Page 24 of Yule Know It When You See It
I skirt my tongue along the hair bordering my bottom lip. “Maybe?”
“Uh-huh. She probably likes you, Ax. A lot of women do. But this is the first you seem to like back. At least since ‘what’s her twat’.” Spencer grabs my shoulder and his grip grows so tight it wrinkles my shirt. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Knock it off, you drunk.” I chuckle and shrug his touch away. “And her name was Caroline.”
Spencer flaps his lips. “Caroline. Twat. Sounds all the same to me. She doesn’t deserve a name for what she did to you, man.”
Royally cheat on me and stole money for extra sting.
“Is she hot?” Spencer bounces his brow, his eyes forming half-lids now.
The way those pants hugged Theo’s ass. The spark that springs in her gaze and the crinkles that form near her eyes when she laughs. “Yeah. She is. And a redhead.”
Spencer slaps his thigh. “Nice. Look, man—” His arm drapes my shoulders as he pulls me to his side. “—look at the banter as foreplay. Andenjoyit. Enjoy the journey, my friend.”
Nodding, I stare at the golden, bubbly liquid in my pint glass. I’ve never been as unsure about something as I am with Theo. Not so much her feelings toward me but rather how far I want to try and pursue this. Was it worth the time? The effort? Caroline had been my longest relationship with a woman at a little over two years and look howthatturned out. So much time had been wasted only for her to rip out my heart and stomp on it. No. I’ll enjoy time with Theo whenever she feels compelled to give it to me, and if we become friends? Great. But beyond that? My heart isn’t there. It can’t be.
Two of Spencer’s lawyer pals are behind us, stumbling and patting our backs. They each have a beer bottle in hand, and one lawyer almost drops it when he trips on a stool leg. “What are you two hens cackling about over here? Come play pool. Can’t be half as bad as we are right now at it.”
Obliging, Spence and I spend the rest of our time there playing pool with the other lawyers. I stopped drinking an hour before I planned to leave and walk home with a dozen thoughts plaguing my brain. I thought the night out would do me good, but it further perplexed me.
My apartment is quiet when I walk in. Living alone without so much as an aquarium in your place tends to be that way. My Yule tree glows bright in the corner, and I stare at the warm lighting, the golden hue calming me. I drag my fingers over the pine cones, fake berries, and fruit hanging from its branches, ornaments I’ve decorated the traditional yearly tree with since as far back as I can remember. A pile of logs rests near the fireplace—one of the singular aspects of this apartment that sold me. That and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chicago skyline.
I crouch near the logs, rummaging through them until I find the one that’s shaped the most perfectly of the lot, and toss it in my palm. Taking it to my room, I remove the carving knife from the storage chest at the foot of my bed, hover it above the trash can, and whittle. Traditional Yule logs were not, in fact, cakes like they’d come to be through the ages. Initially, they represented the protection of the home, and every family would burn this specially selected log for all twelve days of Yule. And despite no longer living in Norway, I never skipped this crucial aspect.
I carve the uruz, ansuz, and raidho runes into the log—symbols representing strength, prosperity, and growth. The idea behind is that you burn the log toward the end of the year and carve hopes and wills for the new year. What I wouldn’t give to share this, any of this, with someone. This time of year has always made me the most homesick when I can’t make it back to Norway. And the emptiness has already settled in, with the solstice still being days away.
After I finish, I rest the log under the tree for safekeeping and pause to stare out the window. There’s more to Theo than she lets on, this much is clear. And a deep-rooted part of me wishes she wouldn’t put up her guard as much around me. I like the small parts she’s let me see, her humor, her creativity, and her obviously closeted inner fangirl forStar Wars. But the job comes first. It always has.
I’m painfully aware that my only semblance of progress on my hockey sports romance thus far is a singular word: hockey. And I’m also disturbingly aware of how many times I’ve glanced at Axel’s empty chair this morning. It’s bad enough that when he left on a whim yesterday, I stewed over whether or not it was for a date for far longer than anyone who doesn’t care should have. And what’s worse? I made up scenarios in my head on how the assumed date went. It mostly involved the woman tossing a drink in Axel’s face and leaving mid-dinner or Axel throwing his napkin to the table and reaching across to kiss the ever-loving daylights out of her.
I know. Dramatic. This is why the magazine pays me to write romance, which I should be doing right now. But the afternoon draws near, and Axel is still nowhere to be found. Rubbing my face with both hands, I return to my computer and rest my fingers on the keys.
I whisper to myself as I type, “Hockey, much like sex, is a full-contact sport.”
“Wow, a whole opening line. You’re on fire.” Desiree leans on my desk, clutching a notebook to her chest.
“It’s agreatopening line. That line is half the battle when starting a new story.” I lift my chin and over-emphasize hitting the spacebar.
Des pats my head like encouraging a puppy. “Where the hell is Axel?”
“What do you mean?” I pretend his absence not only doesn’t bother me but that I’ve hardly noticed.
Desiree rolls her eyes and turns my chair to face Axel’s desk. “He hasn’t come in since he left yesterday afternoon.”
“Huh. Weird. But I’m not his secretary, so how should I know?”
Desiree’s notebook thwacks my arm. “You’re full of more shit than the end of the day in a porta potty outside a construction site.”
I golf clap. “Prime analogy.”
Desiree curtsies as Simone breezes past her, power-walking toward her office. The woman never moseys anywhere because time is most certainly money.
I leap from my chair, my cardigan sticking between the armrest and chair back, yanking me back down. “Simone, ma’am,” I call out when she’s already three feet from her office by the time I free myself.
“Yes, Romance?” Simone’s thumb works quickly across her phone screen, and she doesn’t look up.
I’m ecstatic she recognizes me by my voice.
