Page 81 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Her eyebrows lift in amusement.
“The color, I mean.”
“Funny. I think of green asyourcolor.”
“Either way, it looks good on you.” I clear my throat. “Keep going. Next month.”
“April?” Isla hums. “Let’s see…April brings showers of—” She yelps. “That’s not glittery whiterain, is it?” She flings herself back onto my mattress, covering her blush with the fabric. “This company is unhinged. I need to work with them.”
“They’d be idiots to pass up on your talent.”
May flies by in a blur of pastel filth, and I let myself drift a little closer.
June is a neon kind of loud. A full-frontal assault on dignity. My steps are quicker now. Lighter.
July hits withRed, White, and Nude.
Isla’s jaw drops. “I’m pretty sure this goes against the Constitution.”
“Would you believe that was theleastoffensive one? You should see theirFounding Daddiescollection. The graphics—” I shake my head. “I still have war flashbacks.”
“Now I feel cheated out of a good time!” She laughs and tosses the tee aside, eagerly going after the next one.
“Bubble Tea and Creativity?” Her hands fly to her mouth, then back to the shirt. She clutches it to her chest, eyes shining like I’ve just handed her the world in cotton form. “Theo! This one is actually super sweet.”
It is sweet. And so very Isla.
“I’m surprised they kept things so tame.” She taps the clump of tapioca at the bottom of the plastic cup. “The ball jokes write themselves.”
Her grin slips as she presses her lips together. “Thanks. I love it. This one will be worn until it falls off my body in tatters.”
By the time we enter fall, I’m standing next to the bed as she rifles through shirts with abandon.
“PSL & RBFwas my survival motto this year.” Isla waves around one of the September shirts like a battle flag.
“Caffeine on and guard up to suffer through AdCraft’s shit,” I say dryly. “Can’t blame you.”
None of the Thanksgiving tees are safe for the family dinner table. The stuffing jokes are expected, but no one should do piethatdirty.
It takes a while for Isla to make it to December.
“Silent Night? Hardly.” She rubs her forehead, turning the shirt sideways to examine the comic strip of images featuring Santa and Mrs. Claus making merry via the Kama Sutra. “I’m all for sex positivity, but most of these positions violate basic laws of physics. He’s going to break his back. Or worse—hers!”
“Come on,” I tease. “We’re talking about the guy who satisfies the entire world in a single night, and the woman who isobviouslythe brains behind the whole operation. If those two can’t pull off a few gravity-defying moves, the rest of us are screwed. And not in the fun way.”
She wipes tears of laughter from her cheeks as she carefully folds the shirt, placing it in the Christmas pile like it’s some sacred artifact.
I’m drunk on the sight of her as she kneels in the middle of my bed, surrounded by cotton carnage. Hair mussed. Eyes bright. Skin flushed.
Smile on.
“I can’t believe you!” She scans the piles, gaze flicking to me. “This is…a lot.”
“I knew since that night in the kitchen you were meant to live in these shirts. After the Dirty Santa game, I bought out the store.”
Her lips part in surprise. “What?”
“Now they’llreallyneed your help to replenish their stock.”
