Page 48 of Just My Puck
“Suuure,” I say, laughing hard.
I push myself up, steadying myself on the boards, but Caleb is faster. He’s on his feet in a matter of seconds, helping me up.
“Glad to see you still havesomeskills,” I say with a playful smirk.
“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes, dusting himself off. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
I shake my head, grinning. “Never.”
20
“I hope he likes tacky golden bows.”
Caleb Hawthorne
After my minor humiliation at the rink, Aria and I grabbed a hot chocolate and drove back home. I won’t forget that fall anytime soon. Not because I made a fool of myself, but because Aria was straddling me, her face inches from mine. For a brief second, I seriously considered kissing her. And the crazy thing is, I’m convinced she was thinking the same thing.
It’s hard to chase those thoughts from my head, and as we’re cooking dinner and chatting, I replay the moment over and over in my mind. It’s like she’s always been a part of my life, an integral cornerstone of my routine, and I can’t imagine my life being any different now. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.
“Should we wrap the gifts?” Aria asks after dinner, grabbing the wrapping paper we bought at the market.
I shake myself back into focus. “Yep. Let’s get this over with.”
I fetch the model plane for Owen and Lisa’s tablet, placing them on the dining room table.
Aria unrolls the wrapping paper across the work surface, squinting at it like she’s about to perform surgery. “Okay, let’s do this.” She grabs the plane, leaving me with the tablet.
I start cutting my wrapping paper, but within seconds, I hear a loud crinkling sound. I glance up to find Aria struggling—badly. The paper is slipping, the scissors are somehow tangled in the crimped roll, and the box is sliding across the table like it’s actively trying to escape her.
“Need some help?” I ask, already biting back a laugh.
“No,” she huffs, shoving the box back into place. “I’ve got this.”
She doesnotgot this.
Finally, she manages to cut out a square of paper, but the edges are jagged, like she just hacked at it with a knife. I watch with amusement as she attempts to fold the edge, but instead of a crisp line, it bunches awkwardly, like she’s wrapping a football instead of a box with right angles.
I lean on my elbow. “You ever wrapped a gift before?”
She glares at me. “I don’t know.”
The answer hits me like a slap in the face. Right. She doesn’t remember.
The teasing in her eyes flickers away for half a second before she groans and drops her head onto the table. “Judging by this disaster, though? Probably not.”
I move behind her, the warmth of her body radiating close. “Here, let me show you.” I reach for the scissors and paper, my fingers brushing hers as I take them. “Just watch.”
I position the box on the paper, distracted by the scent of her shampoo, something subtly floral. My heart starts pounding as I guide her hand. The cool metal of the scissors is a stark contrast to the warmth of her fingers beneath mine. “Like this.” I demonstrate, the blades gliding smoothly through the paper, the sharp sound amplified in the quiet room. “Slow and steady.”
Her breath hitches, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, as I stand behind her, my hands over hers. I can feel the slight tremble in her fingers—or maybe it’s mine. As I guide her through each fold, the air crackles with unspoken tension, our closeness amplifying the smallest movement. The pressure of her shoulder against my side and the way her hair brushes my cheek threaten to break my focus. I take a step back, wanting to put some distance between the heat of her body and the pounding of my heart. “Now, fold this edge. Crisp, like this.”
She folds it, but she tugs a little too harshly, and the paper tears along the top of the box.
“I’m a disaster,” she says, shaking her head.
“You’re fine. And it’s nothing a well-placed bow can’t fix.”
She perks up. “You’re right. I love bows.”
