Page 90 of Holiday Hostilities

I’m not going to lie, when I landed in Atlanta earlier, I was so excited that I took a break from my usual Americano with oat milk and instead bought Jing and myself peppermint mochas.

Which isinsanelyfestive, in my book.

“So what are you and The Stallion doing after the game tonight?” Jing asks, then gives a huge, exaggerated wink. “Or is that question off-limits?”

“We’re just gonna chill,” I tell her.

Our actual plan—crafted over text—is Italian takeout, wine, and dirty word Scrabble in front of the fireplace. In the spirit of the holidays, I’ve also agreed to watchMiracle on 34th Streetinstead of a slasher flick. And I got him a little Christmas surprise that I plan on revealing on the way home tonight.

Least I can do after his thoughtful attempt to help me make new and improved Christmas memories.

“Netflix and chill,” she responds with a leer, and I give her a shove, but it’s an affectionate one.

When we get to the entrance for the MARTA, I pull her into a hug. “Well, Merry Christmas, Jing,” I tell her. “I’m so happy that I met you this year.”

She pulls back, laughing. “That man is turning you into a total softie, isn’t he?”

“No,” I protest.

“He is, and I’m here for it.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses my forehead like I’m a child. “Merry Christmas, my softie little friend.”

“See ya in a few days.”

“Tokyo, baby!” she responds, and then melts into the crowd headed towards the subway.

I pretty much sprint to the players’ area, more than a little excited to see Aaron again after the days we spent apart. But instead of waving me through, the security guard—an older guy who often works on this door and certainly knows me by now—asks me to wait. He then says something on his radio that I can’t hear.

A few moments later, Aaron ducks through the door clad in his soft gray sweats and a black Cyclones hoodie. He’salso sporting damp, freshly showered hair and a determined expression. And dammit if my heart doesn’t skip a beat or three.

“Thanks, Mac,” he says with a nod to the security guard. “Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you, Aaron.” The guard’s wrinkled face shows something like amusement.

“Hey Livvy,” Aaron says to me, and I realize how much I love it when he calls me that. Nobody else does, it’s just him.

“Hey,” I reply, smiling. “Didn’t want me to come in?”

“I was actually trying to get out.” He nods at the door behind him. “There’s a ton of people in there chatting, and I didn’t feel like sharing you tonight.”

This sends my stomach into a flurry of butterflies. “I’m glad.”

“Plus, that Scrabble won’t play itself.”

“You are such a nerd,” I tease.

“You love it,” he counters. “And you have no idea how much I missed you.”

Then, he grabs my hand and we run to the underground parking, giggling like we’re a pair of teenagers sneaking out at night.

We ride home with Justin Bieber’s Christmas album cranked, shouting out random half-snippets of lyrics while I order cacio e pepe, lobster ravioli, and browned butter and sage gnocchi on UberEats. We’re breathless and laughing and having fun, but all the while, I’m hyper aware of Aaron stealing glances at me that are loaded with almost as much heat as I currently feel from being back in his vicinity.

It gives me that fizzy sensation in my stomach that makes me half want to wrap my arms around myself and squeal, half tell him to pull over so I can climb on top of him.

Luckily, I manage to control myself, and instead settle for continuing to feel hot and bothered and giddy as his eyes continue to skim over me.

But by the time we pull into his driveway, I’m feeling a strange sense of… something else. Something deeper.

I should be excited. An evening with Aaron, just the two of us, followed by four blissful days of alone time to apply face masks, watchNew GirlandSchitt’s Creek,and stuff my face with chocolate.

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