Page 34 of Holiday Interference
Cal
When the seriescomes to a close, trailers for other documentaries start to play.
Snow still falls outside, blanketing the city in that quiet hush only a storm can pull off.
Noelle stretches beside me, arms over her head, the hem of that too-big flannel pulling tight across her thighs before she lets out a breath and sinks deeper into the cushions.
She hasn’t looked at me in a solid two minutes. Which means she’s thinking again.
She shifts. Fidgets. Drums her fingers lightly on the couch arm, like she’s trying to wear the quiet down to nothing.
“I can’t watch anymore TV,” she mutters finally. “Got any cards?”
I blink. “Cards?”
“You know—rectangles? Numbers? Suits?” She tilts her head, lips curved just enough to knock the air sideways in my lungs. “Or are you one of those guys who only plays poker on an app and still loses?”
Why do I like that smartass mouth so much?
I shake my head with a chuckle, then push up off the couch. “Top drawer in the sideboard.”
She follows me to the cabinet, bare feet soft on the floor. My eyes stay on her as I hand over the deck.
She’s not even trying to distract me. That’s what kills me. She’s not trying to flirt. Not leaning into anything.
It’s just herbeinghere.
Wearing my clothes and being in my space.
Looking at me like she belongs to me.
It does something to me I’m not built to handle.
“Texas Hold’em?” I ask, mostly to distract myself.
“Works for me,” she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder like she knows I’m watching her mouth instead of the cards.
“What ya got we can bet with?”
I think for a minute then head to the pantry. I come back with a bag of mini marshmallows.
She raises a brow at me. “Hey, they’ll work just fine. Plus they’re delicious.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I give her a “yeah right” look, which makes her giggle. And I like that sound far more than I should.
We set up on the coffee table, cross-legged on the rug. The room’s gone warmer from the heat kicking on, but it’s nothing compared to the pulse in my chest when her knee knocks against mine under the table.
She doesn’t move it. Doesn’t apologize. Just deals the first hand like it’s no big thing.
I can feel her body heat through the cotton. I can smell her shampoo—something clean, soft, a little like citrus. And beneath that,me.
My flannel, my detergent, my space.
“Bet’s one marshmallow,” she says, tossing one from the bag into the center of the table. “Raise me, and it’s two.”
“High stakes,” I murmur, still watching her lips move.
