Page 52 of About Last Christmas
He nods. “Probably for the best. I’ve known Remington my entire life. He never stays in one spot very long. As your friend, I thought you’d want to know.”
CHAPTER 16
Beads of sweatroll down the line of my spine.
Five more to go.
I up the volume of my playlist and determine to finish this workout better than I started—which was me half-asleep and nearly dropping a twenty-pound dumbbell on my foot. After this, I have an hour to grab a shower, dress, and snag some breakfast before meeting Leo at the shop.
I nearly crest my chin-up when a brisk knock makes me jolt. I release the bar and land steadily on my feet. Swiping my forehead with my wrist, I glance at my door. Must be a delivery person. I’m expecting a few items for the store, and all the local drivers know to check upstairs if I’m not below.
It’s a bit early to get a package, though shipping companies extend their hours during the holidays. I once got a toaster at 1 a.m. After a swig of water, I open the door and am hit with a blast of cold and the awareness that Leo’s standing a few feet away.
“Uh, hi.” I try to act casual even as a drop of sweat falls off my nose. Lovely.
His eyes scan over me in all my post-workout glory—which is me looking flushed, disheveled, and sporting perspiration stainsin key areas. He clears his throat. “I knocked downstairs, but no one answered.”
I usher him inside because the moisture’s freezing on my face. Once I close the door, a surge of panic slices through me. Did I leave my bra on the couch? Is something disgusting in my sink? I sneak a sweeping glance. I’m positive my ceiling fan blades are fuzzy and the counter’s cluttered, but nothing alarming strikes me. I did put up my Christmas tree the other day, so I don’t look like a grinchy Santa. “I thought we were meeting at eight.”
“Didn’t you say seven?” He pulls out his phone, no doubt to check his calendar.
“I probably did.” Crap. I really need to start writing things down. “Sorry, I got my times mixed up.”
He takes my orderless ways in stride and offers a smile. “We can do this another time.”
“No,” I say a little too quickly. “It’s my stupid fault. I don’t have much time to delay with this Santa stuff.” I grab the bulky folder off the counter. “Here are the letters.” I watch his eyes widen. “Yeah, it’s a lot. Hence, why I’m freaking out.”
“We got this.” Our hands brush as he takes the folder, which, under any other circumstances, would’ve sent a spike of awareness through me. But all I’m noticing is how slick and hot my skin is.
I resist the urge to use the bottom of my tank top to wipe my face. “Maybe you can browse the letters while I grab a quick shower. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” He settles on my couch, and the nearby glow from the tree is working its whimsical sway because now I’m imagining Leo and me sharing buttered popcorn, watching Christmas movies with our feet tangled.
I hate to shake the daydream, but my reality needs addressing and more deodorant. “There’s fruit and cinnamon rolls on the table if you want.”
His mouth moves into a smile far too appealing for seven in the morning. “That’s like two ends of the food spectrum.”
I shrug, drawing his attention to my bare shoulders. “With me, it’s either super healthy or junk food. There’s no in-between. Anyway, I’ll be right back.” And I head off to take the world’s fastest shower.
Less than ten minutes later, I return to the living room in sweats, my wet hair in a messy topknot.
Upon my entering, Leo glances over. Those dark eyes make a slow trek over my face, stirring me to wonder if any of those secrets swirling in his gaze are ever about me. I realize this is the first time he’s seen me without makeup. Not like it’s a big deal, but he told me authenticity in his world was scarce. Maybe a bare-faced Greta is a novelty to him. We’re caught in this uncertain moment until my stomach growls.
Leo smiles.
Wonderful. I snag a cinnamon roll from the table along with a couple paper towels—because I know myself and my messy ways—and join him on the sofa.
He settles back against the cushion. “Can I make another suggestion?”
“Skip the hassle and run off to the Caribbean?” I have enough in my bank account now for a lifetime supply of SPF 75 sunscreen. “I’m joking. Mostly. Now tell me your idea.”
“I think you need to be more organized.”
“I’m fresh out of that skill, but can I interest you in some self-deprecating humor or witty deflections? I can roll those out all day long.”
Leo’s not falling for my redirection tactic. “I promise it’ll make your life easier.”
I groan and bite off a hunk of my cinnamon roll. This conversation needs a serving, or twenty, of sugary carbs. “I can try to do better. Though I think it’ll be a failed effort.” Like the time I tried to wax my own eyebrows. It was painful, and I ripped off half the arch of my right brow. I had to pencil the rest in for a couple of months. Sadly, my senior pictures were during that season. In the end, I learned to stay away from DIY wax kits, and Gran learned she could pay extra for Photoshop editing.
