Page 6 of Touchdown Under the Mistletoe
My stomach does a nervous flip as I see Travis through the front window. He’s talking to someone and laughing about something. For a split second, I feel jealous of his girlfriend. I wish I were… No, I shouldn’t go there. We both have our own lives. This is just… I don’t know… nostalgia taking over. Maybe it’s even hormonal. It could be the cold. But it’s definitely not… old feelings resurfacing.
I ring the doorbell while my parents haul suitcases out of the car. This is fine. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I can handle spending Christmas in close quarters with my childhood crush, who’s now a famous NFL player with a famous girlfriend. I’m a mature adult with a career and—
The front door swings open.
“Hey, Riley,” Travis says with that easy grin of his.
Yeah, I’m doomed.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal instead of someone whose brain has short-circuited. “Thanks again for letting us stay here.”
“Sure thing. My mom loves the idea. Not your house flooding, of course, but she thinks spending the holidays together will be amazing. And I agree,” he says, holding my gaze a few seconds longer than necessary.
He then steps aside to let me in. The house smells like cinnamon, pine, and cookies, and there’s Christmas music playing somewhere in the house.
Before I get a chance to take my shoes off, Travis’s mom appears in the hallway and pulls me into a hug.
“Hi, Mrs. Steelbird,” I say.
“Riley, it’s Rebecca. You know that. And welcome! And don’t worry about a thing, okay? We’re going to make this work.”
“We really appreciate this. I know it’s a lot, but—”
“Nonsense, it’s Christmas. The more the merrier.” She releases me from her warm hug and calls over her shoulder. “Benjamin! The Quinns are here!”
Travis’s dad walks in and gives me a big smile. “Welcome, welcome! Travis, help Riley’s parents with the luggage, will you?”
“Sure,” Travis says, heading past me toward the car where my parents are still unloading the contents of their house.
Rebecca loops her arm through mine. “Now, let me explain the sleeping arrangements. We’ve got your parents in the guest room on the main floor. It’s got its own bathroom, so that’ll be nice and private for them.”
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
“Your brother Beau can take the fold-out couch in the den when he arrives. I know he lives locally and could technically stay at home, but then he’d be missing out on all the fun!”
“And what about me?”
“Well, that’s a bit tricky.”
My stomach drops. Tricky? What does that even mean? She’s not going to let me sleep in a closet under the stairs like I’m Harry Potter, right?
“Well, Aspen and Maddox are in Aspen’s old room. They need the space for the crib and the baby gear. My sister Annie and her husband William are taking the basement suite. My mother is taking the upstairs guestroom.”
“So where does that leave me?” I ask, my anxiety ramping up.
It’s clear she’s afraid to say it.
“Travis’s old room. You’ll have to share.”
“Share? With Travis?”
“Oh no, not like that,” Rebecca laughs, though she still looks uncomfortable. “There are twin beds in there. We converted it into a guest room years ago when Travis moved out. You’ll each have your own bed on a separate side of the room. Completely appropriate.”
Completely appropriate. Right. Sharing a bedroom with Travis Steelbird for two weeks is totally, completely, absolutely appropriate and not at all a recipe for disaster. It definitely won’t help me stave off these old feelings I have for him. I mean, I’ll be seeing him fall asleep. I’ll find out how he looks first thing in the morning when waking up. How am I going to deal with all that? The Harry Potter-style closet suddenly seems extremely appealing.
Rebecca places a hand on my arm. “Unless you’d rather take the air mattress in the living room? Though I should warn you, that’s where everyone congregates in the morning for coffee.”
I imagine trying to sleep while Rebecca’s sister, Annie, and whoever else trample through at dawn, making small talk while I’m in my pajamas on an air mattress. At least a bedroom has a door. Privacy. Even if that privacy comes with a Travis-shaped complication.
