s face on it, only Santa’s face is my dad’s face with a white beard and a jaunty red Santa hat. Mom and I got them last year to top our Christmas pajamas. But Brock’s so adorable in his, and I don’t know if I can get over it. It’s like he’s trying to make himself irresistible to me.
“It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” is playing quietly from a speaker, and there’s hot cocoa on the stove that I made while I waited for him to get here. (And okay, a few splatters around the pan. And on the counter. The floor. I was excited and in a hurry.)
I throw my arms around Brock’s waist and hug him. This is only the second time I’ve seen him in real life, but we talk and text enough that he feels like a much closer friend. A hugging friend.
He confirms this when his arms come around me and he lifts me up a little into him. He smells like turkey and rolls with the slightest waft of a tangy deodorant, and I want to giggle.
“Thanks for letting me come hang out,” he says into my hair.
I pull away just enough to look up at him. My heart is hammering from our hug, but I won’t let him know that. “I’m glad you texted.” I take his hand and pull him into the room before dropping it and shutting the door. “Now I can read aloud to you the kissing scene I just got to.” I clap my hands together.
Brock’s eyes widen, and I can’t keep a straight face.
“Kidding! Kidding!” I grab his hand again and pull him toward the kitchen. “Want some hot cocoa?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d love some.” But he doesn’t let go of my hand. He tugs me closer, squinting at my shirt with that pondering expression that used to make me think he was mad. “What’s on your sweater?”
I hold out my sweater and display it. “My dad. As Santa.”
He points at me, grinning wide, which was goal number one for tonight—cheer up Brock. “It doesn’t have lights, but otherwise, that’s legit, Pres.”
“Thank you.” I drop my sweater and move to the kitchen. I grab the mugs I set out and ladle some hot chocolate from the pot into each one. “I’ve got a couple basic syrups,” I offer, holding out my hand toward where I’ve set them on the counter. “Caramel, butterscotch, vanilla. Plus creamer. And marshmallows.”
“Butterscotch, for sure. And marshmallows.” He takes the mug when I’ve offered it to him after adding the syrup and mini marshmallows. “You take your hot chocolate seriously.”
I add caramel and creamer to mine. “Who doesn’t?” I shrug and then grin at him. I can’t help it. I’m so excited to have him here. This is way better than staying up late to finish reading book ten and then texting Brock that I’ve beaten him. Again.
“To be honest,” I say, leading him back to my living room. “I’m serious about Christmas. And once the turkey dinner isover, Christmas spirit explodes in my house. Okay, actually before Thanksgiving, because I’m the boss of myself, and if I want to celebrate Christmas before, I can.” I’m rambling, so I clamp my lips shut and take a mental deep breath. My feelings for Brock will be obvious if I keep up like this, and although we’re friends, I can’t tell if he’d be interested in more yet. “What do you want to do?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds calmer and not like a crazy Christmas elf. “I can’t offer typical Christmassy things like sledding or beautiful walks while the snow falls. This is LA. But we can watch a Christmas movie or play my Christmas version of ‘Obsidian Kingdom: The Board Game.’”
He laughs, his shoulders shaking, and I love the visual. Maybe because I know what a hard day today was for him. Being apart from family on a holiday, thanks to a job, is never fun. Having that job suck is even worse, and then imagine having to talk to reporters afterward. One big barrel of ick.
“There’s a Christmas version of the TOK board game?” he asks.
It’s a fair question. The fact that there’s a board game at all belies how very small the fan base is. Small, but fiercely loyal. So yes, there’s a board game and there’s a Christmas version of it, and there’s a fan out there who’s made a hundred dollars in their Etsy shop on it, mostly from me, I’d guess.
“Of course there is.” I give him a look of faux innocence. “You don’t have it?”
“Not the Christmas version.”
I’m the one who bursts into laughter now. “But you have the regular one!” It’s not a question, but an exclamation of triumph. I’m so dangerously close to falling in love with this man, and that’s not normal to do because someone obsesses over the same books as you. I promise, it’s more than the books. It’s the fun we have texting and talking. It’s the kindness I see in him that the world doesn’t get a peek at. Not many see that when you’re talking about a pro-football player who’s larger than life and hasall his worst moments blown up on social media. And that sweater. This huge guy in a funny sweater on a bad day.
“My mom was trying to connect with me as a teenager. I’ve heard I was kind of difficult.”
“You? No way.” I pretend shock.
He shakes his head. “Do you have the regular version of the board game too?”
“Yeah,” I say, my tone conveyingof course.
“What’s the difference?”
“The Christmas version is red and green. It also comes with a Christmas tree centerpiece.”
He studies me for several seconds, squinting at me in amusement. I am totally winning at cheering up Brock. Yeah, I watched his press conference. It was on the TV in the facility while I looked at a couple guys who got banged up—not Eli Dash. My boss was taking care of him. There was so much frustration in Brock’s tone in every answer he snapped at the reporters until he broke and let everything spill out.
