Page 54 of Holly Freakin' Hughes

Mymouth seemed to have a mind of its own as it formed a smile that I couldn’tstop despite how hard I tried, in anticipation of feeling his lips on mine onceagain. With every painstaking second that ticked by, I found there was nothingI wanted more. But after a few moments of lingering and feeling the fresh, coolbreath from his nostrils against my face, I opened my eyes, afraid he haddecided to back down.

WhatI saw was the sparkling blue eyes staring back at me, while he wore a smilesimilar to my own.

Right.Just friends.

“Let’smake this quick,” he said, feigning a groan as I felt a warm hand on the backof my neck.

“Justget it over with,” I whispered, knowing I wasn’t tricking anybody when my voicecaught in my throat at the touch of his other hand against my jaw, his thumbstroking the skin of my cheek, and with that, he pulled me towards him.

Andyou know, I thought that after months had passed since I first kissed him, thatmaybe the thrill would be gone and I would feel nothing. I thought that thosesparks wouldn’t have sprinkled behind my eyelids and the wobbly feeling in myknees would remain a distant memory from a time when I was desperate. Ienvisioned that, after experiencing his lips on mine one last time, I could putit to rest knowing that it was just a fluke, and we could continue as thefriends we truly were.

Butwhat happened instead was … something else entirely.

Ourlips crashed together as I melted into his hands, and all I could do to keepmyself from collapsing at his feet was to reach my arms up and around his neck.The small kiss between friends in the spirit of tradition, had quickly built tosomething intimate; our lips parting in unison and the tips of our tonguesmeeting somewhere in the middle with a tenderness that could only beinterpreted as romantic. The bitter sampling of black coffee sat on my tongue,and even though I would have at one point been completely repulsed by theflavor, it tasted likehim, and I had to fight myself from devouring itthen.

Butthen … There was that ache, more pronounced than the scraping of his stubbleagainst my chin. It began as a whisper and ended as a scream, telling me to notlet him go, to keep him there in that moment with me, but before I could listento myself, it was over. He pulled away, and it wasn’t until that point that Irealized I was on the brink of tears. My heart felt wrung out of all emotion,and for just a second, I was terrified of looking at him and seeing that hefelt nothing, leaving me to drown alone. But despite my fears, out ofnecessity, I reluctantly opened my eyes to find his scanning my face as thoughthey were searching for something.

Theylocked onto mine; moisture lined the rims, turning his blue eyes into prisms.“Holly, I—”

Swallowinghard, I asked, “What?”

Iwanted to hear him say whatever it was that sat at the tip of his tongue. Iimagined it being something to the effect of, “Leave him and be with me,” anddammit, I would have done it. I would have pulled my phone out right there andcalled Ben to tell him it was over. Whateveritwas.

Butthen the world reappeared around us as Jessie sighed. “Oh, Bill … Wait untilDebbie hears about this …”

Andjust like that, I remembered we were friends. I remembered the guy I had beensemi-unfaithful to. I remembered that there were other places to be, even ifthat place was in my bed, alone with my cat.

Idropped my hands from Brandon’s neck as he dropped his from mine. I composedmyself with a clearing of my throat as Brandon ran his hands through his hairin what I guessed to be an attempt to put himself back in order. I wished thethree of them a merry Christmas, and before anything else could be said, Ihurried out of there, cursing Jessie for not listening to Debbie Jefferson.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

BRANDON

For many people, when askedwhat they considerto be the most romantic holiday, they would promptly respond with, “Valentine’sDay.” I supposed they wouldn’t be incorrect in their feelings, given the day’samorous history and commercialized sentiment, but no, for me, it has alwaysbeen Christmas Eve.

Therewas something in that intimate hush that lulled over the Earth, that momentarysense of peace that brought those Wise Men travelling through the desert allthose years ago. The desire and need to be closest to those you care for most,the magical awe of the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, and the sensualkiss of the fireplace against rosy cheeks. All of it combined, painted apicture of cozy warmth, one to fall in love with over and over again.

Andto me, that was exactly what love should be.

Butof course, that wasn’t the type of love I had found myself in. I was in thetorturous kind that left me lying awake when I should have been sleeping;tossing and turning through the stresses of wondering if her feelings for meran as deep as mine for her. Wondering how I had allowed myself to get intosuch a predicament. Wondering how the hell it was I would confess my trueidentity to her. Wondering why the hell I had approached her in the Reade’sparking lot all those months ago.

Brandonthe Nice Man.

Ihad come close the night before, under the mistletoe in Bill’s shop. The guiltof her not knowing had hit me hard in the gut after a kiss that had manifestedinto something of a tornado of emotion. I had been within millimeters oftelling her everything when the world suddenly appeared around us, and thereality of her being unavailable drove a stake through my heart.

TheReade family urged me to run after her in some display of storybook valiance. Ithought about it for a few moments, allowing enough time to pass for her to getinto her car and drive away; subconsciously deciding that it wasn’t the righttime long before she had even reached the shop’s jingling door.

Butwould there ever be a right time, I thought, rubbing a hand against my jaw.

Mythoughts had left me entranced by the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree inNick’s living room, oblivious to the other guests around me. A far stretch fromthe one leading the Wise Men to Bethlehem, I wished upon the gaudy tinseledstar that I could blink and suddenly be one of the few dozen couples jammedinto Nick’s house. With my arm around Holly’s waist, gabbing about the newaddition to our house or a new recipe we tried as our contribution to theholiday spread.

Iblinked, and while I wasn’t surprised to find myself still alone on that couch,it took a hard bite against my inner lip to keep myself together. I squeezed myeyes shut and pushed a hand through my hair, and wished for the lovesickteenager in my mind to give it a fucking rest.

Thesound of a throat clearing brought me to open my eyes just as Nick’s fathernudged my boot with the toe of his loafer, pulling me from my wishfulthinking—a welcomed distraction. He handed me a tumbler of what I could onlyassume was something alcoholic, and I accepted the glass gratefully. Anythingto numb the ache that seemed to be a permanent fixture in my day-to-day living.

“Youlook like you could use a drink,” Richard Bolton said, and he toasted with theglass in his hand. “Merry Christmas, son.”

“Anda merry Christmas to you, sir.” I raised the glass to him before tipping itback into my mouth. The familiar warmth of Scotch slid down my throat.

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