Page 12 of Pining for Christmas

“Come on.” Jack kisses my nose, then eases me down off the table. “It’s late. Good girls should be asleep.”

Jack

Ikeep a close eye on her, but Clara seems fine. She still smiles at me like I’m her hero in the warm glow of the tree; she stifles a laugh in her sleeve as I grab a spray cleaner and cloth from behind the bar and wipe down the booth table.

“Gotta be responsible.” I wink at her, scrubbing.

Clara beams.

So… maybe this is okay. Maybe I haven’t done something terrible here. Maybe she wants this as badly as I do.

Maybe it can happen again.

Fuck. I’d give anything for this to happen again. For Clara to touch me casually, to kiss me on the cheek in the mornings, for her to let me back between those butter-soft thighs. And if she’d let me be her man? Forget it. I’d kill for that role.

Clara yawns so wide, her jaw cracks.

“Alright, then.” I tuck the cleaning stuff away and steer her toward the staircase. Her slipper boots scuff over the floorboards. “Up we go.”

How many times have I thought about climbing these steps to see her in her room? More than once, in the dead of night, I’ve had the horrible urge to sneak up here and watch her sleep.

I didn’t, obviously. I’m not a complete psycho. But my heart pounds as I climb behind her, that curvy little ass swaying in her pajama pants.

“It’s nearly morning,” Clara mumbles, her words thick with exhaustion.

“You’re going to bed anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you won’t go across town this late, will you?”

The worry in her voice makes my chest glow warm. “No, I won’t. I promise. I’ll crash in my office for a few hours.”

Her voice is small when she replies: “Oh.”

Look, I know what she was hoping for there. But I remember, even if she doesn’t, that her bed is a cramped single cot. Barely big enough for one person, let alone sweet little Clara plus a whole grown man. We won’t fit, not comfortably, and she desperately needs some good sleep.

Clara doesn’t speak again as we climb to her room.

I hover awkwardly in the doorway as she settles in. Since I’m not staying, it seems wrong to tramp in there and get in the way. Clara kicks off her slipper boots and throws the bed covers back, lowering down with a crinkle of bed springs.

There’s no need for me to be here at all, not really, but I wasn’t ready to leave her yet. And some mixed up part of my brain wanted this to be like a date, one where I walk her home.

“Goodnight.” Clara flops down on her side, tugging the covers over her shoulder. I smile at the pink tip of her nose, but I can’t tell if she smiles back.

“Merry Christmas, Clara.”

“Merry Christmas, Jack.” Her voice sounds funny. Strained.

My boots thud against the stairs as I retreat to the bar. I’d be a shit Santa Claus in real life—I’m not built to sneak. And no way would I fuck around with chimneys when buildings have perfectly good doors.

I swipe the red hat off the table on my way to my office, twisting it in my hands.

Then close the door with a snap, nerves churning in my gut.

* * *

I toss and turn on my office sofa, my mind racing a thousand miles an hour. The more I stew in the darkness, the more my body joins in, sweat prickling over my top lip and my heart pounding faster. I scrub my hands down my face, restless.

Did I upset Clara when I came back down here?

---