Page 13 of Jingle Bell Flock
“And later, in California?”
“The wine industry’s a bit more accepting, so yeah, I was out. Or maybe I just gave fewer fucks by that point.”
Harrison’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I can’t imagine you giving many fucks about what people think.”
“I cared what you thought.”
The admission hung between us, raw and unguarded. My heart hammered against my ribs. Too much. I’d said too much.
His lips parted slightly, but before he could say anything in response, I cut him off, my voice gruff. “I think we got what we need.” I lowered the camera, but kept scrolling through the images so I wouldn’t have to look at him as I fought to bring my heart rate back under control.
Harrison moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he looked over my shoulder. “These are incredible, Jer.”
My nickname spoken in his low, awed voice sent heat crawling up the back of my neck. He hadn’t called me that inalmost two decades, and hearing it now made something crack open inside me that I’d thought was sealed shut forever.
I should have corrected him. Should have put that distance back between us.
Instead, I just nodded. “Yeah, they came out pretty good.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows, and we both looked up right as the lights flickered twice.
The snow was coming down in sheets now, so thick I could barely make out the dark shapes of the trees between our properties. The wind had picked up, too, howling against the house. “The storm came on quicker than I thought it would.”
“This is bad.” Harrison moved to the window, peering out into the white void. “You shouldn’t walk back in this.”
“I’ve walked home in worse.”
“Jeremy.” He turned to face me, his expression serious. He was quiet for a beat too long, a muscle working in his jaw while his eyes searched mine like he was measuring the risk of whatever he was about to say. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Don’t be stupid. Just … stay. I have a guest room.”
Every instinct I had screamed at me to refuse. To grab my camera and head out into the storm because staying here, in his space, with all these old feelings coming to the surface was dangerous.
But I wasn’t an idiot either. The storm was bad. I hadn’t seen snow like this in … well, decades.
“Fine,” I said, hating how the word tasted like surrender.
Harrison’s shoulders relaxed, like he’d been bracing for an argument. “Okay. Good. Are you hungry? I was going to make dinner anyway.”
My stomach chose that moment to growl. I’d skipped lunch, too focused on preparing for the photoshoot to bother eating. Too nervous about spending so much time around Harrison.
“I could eat,” I admitted.
“Great.” He moved to the other side of the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. “How do you feel about pasta?”
“I feel fine about it.”
He shot me a look over his shoulder, amused. “Such enthusiasm.”
“You want enthusiasm? Make me the best damn pasta I’ve ever eaten and I’ll give you a standing ovation.”
My words seemed to spark a challenge between us. That old competitive edge we’d always had. Growing up, we’d pushed each other constantly—faster skating, better grades, harder shots. Each of us trying to prove something—maybe to each other, maybe to ourselves.
We’d competed over other things, too, back then. Things I’d spent seventeen years trying to forget.
That thought led to more dangerous memories.
Like the time I’d challenged him to suck my dick for the first time, teasing him that he was too afraid. That it would make him gay.
The truth was, I’d been the one who was terrified.
