Page 84 of Holiday Friend Zones
Well, you don’t have to know that.
If twenty years of friendship have taught me anything, it’s this: deny, deny, deny.Deny guilt.Deny feelings.Deny the way my pulse jumps when he’s too close.Because if Roman catches even a hint of vulnerability, he’ll weaponize it with merciless teasing.
The last thing I need is him knowing how pathetically gone I am for him.
And how could I not be?That tousled chestnut hair, like he just rolled out of bed with sin on his mind, makes me want to forget every ounce of self-control.Those eyes—warm, endless brown—hold a gravity that could pull secrets right out of me if I let them linger too long.And that grin—crooked, reckless, utterly infuriating—like he knows exactly how undone he leaves me.
Then there’s his body.God help me.Broad shoulders that stretch every flannel he owns, arms so strong and defined they look like they were built to pin someone close and never let go.And when the sleeves ride up?The veins trace along his forearms in ways that make me dizzy.His chest is solid, the kind of solid that makes you feel like the rest of the world could crumble and he wouldn’t budge.
And his stomach—yeah, I’ve caught glimpses when his shirt rides up.Those abs aren’t sculpted like a fitness model’s.They’re better.Earned from long days of hauling boxes, fixing roofs, and working through summers under the sun.Muscle shaped by life, not vanity.Real, raw strength, lean lines that pull my eyes where they shouldn’t linger, making my pulse skip and heat coil low in my stomach.
He’s the sort of man strangers stare at in the grocery store, lingering too long by the produce aisle just to watch him reach for something on the top shelf.And I’ve seen it happen—seen the way women’s eyes trail over him, bold and hungry.It makes my skin crawl, makes me want to tear their gazes away, makes me want to scratch their eyes out for looking at what doesn’t belong to them.
I’ll never admit how badly I want to be the one standing at his side when they look.
He flicks my forehead.“Don’t think too hard.You’ll get stuck with that pout forever.”
“I do not pout,” I snap.
“So now you’re pouting about pouting.”His laugh warms the air between us.“Lighten up, Wills.Do something daring.”
“Yeah, because what every independent bookstore needs is a thrill-seeker for an owner,” I deadpan.
“Exactly.”He waves me off, vanishing into the break room and returning with his disgusting neon-green energy drink.
“When was the last time you took a risk?”he asks, cracking the can open.
“Yesterday.I wore mismatched socks.”
“Wow.How did you survive?”
“Shut up.”
His lips tilt sideways, that expression he gets when he’s prying something loose without saying it outright.“I’m just saying ...it’s been a few years.I know this season isn’t your favorite?—”
“Understatement of the century.”
“But your mom loved it,” he presses.“And I think ...a part of you did too.”
I hate him a little for saying it out loud.Because he’s right.
I never liked the holidays themselves.Too loud.Too full of relatives who didn’t give a damn about us until December rolled around, showing up just to criticize my mother’s catering choices while drinking her wine.The same people vanished when I buried her.
But I loved how much she loved the season.She lit up with it—the sweets, the carols, the lights, the chance to believe next year could be better.Even when the bills were stacked high.Even when her health faltered.She was still stringing popcorn, still humming along to Bing Crosby, still hoping.
I'd give anything if I could have one more night with her—just one more Hallmark marathon, one more argument about those cursed stockings she knit and refused to throw out.
“I guess,” I admit softly.
Roman slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close with casual ease that feels like torture.“So maybe we do something special.You’ve always been there for me, Wills.Let me do something for you.”
His body radiates warmth, his touch grounding and dangerous, all at once.My throat tightens.
Maybe he’s right.Maybe there’s something worth saving in this season.Not for me, but for him.For us.For her memory.
Maybe—just maybe—I can bring the magic back.Not through lights strung across windows or garland wound around banisters, but through the hope my mother carried like a flame she refused to let burn out.That hope still clings to me, no matter how hard I try to bury it.And against every cynical bone in my body, it stirs again now—because Roman is here.His thumb brushes the curve of my shoulder, warm and distracting, his breath ghosting close to my temple.It makes me want to lean in and believe—for one terrifying, impossible second—that some things are still worth saving.
ChapterTwo
