Page 16 of Holly Jolly Heresy
Molly:There’s nothing you wouldn’t do.
Jo:Exactly *wink emoji*
Chapter six
Caleb stared at the variety of frozen pizzas stuffed into the freezer, but he hardly registered what he was looking at. Somewhere upstairs Molly Proulx was taking off her clothes. She was removing her clothing in the same building he was in, getting ready to put on the same absurdly soft robe he was wearing. He’d almost kept his shirt on, despite the wet spots where the snow had slipped beneath his jacket, just to feel the collar at his throat, the reminder of all the reasons he should not be thinking about Molly Proulx undressing, or that feral demand whispering in the back of his brain. In the end, the cold had won out and he’d bundled his shirt in the dryer in the laundry room along with the rest of his clothing. There was something thrilling about standing in the kitchen in just his boxer briefs and a robe, waiting for Molly to come downstairs—thrilling and yet somehow peaceful. Domestic in a way he never thought he’d experience.
You’re trapped by a snowstorm, not playing house. Stop romanticizing it.
The bottom step of the staircase creaked as Molly descended, and Caleb forced himself to keep his eyes on the pizza boxes. “Apparently frozen pizzas are the food of choice for bachelor parties. What are you in the mood for—pepperoni or Hawaiian?”
“You choose.”
He was aware of her moving around the kitchen behind him as he selected a box of pepperoni pizza and preheated the oven, the soft sound of her bare feet landing on the hardwood floor, the click as she opened a cabinet and then closed it again. He wondered if she’d left her underwear on beneath her robe, if she’d added her clothing to the dryer with his, their clothes tangling together in ways their bodies never would.
Stop.
She opened another cabinet and reached for something at the back, rising up on her tip toes. The move highlighted the muscle in her calf beneath the hem of her robe, and his eyes lingered there, mapping the strength beneath her skin. She pulled a giant tub of hot cocoa mix from the cabinet and set it on the counter with a triumphant smile.
“There’s another nativity scene in the hall outside the bathroom upstairs,” she said, reaching back into the cabinet.
He set the frozen pizza on a sheet pan and slid it into the open oven, still pre-heating. “What’s this one, rubber duckies?”
“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’ and setting a large bottle of Kahlua next to the cocoa mix. She turned and leaned against the counter, her hands trapped between her back and the butcher block, and a shy grin stole over her face. “Cookie cutters. Gingerbread men—and women. It’s not very family friendly.”
Caleb’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Let’s just say the Virgin Mary is most definitely not a virgin in this particular scene. It’s more like gingerbread men gone wild, plus baby Jesus. I think it may be part of the bachelor party decor we were warned about. Hot cocoa?”
He struggled to keep up with the change of topic, his mind trying to piece together how a nativity scene could be considered bachelor party decor. “Sure. No alcohol in mine.”
“Suit yourself.” She filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove. Then, as though something had just occurred to her, she furrowed her brow. “Are priests not allowed to drink?”
“You’ve seen me drink before. I have a beer at family dinner sometimes.”
She opened her mouth as though she were going to fire back some kind of witty retort, but then she closed it without speaking and turned away, retrieving mugs from the cabinet by the sink. Again, she was up on her toes, searching for the handles just out of her reach.
“I’ve got it.” Caleb moved behind her, resting one hand low on her back as he reached around her with the other to retrieve the mugs from the top shelf. He wanted to linger with his palm against her back, to feel her body shift beneath the fabric, but he made himself set the mug on the counter and take a step away, putting some much needed distance between them. “I’m allowed to drink,” he said, his eyes drifting back to her ankles like he was some kind of repressed aristocrat in a Jane Austen novel. “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea for me to drink tonight.”
She seemed to consider this as she poured the boiling water into the mugs and stirred heaping spoonfuls of chocolatey powder mix into each. “Is it going to make you uncomfortable if I drink?”
He shook his head. “Have at it. I’m pretty sure there’s more booze in this place than food anyway.”
She screwed her lips up to the side as she considered the bottle of Kahlua on the counter. “It feels weird to be the only one drinking.”
He shouldn’t do it. He should take his hot cocoa, wait for the frozen pizza to finish cooking, and call it an early night, lockhimself away in the bedroom farthest from hers and spend the night in silent prayer and reflection.
He should do anything other than grab the bottle of Kahlua and add a healthy pour to each of their mugs. He shouldn't be delighted by her lips curling into a smile and the sparkle in her eyes, and he definitely shouldn’t be wondering what else he could do to put that look on her face.
“Don’t bend the rules on my account,” she said, though her grin made it clear she liked it when he bent the rules.
But this wasn’t a big rule, not anofficialrule—and really, he wasn’t a big fan of the official rules lately anyway. It was more of his own personal guideline.Don’t get drunk with the woman who already tests your self-control.
It seemed like a reasonable rule, until she looked at him with that glimmer in her eyes.
“You are a bad influence,” he scolded as he lifted his mug to his lips.
“Excuse me, sir, I will have you know I am an amazing influence.” As if to challenge her own point, she added more Kahlua to her mug.
