Page 31 of Holidating
“I told her I’d go. To make her, uh, feel better.”
“And maybe you as well?” I suggest.
He shrugs. “I guess we'll find out. I’m buying them some of their dishes too. Just as a backup plan.”
Abbi giggles into her coffee mug. She drinks it black, I notice, and file that information away for later. A guy should know how his woman takes her coffee.
“Anyway,” my dad continues. “I’m headed to the office for a couple hours.” He pops a slice of strawberry into his mouth before setting the serving dish onto the counter in front of Abbi and me.
“Wait, you’re working on ChristmasEve?” I ask.
“Westie,” Abbi says gently. She lays a hand on top of mine, and her smooth fingers feel sweet against my skin. A prickle of awareness settles over me. I like her touching me. I like it a lot. “That’s what a man says when he isn’t quite done with his Christmas shopping.”
My dad chuckles. “She’s a quick one, Weston. Nothing gets by Abbi. Remember that.”
“Oh, I will,” I say, playing along. I lift my hand from under hers, and then wrap my arm around her instead, because I’m Mr. Smooth.
She leans against me, also playing along. And doesn’tthatfeel nice.
Uh-oh. It feels a little too nice. My dick is confused now. Little Mr. Smooth doesn’t know that this is just a charade. He did not get the memo.
Mayday. I’ve got another day and night to be this close to Abbi. She smells like flowers and coffee and good times. By bedtime, I’ll probably have to ice down my dick if this keeps up.
Luckily, the waffle iron beeps, and I let go of Abbi to fetch some plates and silverware.
“That smells amazing,” Abbi says as my dad opens the waffle iron. “Mmm!”
If she moans while she eats, I’m a dead man. Quick—I need to find us an activity for the day. Something that won’t involve us cuddled up on a couch watching a movie together. I need more separation than that.
I need to cool the fuck down.
CHAPTER 11
MERRY CHRISTMAS, ABBI
ABBI
“Okay, Abbi. Now we’re going to put these boots into the bindings.”
We’re standing outside in the snow together. It’s a crisp, sunny day, and I’m decked out in borrowed cross-country ski gear. Weston had asked me if I wanted to try it. In a moment of foolish bravery, I said yes.
This could go poorly. But what does it matter, right? There’s nobody around to see me fall.
Except for the hottest guy at Moo U.
He kneels down in the snow. We’re wearing matching LL Bean snow pants from the Griggs family stash. “Put your toe right here.” Weston lifts one of my boots in gentle hands and guides it onto a cross-country ski.
But naturally, I begin to wobble. And my choices are to either grab Weston’s head or fall over in the snow.
I choose Weston’s head. He chuckles as I put him in some kind of new wrestling hold in order to remain vertical. But he carries on, setting my other foot into the other ski, while I cling to him like a doofus.
“You said this was easy,” I accuse, finally letting go of his head. I can’t help but notice how soft his hair is. I want to sift my fingers through it.
He stands up and smiles at me. “Itiseasy. Just stand there a second while I put my skis on.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m regretting all my life choices right now.”
Weston had asked me whether I wanted to ice skate—which I can do, but not as well as he can—or try cross country. Foolishly, I picked this. And now there are slidey boards stuck to the bottom of my feet.
