Page 26 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
Uh-huh. Sure. “It’s—” I check the time while Charlie dries his hands. “Two thirty.”
“Yeah, and I’m starving.” He digs through the fridge, pulling out wrapped plates and baking dishes. I hobble over to the counter. After last night’s grazing, we’re almost out of leftovers and the fridge is looking pretty bare again, so we might need to run to the store soon. But for now, there’s still a few pieces of chicken and a few bags of microwave-ready veggies.
Charlie stretches on his toes, exaggeratedly looking at the coffee table and my plate of cookie crumbs and half-full bag of Sour Punch Straws. “Why don’t I heat up enough for you too?”
Even though it’s cold, I can smell the breading on the chicken and there’s still one leg quarter left, calling my name.Eat me, Bea. Even fresh out of the fridge, I’m delicious. “I suppose.”
Charlie grins and turns on the oven. Oh yay,hotfried chicken. “I’m going to go shower. I’ll throw the chicken in when I get back down.”
“Yeah. You stink.”
He winks and climbs the stairs two at a time.
I hop back to the couch and flop onto it. I just know that five, ten, fifteen years from now, I’ll have a sleepless night and remember that time Charlie overheard my smutty romance novel.
My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. I sit up. Who could that be?
Maybe one of my sisters forgot the code to the door. I get to my feet—well, foot—and hop my way out of the living room and into the front hallway. I didn’t think it was unnecessarily long, but now that I’m hobbling down it, it seems to stretch forever.
Just as I get to the foot of the stairs, I hear a beep and the lock slides open. I reach for the handle but miss as the front door swings toward me and I lose my balance, falling directly into the arms of a flannel-wearing, handsome stranger.
13
Charlie
The steamfrom the shower billows out into the bathroom as I pull the curtain back. The bathroom is small—cozy—and there’s stuff strewn all over the place, even though at least half of Bea’s stuff is in the downstairs bathroom temporarily. My toiletries have mingled with Bea’s and Naomi’s and I’m pretty sure someone used my toothpaste last night, which is fine.
When I’d first seen the stuff spread out, I’d wanted to reach out and touch every item and see if I could tell if it was Bea’s or her sister’s. Yesterday made me realize how far off my guesses were.
I just reach for a towel and scrub my face and hair. Moving down my chest, I don’t have the scrape of dry towel on wet skin in my ears and I can hear voices downstairs.
I smile, thinking about Bea’s audiobook, and catching her lying on the couch, eyes closed and her arms crossed. Her thumb was just lightly stroking her upper arm, and I wonder if she even knew she was doing it.
I scrub my junk, drying my upper thighs and my balls, when I hear a shriek and freeze.
It doesn’t sound like an audiobook—it sounds like Bea.
And a man’s voice answers.
I wrap the towel around myself, tucking the corner in as I fling the door open and hustle down the hall to the stairs. The voice gets louder—it’s definitely a man and he’s definitelyin here.
The stairs are carpeted and I take them two at a time. I grip the banister to swing toward the living room and skid in, the rug beneath me sliding just enough that I lose my balance and have to catch myself—and my towel—before I see that there is a man in here, and he and Bea are both smiling...or at least they were until I ran in like a berserker.
He’s got an arm slung over her shoulders and is lowering her onto the couch. I’m spared barely a glance by both of them as he gently releases her and she settles into the cushion.
“There,” he says, dusting his hands off. “Can I get you anything else?”
Bea smiles up at him like he hung the moon. Then she points with one hand toward the pillow on the floor. “Could you get me that pillow? I knocked it off when I was answering the door.”
“Of course.”
I watch like a chump, a small puddle of water dripping onto the rug, as this stranger helps her, lifting her foot up and fluffing the pillow carefully before placing her foot back down.
All things Bea insisted on handling herself this morning.
“Thank you so much.”
The guy smiles right back at her as if they are the only two people in the world. He’s about our age, with thick sandy-brown hair that flops to one side and a lean build. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up and he’s wearing boots and jeans.
