Page 12 of Secret Santa

He winked at me and bolted out the door before I could respond.

“I walked here anyway.” I held up my hands in defense. “But I think we should probably Uber. You look like a soft breeze could bowl you over.”

While amid a protest that she was totally fine and could easily walk the few blocks back home, she also took a seat and groaned in delight. No fucking way was she walking. Period.

“With a sound like that, we’re taking an Uber. It’s not about whether or not you can walk, it’s about the fact that your body has clearly hit its limit.”

She didn’t protest, though she gave me a helluva snarky side eye.

ChapterEight

“You mentioned a brother earlier.”

After taking an Uber home I couldn’t in good consciencenotinvite him in and at least hang out for a little while. He’d sacrificed his entire day off helping a near perfect stranger without even a whisper of regret.

He held the spoonful of cobbler he’d been about to eat at chin level, took a deep breath, and lowered his spoon back to the ramekin. Based on the resigned look flitting across his face I couldn’t help but think I’d stepped in shit. Unintentionally of course.

“Beckett Murray?” he asked.

“That’s your brother’s name?”

“It is.”

He chuckled, readjusting himself on the sofa. I assumed our apartments were probably roughly the same size give or take a bedroom. In the units I’d seen from my friends and neighbors over the years most of us had the same set up. So why could I not picture a man of Presley’s stature in any living room in this complex. He seemed toosomething. Not that he was too big because even under casually fit clothes you could tell he was chiseled from stone. And it wasn’t his personality, because of the few interactions we’d had he was quietly charming not boisterous. But something about him felt too big in my space. He was toomuch. I felt overwhelmed by his presence.

He looked at me like what he said should mean something. Except it didn’t. Those geode eyes of his. In the breadth of time that I noticed him looking at me, they were rounded in the most earnest, boyish way. Like I’d just brought home a puppy for him and told him he could keep it.

“I’m sorry, if I’m supposed to recognize the name, I don’t.”

The smile that appeared on his face seemed out of place in the casual conversation I thought we’d been having. It was so bright. It pinched his cheeks, squinted his eyes, and pulled his lips into a sensuous heart shape.

“He’s kind of famous.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. It was the most benign gesture, but it felt strangely intimate. I wanted more of that. The feeling that came with him touching me in a way that made me feel like a lava cake. Warm and gooey.

“What kind of famous?” I asked.

“He swims. Or swam. He’s retired from competitive swimming. Now he just talks about swimming on television.”

“Ah—I get it. That has to be really hard, actually. Especially since you’re both invested in the same sport.”

He nodded, lost in his own thoughts. I didn’t know what else to say. I swear being so focused on trying to make the diner successful over the last five years had robbed me of my ability to socialize properly. Small talk? Absolutely I had no problem chatting up strangers while pouring a cup of coffee or shoving some French toast in front of their faces. But having actual human conversations with someone who made me think really dirty thoughts every time he smiled at me? Nope. Abject failure.

“Oh!It’s A Wonderful Life!That’s my favorite.” Presley stayed my hand while I tried to flip through the channels.

“I was just trying to find a music channel, so we had a little background noise,” I explained, feeling my face heat. “I wasn’t trying to infer that I need a movie to keep myself entertained in your presence.”

Fuck.

He laughed. “Well, I hadn’t actually thought that, but now I’m second guessing my ability to hold an interesting conversation.” His laugh softened, the muscles in his face pinching as if something flit across his mind that wasn’t pleasant. After a long beat of silence, he told me, “Talking about Beckett reminded me of our conversation this weekend. He’s kind of notorious. Swimming’s bad boy for lack of a better word. His reputation hurt me as I was coming up. And this weekend, he apologized for that. That his actions hurt me, affected my ability to succeed. It wasn’t anything I expected but—him recognizing that? I didn’t realize I needed someone to acknowledge it. The struggle. The disappointment. I could never shake the feeling of helplessness.”

“I’m so sorry.” I silently wished the ground would open me up and swallow me. “I’m … My brain is so tired…it keeps shorting out every time I try to think of something interesting to say.”

“Priscilla, it’s fine. I should probably get going anyway.” The soft way he caressed my knee had my bloodstream tap dancing the distance between my heart and my brain. I didn’t want him to go. This bubble we sat in felt special. Like it was important for the two of us to explore and meander down this path of whatever we called our new friendship.

“No! I mean…that’s not what I meant. I enjoy having you here. With me. It’s oddly comforting after a long day to have someone to just kind of quietly unwind with. Especially since you were there all day with me. We can watch the movie together, I–”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and sank lower into the sofa, so we were both sort of awkwardly half reclining.

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