Page 59 of Cross Check Christmas
I shrug. “He can be our chaperone."
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I remember our kiss in the snow. Heat creeps up my neck.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Look, we'll each wrap up in our own blankets—like sleeping bags. No touching. It'll be like camping."
"Camping," he repeats slowly, like he's testing out the word. "With a chaperone cat."
I scoot Khan closer to my side. "He's named after a brutal Mongolian warrior. If you try anything, he’ll claw your eyes out."
Hendrix chuckles, gathering up his blankets. "Fair enough."
The bed dips as he settles in beside me, careful to keep his blanket-cocoon separate from mine. Even with the barrier between us, I'm acutely aware of his presence - the warmth radiating from his body, the fresh scent of his soap, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The moonlight streaming through the window casts strange shadows across Hendrix's face, and I find myself studying his profile. He's positioned himself so far on the edge of the bed, I worry he might fall off.
"Are you actually comfortable like that?" I whisper.
"Mmhmm," he mumbles, though his body is practically defying gravity.
My heart does a funny little flip as I watch him struggling to maintain his precarious position. It's oddly endearing how determined he is to respect my space, especially given his reputation as this aggressive enforcer on the ice. The Hendrix Ellis I knew in high school would have made some crude joke by now, or at least tried to steal my blanket.
Khan purrs contentedly between us, completely oblivious to my internal turmoil. Because that's what this is—turmoil. Here I am, lying in bed with the guy I've been actively trying to drive out of town, and instead of plotting his exile, I'm noticing how his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks and how the corners of his mouth twitch slightly when he's pretending to be asleep.
Then I remember this is same guy who's currently sabotaging my Christmas pageant and stealing my gym time and?—
He shifts slightly, and in the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of the same vulnerable expression he wore earlier when I told him about my parents. No one's ever looked at me quite like that before, like they wanted to protect me from every bad thing that's ever happened.
My stomach does another flip, and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is dangerous territory. I can't afford to see this softer side of him, can't let myself wonder if maybe I've been wrong about him all these years.
But as I lie here listening to his steady breathing, I'm finding it harder and harder to remember all the reasons I'm supposed to hate him and fall into a sweet, heavy sleep.
Pristine snowbanks glide by as we head back to Brookking. The morning sun is deceptively bright, making everything sparkle like a Christmas card, but the temperature gauge on the dashboard reads a frigid minus fifteen. Hendrix's truck is asmooth ride, but the building pressure in my lower abdomen is making me aware of every bump in the road.
Khan meows from his carrier in the backseat, probably protesting being stuffed in there after having free reign of Michelle's cottage all night. I shift in my seat, hyper-aware of Hendrix humming along to an old Rush song on the radio.
My cheeks flush as I remember waking up this morning. Somehow during the night, our careful blanket barrier had disappeared. I'd found myself wrapped in Hendrix's arms, my head tucked under his chin, our legs tangled together. The worst part? It felt... nice. Really nice. Warm and safe and?—
"You're quiet," Hendrix says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Because I woke up with my head on your chest and your arms wrapped around me, that's why. And worse—I liked it.
"Just tired," I lie, adjusting my scarf to hide my burning cheeks.
"Really? Because I slept great." He shoots me that insufferable smirk of his. "Best night's sleep I've had in ages, actually."
"The heating was broken and we nearly froze to death."
"I wasn't cold." His grin widens. "Were you?"
I feel my cheeks flush decide to fiddle with my phone instead of humoring him with an answer. The signal bars flicker between one and zero as we wind through the snow-covered countryside.
"Still no service?" Hendrix asks, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Nothing reliable. I need to call Michelle about that window. And probably her insurance company." I bite my lip. "I feel terrible about the Santa demolishing her front window."
"Hey, that's not your fault. Blame the wind. Or blame Santa. Maybe he’ll bring Michelle a new window in that magic sack of his.”
