Page 6 of Jingle Bell Flock
I opened the door, making sure to school my expression into polite welcome instead of the panic I’d felt only a short second before. “Jeremy. Hi.”
“We need to talk about this event my sister cooked up.”
“Is that him?” came Bristol’s voice in my ear, sounding loud enough I was certain Jeremy could hear her. “Oh my god, itishim, isn’t it? Ask him if he wants to stay for?—”
I reached up and tapped my earbud, ending the call abruptly. I’d bring her a batch of cookies later as an apology.
“I was just—” I gestured vaguely toward the direction of my kitchen and then down to my apron. As I did, wind gusted over my porch, sending whorls of white flying in every direction.
Jeremy blew into his gloveless hands and stamped his feet.
“Oh my god. Come in,” I said, stepping aside. “It’s freezing out there.”
He hesitated for a second, his mouth turned down in a deep scowl. Finally, he stepped over the threshold, bringing cold air and the scent of Christmas trees with him.
“Tomorrow’s photoshoot is off,” he said without preamble. “Storm’s supposed to be a big one, so the kids are all staying at Charlie’s tonight. DPS has already closed most of the roads between here and town.”
My stomach sank. I’d been dreading tomorrow—hours of Jeremy being forced by his sister into taking pictures of me and the goats while clearly wishing he was anywhere else—but at least it would have beensomething. A reason to be in the same space. An opportunity to pull him aside and ask if he might ever be able to forgive me.
I’d never been into masochism before, but it was never too late to develop new kinks.
“Oh.” I waited for him to say more, to explain why he’d walked over here instead of just sending a text to the group chat. “That’s … did you need something else, or …?”
“I just—” He stopped, his attention snagging on the shelves flanking my fireplace, and his whole body went still.
My gaze followed, and I stifled a groan.
His eyes were locked on a photo of our hockey team from senior year.
I’d had it framed years ago, back when I was living in New York and feeling nostalgic for the past. Twenty guys in their Mistletoe Bay jerseys, grinning at the camera like we owned the world. Jeremy and I were in the back row, standing shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that, if you knew what to look for, you could see how we were angled toward each other, how neither of us was quite looking at the camera but at each other instead.
I didn’t know what had possessed me to put it up in such a prominent place, knowing anyone who stopped by would see it. Jeremy’s family lived next door, for fuck’s sake. If Jemma or Eli ever came inside, they wouldn’t be able to miss it.
Jeremy’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he didn’t want to say—about the photo, maybe, or about the seventeen years between then and now neither of us had spoken about.
“The issue is, we still need the content.” He swung back to face me, his voice gruff. “Storm’s not supposed to get really bad for another couple hours. We could shoot some pictures now. Just us.”
My brain stuttered over those two words.
Just us.
Suddenly, I was sixteen again. It was late spring, the air thick with the smell of waking earth and Axe body spray. Jeremy had grabbed my arm after practice, his grip warm even through my hoodie, and said, “Meet me tonight. That secret spot at the back of the farm. Just us.”
I’d gone, obviously. I would have followed Jeremy Price anywhere.
That was the first night we’d kissed. The first night I’d understood that whatever was happening between us was bigger than friendship, bigger than anything I knew how to name.
Just ushad meant everything back then.
Now it just meant we were out of other options.
“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, that works. Let me just—” I looked down at my flour-covered apron. “Give me five minutes to change?”
He shrugged. “Sure, lemme go get my camera. I’ll be back.”
He turned for the door, and I practically ran up the stairs to my bedroom, tugging my dirty apron off over my head and tossing it behind me, not caring where it landed. I darted to my closet and pulled out a pair of dark jeans that made my ass look fantastic and a soft, cream-colored cable-knit sweater a friend once told me was “very Chris Evans inKnives Out.”
Yes, I wanted to look good for the photos, but I couldn’t deny that I mainly wanted to look good forJeremy.
