Page 65 of The Holiday Whoopie
A different me—last year’s me—would already be running a postmortem in my head, itemizing regrets and the exact cost of letting a man like Jack Lourd anywhere near my life. This me, the one dawn finds with sex hair, fuzzy socks, and an armful of man, closes her eyes for one audacious breath and admits it: I wanted it. Him. For keeps.
A minute. That dream gets one more minute.
I stare at the ceiling and count my heartbeats until one minute becomes two. Then, repeating the wordsit’s temporary, I untangle myself, inch by careful inch, like defusing a bomb with a frosting knife.
Jack’s arm loosens. He makes a low sound that curls down my spine. I still, breath caught halfway in my throat. His fingers flex against my stomach as if checking I’m still there, then relax.
Feeling very much a coward, I slide my legs over the side of the bed and wince at the icy kiss of floorboards. December has claws. But I welcome the pain. It helps clear my mind that’s been muddied by my heart.
I tiptoe toward the dresser, hooking a finger through my bra where it dangled off the drawer pull like it tried to escape and failed. The radiator along the far wall rattles, and a bike bell chirps softly as the paper boy—another early riser—cycles past my window.
The mattress shifts.
In the mirror above the dresser, I watch Jack’s hand land on the bed where my hip had been a minute ago, patting blindly.
“Come back” comes from the pillow, gravel-soft, like a rumor. The hand drifts to the warm spot I left and flattens there, possessive and unselfconscious, like it owns that square foot of cotton now. “Stay.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s more than half asleep. Definitely not thinking clearly.
But I am. Now at least. And I don’t have any more of those lazy, sticky mornings that stretch into noon if you let them.
“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, already stepping into panties, already constructing the scaffolding of my day. “I have to get downstairs.”
Eyes still closed, he slides his body across the sheets, his torso off the bed, held up by his tensing and drool-worthy abs as he extends his arm again, this time riding up my thigh.
His warm palm makes a lazy slide north that makes me think I’ll need new panties if he drifts any higher.
“I can”—the word dissolves around a yawn—“help.”
I lean over and cup his cheek, his stubble sharp just like his jawline. “Go back to sleep, Hollywood.” I say the last mostly to remind myself where he’s from and where he’s returning to.
He wraps his hand around my thigh, pulling back until his body’s back to lying on the bed, my leg up against the mattress.
His hair is a riot. His mouth is a sin. One eye slits open, heavy-lidded amusement sparking even through sleep. Heat pools low in my belly, traitorous. “You come back to sleep.” He smiles into the pillow. “Or just come back and we cannotsleep.”
Amanda’s voice floats back from last night, all glitter and a hundred-watt smile after caroling.
“Go help Amanda.” I aim for breezy and land somewhere near brittle. “The library thing. She mentioned it. She’ll need you.”
Silence. Then, muffled into the mattress, “Amanda doesn’t need me.”
A humorless smile pulls at my mouth. Of course she doesn’t. That’s not the point. The point is remembering that Idon’tneed him.
How I can work the counter without him leaning there like he owns it, how to pipe buttercream without feeling eyes on me like a warm hand, how to breathe without the inhale hitching when the bell over the door rings and it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.
Extracting myself from his grasp, I catch the corner of my sweater where it’s draped over the chair. Snow white, soft from too many washes. It smells like vanilla and the ghost of smoke from our brief flirtation with my ancient oven when I forgot a pan of pecans last week because I was too busy staring at Jack’s forearms peeking out from his rolled-up shirtsleeves as he worked on his laptop.
I tug it over my head and try not to get distracted now by how much more of him is peeking above my sheets or how my apartment smells different now, faint soap and cedar layered over everything like an afterthought.
“She’s your client.” Voice firm, I hunt for my other sock, finding it kicked halfway under the bed, and my fingers brush cold wood and a memory of his knee knocking against mine, his laugh low and shocked when I dragged him closer by the waistband.
Focus.
“That’s why you came. For Amanda. For your job. In Los Angeles.” I flatten my voice to bakery-counter neutral. “So go… support her.”
He rolls to his back, giving up on persuading me with a sigh. The sheet slips. I resist the instinct to look because I already know what happens if I do and I need to be standing upright with pants on if I have any hope of surviving the next five minutes.
“Speaking of Los Angeles…” The words stretch as he wakes.
