Page 27 of Pining for Christmas

The sun flares against the glass as I push to my feet again, and I cross to the balcony doors to push one open. Better to coax in a breeze and chase away this stifling heat.

Ali sucks on her teeth, standing too as she unravels the knotted string lights. “Modeling,” she mutters, with as much distaste as if she’d been offered a job scooping up radioactive waste. And I know Ali doesn’t have a problem with models, doesn’t think badly of the profession really, but after everything that happened with her mother…

Guess it makes sense. Who’d want to follow in the footsteps of the person who rejected you? Who threw you away and resented you for ‘ruining’ her stick-thin body?

Even if Aliisone of the most beautiful young women alive, even if she does make strangers literally stop in their tracks, mouths hanging open as she passes… that doesn’t mean she needs to take the obvious road.

Christ, I thought the fella working the Christmas tree farm was going to swallow his own tongue when he saw her, especially when she started bouncing on her toes with excitement.

Because the thing is… Ali has no idea what kind of effect she has on people. Notreally.She hasn’t been allowed out in public enough to properly notice, and she’s not vain enough for it to occur to her independently. She thinks she’spretty enough.Averagely nice to look at.

Meanwhile hordes of men she’s never met counted down the days to Ali’s eighteenth birthday online. Fuck, I hope she never finds out about that. Those assholes had no business coveting her when she was so young.

“Can I plug these in somewhere?”

I point her at an outlet behind the tree, head spinning, sick with guilt. Because I can comfort myself with the fact thatIdidn’t notice Ali like that until a year ago, I can tell myself all the excuses I like, but the fact is, this girl is still way too young for me. I’m still a creep for even noticing her at all.

Seventeen years. There are seventeen years between the two of us. I’m almost old enough to be her—

“Saxon?”

Scrubbing one palm down my face, I drag my brain back into gear. Force myself to stop spiraling and focus. “Yeah?”

Ali’s wrapped the string light around the bottom two-thirds of the tree, but she’s struggling to reach the higher branches. As she strains, her arms stretching overhead, her red t-shirt rides up and shows a taut strip of bare navel.

I can see her belly button. Can see the faint jut of her hip bone.

Kill me now.

“Will you help me with this?”

Shit. I tear my gaze away, and I guess my body’s paying better attention than my brain, because I’m already striding across the rug, already taking the string lights from her hands, already reaching up to wind them around the topmost branches. And Ali’s trapped between the tree and my chest, so delicate, her body heat blending with mine, but neither of us mention how close we’re standing now. Neither of us mention the way my chest heaves, brushing up against her with every inhale. If I’m not careful, my ragged breaths will knock her forward.

“You being so big comes in handy sometimes,” Ali says, her voice shaky.

I grunt, scowling at my hands as they work. Don’t trust myself to reply.

* * *

“There’s one more thing,” Ali says hours later, as the sun bleeds into the horizon outside and she brushes imaginary dust from her hands. Her black bun is sagging to one side, her forehead dewy with sweat and her neck flushed, but she’s done a great job. Can’t deny it. My one-bed bachelor pad by the waterfront has been transformed into an explosion of Christmas cheer.

There’s the tree, obviously, with golden string lights wound through the layers and red velvet bows nestled among the green needles. Silver frosted baubles drip from the branches, and a glittery star marks the very top.

But Ali also swagged tinsel beneath my breakfast bar, and hung a wreath on the front door, and burned scented candles to make my place smell like allspice. She even hung a stocking from the mantelpiece and gave my floor lamp a tinsel crown.

Now she’s clutching a canvas tote to her chest, shifting back and forth between her feet, looking guilty.

“What did you do?” I ask, faux stern the way she likes, and Ali laughs nervously. When she draws a sprig of mistletoe from the bag, dropping the tote to the rug, I forget to breathe.

“It’s traditional,” she says in a rush, practically hopping from nerves now. “You’ve got to have mistletoe at Christmas. It’s, like, the law.”

I clear my throat with effort. “Right.”

Ali tiptoes toward me like I’m a wild animal. Like I might bolt, or maybe charge at her. Guess she’s not wrong, because both those things are on the table right now.

She waves the mistletoe weakly. “So where should we hang it? Above the front door?”

I cough out a laugh and shake my head, although none of this is funny. Not really. Or if it is, the joke is on me. “Not at the front door. I’m not planting a smacker on every delivery person who comes to my door in December.”

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