Page 12 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“You were a moron.” Felix tosses a pillow at his head, nailing him square in the chin.
“Our turn!” My sister jumps to her feet. “Given how the boys are playing, even with only three and a half competitors on our side”—she tips her head toward my four-year-old niece, Jovie, whose sole contribution so far has been her soft snores while napping on a nearby chaise—“the girls are still on track to kick your asses. Show them how it’s done, Isla baby!”
Isla rises with a stretch and a playful shimmy that does my pulse dirty. After adjusting the hem of her burgundy sweater dress, she glides toward the open space by the fire that serves as our makeshift stage for the night.
Even as I force myself to look away, she lingers at the periphery of my vision. I curse my eyes for chasing her every move. My blood stirs, drawn to her presence without my consent.
“You boys ready to forfeit yet?” she taunts playfully. “This is equally embarrassing for the girls. Taking candy canes from babies is no fun.” She gestures to our team. “In case it wasn’t obvious, you guys are the helpless infants.”
My hand twitches with the urge to wrap around her outstretched finger. I haven’t fully thought through what I’d do after, but that spark inside her calls to me on a primal level.
It only comes out to play when she feels safe. Comfortable. And this place—my family home—is where it burns brightest.
Which is precisely why I’ve steered clear of visiting during the few weeks a year she chooses to spend here. She’s endured enough misfortune. The last thing she needs is me dousing her fire.
“We’re losing because these idiots are all wasted!” Asher pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want a new team.”
“Look who’s talking.” Rowan nods at the empty glass in front of our brother. “You’ve guzzled more of Frosty’s jizz than all of us combined.”
“Fizz!” Mom chokes out through a violent bout of laughter. “FrostyFizz!”
Felix scoffs. “Save it, Ma. You knew what you were doing when you named that drink.”
“Speaking of fizzy jizz—I need a refill.” With that proclamation, Asher sets off for the kitchen. “Pay attention to my beautiful girlfriend!”
Isla flinches, as if caught off guard by the word.
The satisfaction that surges through me at her reaction can only mean one thing:I’m an asshole.
Her painted red nails tap against the wooden bowl as she deliberates the next clue. A beat later, she plucks out a slip of paper and waves it around with dramatic flair.
She unfolds it slowly, squinting at the words, her lips parting as she reads. As soon as her eyes widen, her startled gaze snapping to my face, I know what’s written on it.
A flash of recognition passes between us, carried on an electric charge that zips through the air.
I’m slammed with a memory from six winters ago.
Despite its age, it’s so vivid and tactile it drags me straight under.
It’s a Wonderful Lifeflickers on the battered screen in the upstairs movie room. Outside, the world is white noise. Snow blankets the house, piling higher by the hour in what the news has christened the Blizzard of the Century. The attic window is sealed in frost, smothering all traces of light, while the wind lashes the roof. With temperatures plunging well below freezing, our old furnace groans in protest, struggling to keep the chill at bay.
I arm Isla with a knitted throw in a chivalrous move to shield her from the cold.
And maybe…myself.
She curls in to my left, legs tucked, fluffy reindeer socks chiming softly with every shift. The screen’s glow reflects on her face, illuminating the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. Long, copper-tinted waves tumble over her shoulders, carrying the warm scent of cinnamon. The rest of her smells like peppermint and sugar from the cocoa we’ve been sipping—and I spend a perverse amount of time fixated on the lucky smudge of chocolate clinging to her bottom lip.
More than once, her head lolls toward me. Likely drawn by gravity, but some reckless part of me prays it’s brought on by instinct instead. Every touch shoots fire through my veins.
She feels so damn good.
Too fucking good.
It’s that dizzying rush of desire to make her mine that stops me.
Isla is only nineteen. Still grieving. Vulnerable in her loneliness.
I’m almost a decade older. Her mentor. A friend teetering too close to a line I have no right to cross.
