Page 7 of The Christmas Playbook
Rhys Anderson, my old neighbor, my old pal,my oldcrush.
I pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming, which only forces his eyebrows to cave in farther. Unfortunately for the both of us, this isn’t a dream.
“Uh…” He glances around the cabin, as if he’s searching for cameras, as if we’re on some prank show. “This is my cabin, actually.”
The hell it is.
I stomp my foot like a brat and cross my arms over my coat. “Listen,” I start off with an even-tempered voice, but as soon as Rhys flicks his eyebrow, irritation rushes through me. “I’ve been on an airplane with my insane family for over three hours, then I was forced to sit in a car between my gigantic teenage brother, who took up more than half the seat, and my two-year-old nephew, who screamed the entire ride up this mountain.”
I honestly think I might have lost hearing in my right ear. That, right along with my freaking mind.
“And?” Rhys is confused, and I’m annoyed.
“And get out! This is my cabin.” I jingle the keys in front of his face, refusing to gape at his naked chest.
Rhys Anderson is no longer a boy with lanky limbs and random patches of facial hair. He’sallman now, and it’s hard to pretend like he’s not. I didn’t keep up with him after we moved away from one another, but I think I remember Marcus saying that Rhys was drafted for the pros.
He’ll die when he realizes one of his heroes is here.
Rhys casually walks over to the table and swipes up a pair of keys of his own. He’s no more than a foot away from me before he holds up his set and mimics my previous jingling.
“Looks like we’re roomies, Frostbite.”
An annoyed sigh falls from my mouth. Really? My old nickname?
“No.”
I spin on my boots and head for the door.
Absolutely not.
I amnotspending my entire ski trip being put down by my family only to come back to my cabin to share it with none other than Mr. Successful himself—Rhys Anderson.
No matter how insanely hot he is.
“Hot tub is this way. Where are you going?” Unfortunately, Rhys’s voice doesn’t fade the closer I get to the check-in desk.
He follows closely behind, asking me all sorts of questions.
None of which I answer.
How have you been?
Where do you live now?
Are you still obsessed with Justin Bieber?
Do you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend? Single?
“Excuse me,” I say sweetly to the girl at the desk. She is less overwhelmed than a little while ago when my family arrived in full chaos. “I think there has been a mistake.”
“A mistake?” she asks, cheeks turning pink.
“I think you might have double-booked us.” I point to Rhys, whothankfullycovered up before following me in the snow.
The girl quickly pulls up something on the computer while Rhys and I stand side by side in awkward silence.
Well, awkward for me.
