Page 13 of An Unexpected Christmas
She presses her hand to her chest, leaning forward slightly. “You’reS.B. Taylor? You wroteThe Last Lie and The First Truth?”
I nod. “I did.”
A loud breath escapes her when her hand slaps on the table, rattling the wood beneath her, and the clang of cutlery beingjostled. “Those books ruined me.Ruined me. I was crying for weeks after. I just finished re-listening to the audio this morning. It’s one of my favorite comfort reads.”
Something warm and unfamiliar stirs in my gut at being her favorite anything, but I let the feeling pass by and take my first taste of my now lukewarm soup with instant regret. “Good to know that murder books are a comfort read. That makes me feel totally safe here with you.”
She picks up a slice of bread and points to me, ignoring my comment. “You made me fall in love with a fictional FBI agent and then youkilled him.”
“Technically,” I say, pausing to wipe my mouth, “he died for love. Big difference.”
“Oh, my god. Youarethe worst,” she says, but she’s smiling so hard it drowns out the insult. “This is wild. My mom reads your books too.” She lets out a laugh that echoes through the kitchen. Then, quieter, she adds, “I can’t believe you kept that to yourself.”
“Didn’t seem relevant until now.”
“I’m having dinner with one of my favorite authors. I need to sit down.” She leans back, and then grabs the sides of the stool she’s already sitting in, and I stifle a chuckle. “Seriously though. Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug, setting my bowl aside. “Didn’t want to lead with ‘Hi, I’m your reclusive neighbor and I emotionally devastate readers for a living’. Felt a bit much.”
Her grin softens as she props her chin in her hands. “You really are full of surprises.”
“Like I said, don’t spread that around.”
“But I love your writing. What are you working on now? Is it a secret? Are you about to give me all the spoilers? Oh my god, this is so exciting.” Her words tumble out, breathless and bright. And it kills me that I don’t share the same excitement as her, like I once used to.
Once upon a time, I would’ve lit up at her excitement. I would’ve told her about the characters already living in my head, the twists that kept me awake at night, the endings that made me grin like a fool. Now there’s none of that.
I drag my hand through my hair. “Actually,” I start, with intentions of telling her half-truths and empty promises, but her eyes glitter with unfiltered excitement, and suddenly my mouth can’t spew the lie. “I haven’t written anything in a long time,” I admit, the weight of it burying me like it always does. “Years, really. Definitely nothing since living here.”
Her head inclines, brows softening. “That was six months ago, right?”
“You remember how long I’ve lived here?” My voice rises.
A flush graces her cheeks, that sweet shade of pink that I like on her on display. “The mysterious English neighbor who always takes out Mrs. Kline’s trash out for her? Yeah, you had me intrigued… then I realized you hated Christmas, and I was less interested.”
I scoff. “So, my downfall was no Christmas lights?”
“Pretty much.” Her grin curves mischievously. “I mean, who hates Christmas? That’s like saying you don’t like puppies or pie.”
“Pie, I can take or leave,” I tease, just to see her eyes widen in mock horror.
“I’m gonna need you to stop destroying my fantasy of you,” she whispers, clutching at her chest.
That piques my interest, well, more specifically, my dick’s interest as he twitches in my pants. I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, lazily scanning over her before asking, “You have a fantasy of me, Frankie?”
That ridiculous snort appears again, but it’s the fluster that replaces her usually cool demeanor that has me grinning like a fool.
“You should forget I said that,” she says, waving her hand in front of her face.
“Too late,” I lean back, watching her turn a deeper shade of crimson. “I’m going to keep that little tidbit of information, and I will get it out of you one day.”
Her chin lifts, showing me that streak I love to banter with. “I’ll never tell, just like you won’t tell me why you hate Christmas.” Then she laughs, it’s quieter this time, but the sound tugs at something in me, loosening the knot that’s been lodged there for months, and I realize that bantering with her grounds me in a way I’ve never fully understood, until now. I like that she givesas good as she gets. I like her fire, her sass, damn it, I think I like her. She’s funny, honest and curious, not to mention beautiful. Frankie has this wildness about her; it’s in her curly hair, the glint of gold in her eyes that I’m seriously intrigued by. “For the record, I don’t hate Christmas. I just… don’t celebrate it the way I used to.”
She tilts her head as if she can see through the cracks I try so hard to cover. “Maybe you just needed the right neighbor to remind you how.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I needed a friend, someone to share something with again. God knows it’s been a long time since I’ve done that.
“So… why Holly Creek? Doesn’t exactly scream ‘author in his prime’.”
