Page 62 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“Hmm.” I run a hand along the back of my neck. “I spotted some stuff at the back of the room draped in tarps before the light went out. I can collect the tarps to spread out on the floor and we can sleep there. Better than lying on bare concrete.”
“Definitely better. I’ll just go find my shoes and help.”
As she rises, I reach for her elbow, coaxing her back down on the trunk. “Don’t. You could get cut up on that broken lightbulb. Just stay here.”
“And do nothing?” She scoffs. “I hate feeling useless.”
“You’re the farthest thing from useless. You’ve been taking care of me this whole time.”
“Fine.” She raps on the trunk. “But you can’t stop me from checking in here, and in any of the other boxes I can reach without having to get up and walk around.”
“Good idea,” I say. “Hopefully you’ll find some blankets.”
“Hopefully you’ll find a toilet.”
I bark out a laugh, and the answering chuckle from Sara gives my insides a welcome hit of relief. Maybe Ididn’truin everythingby suggesting we talk about our past. And prepping this place for an unexpected sleepover might be just the break we need fromthatunwelcome seriousness.
“I don’t know about you,” I say, hoping Sara can hear the smirk in my voice, “but I peed just before you hit me with the whole Christmas luau extravaganza. I can probably hold it all night.”
“Bragger.” She lets out a little snort, which is even more adorable in the dark.
“Should we start to look?—”
GONG!
Sara gasps. “What was that?” She grabs my upper arm, her fingers digging into my biceps.
“Sounds like there’s a grandfather clock back there.”
“How come I never heard it before?”
“The bookshelves must be pretty thick. Or the room’s well insulated. Maybe both. Either way, if the clock’s been in here longer than a week, it must be battery operated. Big Mama has one that can last at least a year.”
“But why did it only gong at us once?”
“It’s probably set to chime once on the half hour.”
“Every half hour?” she moans. “Ugh. Sleeping was going to be difficult enough.”
“At least we’ll be able to tell time.”
“Well, well, well.” Sara huffs out a laugh. “Look who’s turned into Mr. Bright Side.”
She releases my arm, and I let out a sigh, wishing she was still gripping me. Being the one Sara goes to for protection feels good. Even for a moment. Even under these less-than-ideal circumstances.
We get to work searching for any items that might make our time in here more comfortable. In the trunk we were sitting on, Sara finds an assortment of old clothing, including a coat with what feels like a faux fur hood. But only one. And it’snot very big.
Under the large tarp beside the grandfather clock, I discover an old couch with one throw pillow. The cushions are saggy, the arms feel threadbare, plus a metal coil pokes up on one end, but it’s actual furniture. I take a seat on the side without the busted spring and bounce a couple times. “I found a couch,” I call out. “Actually it’s more like a small sofa, but big enough for you to sleep on tonight.”
“No way.” She scoffs, and I’ll just bet she’s got her arms folded across her middle. “You’re the one with the concussion. If you think I’m taking the couch while you get the floor, you’ve really lost your mind. We’ll just fold up the tarps to make them thicker. I’ll be just fine on the ground.”
I cross my arms. “Concussion or not, I haven’t stopped being a gentleman, and I’m not going to let you sleep on concrete.”
“Okay.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Are you suggesting we try to sleep together on one small couch?”
At this, my pulse picks up. We’d have to lie very close for us both to fit. Very. Not that holding Sara all night would be torture, but kissing her will be all too tempting if she’s literally in my arms. “I propose we each take one side of the couch with our heads on opposite armrests, and then stretch our legs out going in the opposite direction.”
“So I get your feet in my face?” She squawks. “Nope, thanks.”
