Page 12 of Jingle Bell Flock
“So a gay stereotype,” he pointed out.
My stomach sank. “Yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
For a long moment, he just looked at me, and I braced myself for him to tell me to get the hell out of his house. Instead, his shoulders relaxed, and amusement flickered across his face.
“You know what? Ten years ago, that would have bothered me.” He picked up one of the shortbread cookies, turning it overin his fingers. “My dad used to say shit like that all the time. How I was ‘too particular’ about things.” He looked up, meeting my eyes. “But I like having a nice kitchen. I like that Stefan and I found the perfect soapstone. And yeah, maybe that makes me a diva or whatever, but I don’t really care anymore.”
His expression softened, and he let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a small huff of laughter. “Besides, I literally bought a farm where I raise goats and make artisanal cheese that I sell at a farmer’s market where I wear expensive flannel shirts that I bought because they photograph well on Instagram.” He arched his right eyebrow. “I’m not exactly fighting the stereotype here.”
Despite the awkwardness still churning in my gut, my mouth twitched. “You bought flannel shirts for Instagram?”
“They’re really good shirts, Jeremy.”
A surprised laugh escaped me. Harrison’s answering smile transformed his whole face in a way that made my pulse kick.
“Once a pretty boy, always a pretty boy,” I said, shaking my head with a mix of exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness.
Harrison’s smile shifted into something different. Something that made my stomach swoop as he looked at me through lowered lashes, his voice dropping low. “You think I’m pretty?”
His question slid over my skin like a caress, and I had to clear my throat, my jeans becoming tight. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
His eyes held mine for a beat too long before he looked away. “Hmm,” he hummed.
I had no idea what that sound meant, and not knowing made my skin prickle.
We stood there another moment, the air between us charged with something I wasn’t ready to name.
The absurdity of it hit me then—standing in his designer kitchen, bantering back and forth instead of arguing about nonsense like we’d been doing made me realize I was done fighting with this man.
I’d said as much back in the barn, but now I actually meant it.
Harrison set the cookie back on the platter, then started re-arranging the cheese rounds with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just loaded.
When he finally looked up again, there was something tentative in his expression. Pensive. Like he was deciding whether to step off a cliff.
“Since we’re saying things that might be offensive,” he began. “We’ve established beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am very gay, but what … uh …” He paused, and I watched him gather his courage. “What about you?”
“Oh.” My hand came up to scratch at the side of my jaw, a nervous habit I’d never quite managed to break, though you’d think sap stuck in my beard a hundred times would have done the trick. “Yeah. No. Uh, I mean … I’m bi. Not really out, but not hiding it either.” I cleared my throat, suddenly fascinated by the veining in his fancy countertop. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “I wondered, but I never … I didn’t want to assume.” He trailed off, and the air between us felt charged with all the things we’d never said out loud to one another before.
I forced myself to look up and meet his eyes. “We never really talked about that stuff. Back then.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “We didn’t.”
Harrison shifted his weight, his fingers drumming once against the counter before going still. “Can I ask—” He stopped himself with a shake of his head. “Never mind. It’s probably too personal.”
“You can ask,” I said, surprising both of us.
Something had shifted between us tonight, some invisible barrier finally cracking, and I was curious to see where this conversation might take us.
“Did your teammates know?” His voice was careful, like he was genuinely worried about overstepping. “Or is that a stupid question? It’s not like I don’t know how hockey culture can be.”
I let out a rough laugh. “Yeah, it’s not exactly known for its progressive attitudes.”
My fingers found the camera hanging against my chest, and I fidgeted with the lens just to have something to do with my hands. I’d never been comfortable talking about myself. “I didn’t announce it in the locker room or anything, but a couple of guys knew. Mostly I just kept my personal life personal, you know?”
He nodded, like he was taking my words and fitting them into a puzzle he’d been trying to piece together.
