Page 45 of Cross Check Christmas
"Shhh!" Hendrix suddenly presses a finger to my lips, head tilted toward the hallway.
Mrs. Fraser's voice drifts through the door. "...saw them sneaking off together. Into the craft room, of all places!"
My head snaps toward the voices. Mrs. Fraser's stage whisper might as well be a megaphone. Heat floods my face. Great. More fodder for the town gossip mill.
"This is exactly what I don't need," I hiss at Hendrix. "People already think?—"
"Think what?" He steps closer, and suddenly the craft room feels very small. "That we might actually get along?"
"That there's something going on between us!"
"Would that be so terrible?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with possibilities I refuse to consider. Before I can respond, more whispers float through the door.
"First the hockey game, now this," Mrs. Patel's voice joins the chorus. "Young love is so sweet."
"—better check on them," Mrs. Fraser's voice gets closer.
The door handle jiggles.
Without thinking, I grab Hendrix's arm and yank him behind Grannie's towering shelf of yarn. We barely fit in the cramped space, pressed together between wool skeins and knitting needles.
My heart pounds as Hendrix's chest presses against mine in the narrow space behind Grannie's yarn shelf. I try to focus on anything else: the scratchy wool against my back, the clicking of knitting needles as they shift, Mrs. Fraser's voice growing louder.
"I swear they came in here..."
Hendrix's warm breath tickles my ear, and memories of that dance floor kiss flood back unbidden. The way his lips had been surprisingly soft, how his hands had trembled slightly on my waist. I'd convinced myself for years it was all an elaborate prank, but the intensity in his eyes when he talked about it moments ago...
"Did you check the sunroom?" Mrs. Patel's voice calls from the hallway.
I shift slightly, trying to put even a millimeter of space between us, but there's nowhere to go. My hand is awkwardly trapped against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat racing as fast as mine. A ball of yarn rolls off the shelf, and Hendrix catches it with lightning-quick reflexes. The movement brings him even closer.
"Maybe they snuck out the back door?" someone suggests.
Hendrix's fingers brush my waist as he steadies himself, and electricity shoots through me. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. But being this close to him, smelling that cologne, feeling the warmth radiating from his body—it's doing dangerous things to my resolve.
My legs start to cramp from standing so still. I shift slightly, and Hendrix's grip on my waist tightens. The same protective instinct he showed on the dance floor all those years ago. Back then, I'd convinced myself it was all an elaborate prank. But now...
"Should we check the basement?" another woman asks.
Please check the basement, I silently beg. Because if they don't leave soon, I might do something incredibly stupid – like find out if Hendrix's lips are as soft as I remember.
"Ladies!" Grannie's voice rings out. "We’re supposed to be caroling! We need your lovely singing!"
The voices fade down the hallway, but neither of us moves. My breath catches as his thumb traces small circles on my hip, probably unconsciously, and I'm seventeen again, swaying in his arms under the gym's twinkling lights.
"Colette," he whispers, and my name on his lips sends sparks down my spine.
In the dim light filtering through the window, his eyes are dark and intense. They flick down to my lips, and I forget every reason why this is a terrible idea.
"Colette," he whispers again, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he tilts my chin up and I find myself melting into his touch despite my better judgment.
He dips his head slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His breath fans across my lips, mingling with mine. The anticipation builds like electricity between us. My fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer without conscious thought.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
