Page 22 of A Very Merry Matchup
The clock on the dash reads ten minutes before one. “Are we going to eat lunch at some point?” The pancakes from earlier are a distant memory as far as my stomach is concerned.
“My mom said she’d drop off some sandwiches and chips for us at the church.”
“Oh. That’s nice of her.”
Took us a little under two hours to gather all the store donations for the baskets. Would’ve been done sooner if the employee at the last store hadn’t been a perky twenty-something curly-haired flirt focused more on fawning over Beau than handing over the store’s donation of fuzzy socks.
Not that I noticed. Or cared.
“Beautiful church,” I say as Beau circles around to the back entrance.
Reminds me of my grandma’s church with its stone walls and white steeple. She’d always take my brother and me to the Christmas Eve service whenever we stayed with her over Christmas break. My favorite part was when we’d sing “SilentNight” and hold out small candles. Wonder if Beau’s church does that too. Guess I’ll find out in a few days. I can only assume since his dad is the pastor that we’ll be attending the Christmas Eve service.
“I think we’ve got about twenty deliveries to make once we get the baskets put together,” Beau says as he parks. The lot has been plowed, so mounds of snow are piled on the edges. I remember having fun climbing similar snow mountains at my grandma’s church too.
“What’s that smile about?” His knuckles tap my knee.
Am I smiling? Maybe I am. “Just thinking about my grandma. This town, this church, sort of reminds me of the Christmases my brother Jordan and I spent with her as kids.”
“I’ll take it by your smile those are good memories?”
“She always knew how to make Christmas special for us, that’s for sure. I guess I didn’t realize until now how long it’s been since I’ve experienced a Christmas like that.”
Before I can climb out of the truck, Beau’s warm palm is spread over the top of my knee. “Hey, Ivy?”
I stare down where his hand rests, heating my skin through the fabric. And just like that my mind flashes back to that moment outside the flower shop. When he braced those large hands next to my face, shielding me in a delicious cocoon of warmth and strength and safety... and... and...
What is wrong with me?This is Beau.
I snap my attention from his hand to his face. His blue eyes are crinkling at the edges and his right dimple is popping as if he can tell the effect he has on me by a simple touch.
Which iszeroeffect. I am not affected by Beau. Sure, he’s big, strong, and handsome, but who cares? You want a chemistry lesson? Here’s a chemistry lesson. Molecule A plus molecule B equals zero reaction because molecule B ain’t having it.
Okay, why is my entire leg burning? How is Beau’s hand the same temperature as fire? Are these heated seats? Is the truck still running? I’m going to need to take off my coat here in a second if Beau doesn’t stop touching my leg and staring at me like I’m a slowly melting marshmallow he can’t wait to sample.
His boyish grin grows as if he can read my thoughts. “You okay?”
“Great,” I squeak, yanking the zipper of my coat down to my middle before I start panting worse than Hamish. “Did you have something to say?”
Maybe I’m still sick. That’s probably it. Of course that’s it. I’m not well. I’m feverish. I’m dying. Any nurse worth her salt will tell you this sudden wild attraction to Beau isnothing more than the common symptoms one sees in all feverish, dying, and generally unwell patients.
I need another nap. On top of Beau’s lap.Ah!That’s the feverish death talking, not me.
“Beau?” I squeeze his name out of my throat before my feverish death turns into rigor mortis. I need him to say something. Something shallow. Something cringy. Something that reminds me why this sudden ridiculous infatuation is solely based on his handsome face, strong hands, and yes, fine—amazingly roped veins. But nothing more.
His scorching hand lifts from my leg to grab hold of my hand that’s about to cause sparks at the rate I’m running my zipper up and down my coat. He gently lowers my hand to the spot on my knee still recovering from third degree burns. “I just wanted to say that I hope this Christmas is special for you, too.”
“Oh.” Not exactly the shallow cringe I was looking for, but, “Thank you,” I mumble.
“I think I’m starting to realize how much I’ve always taken this time of year with my family for granted.”
He can stop now.
“I’m not saying my family’s perfect or anything, but we do love each other. They mean the world to me. And I hope that you’ll feel right at home with us. I really want this to be a great Christmas for you, Ivy.”
I should’ve climbed out the passenger side window as soon as we hit the parking lot. Everything coming out of Beau’s mouth is exacerbating my symptoms.
“Well... thank you,” I say again, only because that’s the polite thing to say. Not because I’m touched or moved by his words. “Do you have a tissue?” I say next, because it’s the winter season and whose eyes don’t get a little watery during the winter season. Especially when they’re feverish and dying.
