Page 23 of Texting My Secret Santa

“I get it. Nothing’s simple, especially with body-image stuff.”

She tilts her head. “Okay, Asher …”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“If it were nothing, you wouldn’t have sounded so frosty, Snowflake,” I say with my brow cocked.

“Ooh, good pun.” She laughs.

“You’re rubbing off on me. So, will you tell me what you were thinking or not?”

“Just you—body-image issues … How does that work?”

I shrug. “I’ve never cared about my appearance. I wear expensive suits because, in business, people respect you more. I work out because I like the feeling it gives me. It doesn’t mean I can’t empathize. I’m not a complete cold ass.”

“News to me,” she says. “I’m sorry. Joking. I know you’re not. You’re surprisingly nice for somebody who used to bully me.”

“I never meant to bully you,” I say brusquely. “I never mea—” I stop when I see the look on her face. “You’re teasing me.”

“Isn’t that what I do best?”

It looks like we’re not going to talk about what I did outside my mom’s place, gripping onto her waist. As we wait for our drinks, I relive the moment. I remember how thick, how perfect she felt. My rigid arousal makes it difficult to drag my thoughts from the memory.

Finally, our drinks arrive, along with the platter, earlier than expected.

“Thank you,” I tell the waitress.

“No problem, sir,” she says, lingering at the table too long.

“Talk about obvious,” Holly mutters with an eye roll.

“Huh?”

She gives me that look again. “Are you kidding? She was totally trying to flirt with you.”

“Who?”

“The waitress, Asher!” she says, exasperated. “Didn’t you notice the way she was looking at you? Why do you think she hung around the table for a full calendar year?”

I shrug.I’ve only got eyes for you, Holly.“I didn’t notice, Snowflake,” I tell her. “You better choose some meat before I devour the whole thing.”

She laughs, staring at the platter. “I highly doubt you could eatallof this.”

“When I get an appetite for something, I can’t stop,” I say, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

I wonder if she knows I’m not speaking about our meal anymore.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “Maybe see a couple of friends. There’s this rock-climbing place I’ve been interested in, too. It’s not usually my thing, but they have a Christmas theme, and I think I could record a good video there.”

“Why don’t you go?”

“None of my friends are interested. I think theywouldcome, but they don’t want to eat up a precious day off for that. It’s not a big deal.”

I almost offer to take her. If that doesn’t qualify as a date, what does? This is on the borderline: eating a meal together.

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