Page 14 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“What’s with all the screeching?” A glass of Frosty Fizz bubbles in each of his hands as he peers down at her. “Did I miss something good?”
“Nope,” Isla replies, shuffling over to make room for him. “Nothing important.”
When he passes her a drink, she offers him one of her sunny smiles—a beam of light that’s been cut off from me for years.
Nothing important.
Her words echo in my mind.
Just a stupid movie. A card she drew by chance.
It means nothing.
And it sure as hell doesn’t change anything.
Six
Isla
Evangelineisafirmbeliever that cookies have magical healing powers. She’s got me convinced her Peppermint Snowballs are Santa’s version of penicillin. They soothe pains big and small, physical and emotional.
Christmas concert mishap?Cookie.
Chairlift catastrophe?Cookie.
Being trapped under the same roof with a man whose proximity fuels dangerous fantasies of both the smotheringandsmooching kind?Definitely a cookie.
Hell, maybe even three.
That existential crisis—combined with a sudden bout of insomnia—has me padding down the hallway inlight-up tree socks and an oversized pajama shirt that reads:Santa’s Not the Only One Coming Tonight.
Beneath the pink and gold lettering, a lingerie-clad Mrs. Claus straddles a glittery reindeer reverse cowgirl–style. Willow gave it to me last year as a gag gift, and I fully intended for it to rot in the shame-shadowed corner of my closet. Instead, the buttery soft fabric seduced me, ensuring the festive atrocity is now a permanent fixture in my sleepwear drawer. And while I may not be proud, Iamcomfortable.
Aggressively so.
My path to the kitchen is bathed by the silvery light of the full moon and the occasional flicker of the colorful bulbs strapped to my feet. The house is submerged in a sacred kind of quiet. When my foot connects with a creaky floorboard, I flinch at the squeak that shatters the stillness. Breath catching, I search for signs I’ve disturbed the peace.
Nothing.
Rising on my tiptoes, I exhale and forge on, convinced I’ve escaped unnoticed.
Everyone is tucked away in their beds. Not a creature is stirring, not even—crap.
I stop in my tracks as the open-concept space comes into view. My hands press to my stomach, steadying me against its sudden drop.
Theo’s unexpected presence sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. It knocks the air from my lungs, tangling my thoughts beyond repair.
A moment passes before my brain reboots, and the scene in front of me sharpens into focus.
He’s propped against the counter, his hand wrapped around one of Evangeline’s snowy landscape mugs. The thin fabric ofhis white T-shirt clings to his torso, highlighting the definition of his pectorals and the hard, flat lines of his abs.
A string of lights on the cabinets above paints a soft, amber glow across his olive-toned skin, casting faint shadows over the sharp edge of his jaw and its dusting of stubble.
His dark hair has a rumpled look to it. Almost like he’s been running his fingers through it on repeat. I’m seized by an absurd impulse to reach out and smooth it down.
Or better yet—mess it up more.
Theo looks up.
