Page 13 of War on Christmas

That idea took hold while I was in my childhood bedroom, taking inventory of everything I’d left behind. Board games, action figures, CDs. All of them carried Freya’s imprint. Even the things she’d hated. The Dave Matthews Band T-shirt I bought at his Alpine Valley concert in the summer of 2005? I’d stood at that merch table with my football friends, surrounded by pot smoke and music I could barely stand, and thought, “I need to get this ridiculously overpriced T-shirt because I want to see the look on Freya’s face when I wear it.” And every time I wore the shirt and her lips curled into a disgusted sneer, it was totally fucking worth it.

Because even back then, as a dumbass teenager bumbling my way through high school, I’d known that life was better—more vivid, more interesting, more nuanced—with Freya Nilsen in it.

That’swhat I want now. I can’t get back the years we’ve lost, but we live in the same city. I can have her back in my life. I can go to opening nights at her weird theater. She can introduce me to the underground art shows I don’t hear about sitting in a corporate office all day. She can help me remember who I was before I went down the rabbit hole of popularity and workplace ass kissing: that quirky kid who spent hours sketching magical creatures and kept an immaculate collection of all nineteen Burger KingLord of the Ringscollectible toys.

“Friends?” Her eyes narrow on my face. “Why?”

“Because I’ve missed you,” I say honestly. She turns her attention to her purple toenails, and I fiddle with the plastic elves sitting on the carpet next to me. “Because I have no one in my life who’ll call me out on my bullshit golf habit, but I know you will.” I bump my shoulder into hers. “Do you want more confessions? About how vanilla my life has become? I’ve got plenty. My too-clean car. My business casual wardrobe—lots of chinos. My gym schedule. My 401(k).”

“Spare me,” she mumbles.

“See, you’re doing it already.” I give her a thumbs-up, and she rolls her eyes.

“There’s just one problem,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

I fight to keep the grin off my face as I lower my head closer to her ear and drop my voice to a suggestive growl. “If you wanted to be more, Freya, why didn’t you just say so?”

My legs tense, ready to block the elbow to my ribs I’m sure is coming. However, instead of pummeling me, Freya scooches back and gives me an assessing look, her eyes traveling from my snow-damp hair to my ice-cold toes and back again. There’s a long, drawn-out silence, and the muffled intonations of the ten o’ clock news float from the living room. Teenage Freya had been a wild, reactive creature. All honesty and no strategy. Not this Freya. As the eerie quiet stretches, I can see her calculating, rapidly trying on and discarding ideas like shirts in a dressing room, seeking out the perfect fit.

I blink, all pretense forgotten, and try not to swallow my tongue.

What the hell is happening?

“To be clear,” she says finally, “nothing serious. Obviously. We’d break things off when we get back to Chicago. But it would make the next couple weeks more interesting.” She reaches over to give my bicep a considering squeeze, and my muscles twitch beneath her fingers. “It’s not like you’re hard to look at.”

“Are you…serious?” I choke out.

All these years, I’d prided myself on staying one step ahead of her. But as her gaze falls, and then lingers, on the crotch of my sweatpants, my gut tells me she is sincerely suggesting a holiday sex fling with a two-week expiration date. And I…I didnotsee this coming. My cock starts to harden, and when my pants tent, Freya meets my gaze and raises a perfectly arched brow.

“Of course I’m serious.” She shrugs, then leans back on her hands. Her sweater slips down one shoulder, revealing decorative swirls of black ink. Of course she has tattoos. My breath leaves my body in awhoosh. I want to lick her. I want to unwrap her like the world’s sexiest Christmas present and run my tongue along every line of ink on her perfect, glowing skin. “Why not?” she asks. “We’re both single. There’s been some…chemistry between us for a long time. Why not get it out of our systems and try to make this weird-ass holiday break somewhat tolerable? You know, get some exercise while you’re away from your gym.”

She licks her lips—forbidden fucking fruit, Jeremy—and I stare at her, slack jawed, as I try to figure out what the fuck is going on. Am I interested? Hell yes. But…

“Why not just enjoy ourselves and see what happens?” I ask. “What’s up with the time limit? It’s a relationship, not a carton of milk.”

“But what we would have”—she reaches out and taps me on the nose like a naughty puppy—“would not be a relationship. It would be a”—she purses her lips as she searches for the right word—“distraction.”

I don’t even need to think about it.

“No deal.” I shake my head, and her eyes widen with surprise.Good.

“No deal?” She glances pointedly at my pants, where my cock is vehemently protesting, but I raise an eyebrow back at her.

“No deal.” I shrug. “I’m an almost-thirty-five-year-old man, Freya, not a teenager. And while I’m sure sex with you would be enjoyable—”phenomenal…it would be fucking phenomenal“—I don’t have a problem finding sex. What I’ve missed is you. So, friends it is.”

“Friends with benefits,” she negotiates, “except not friends.”

I grin. “Nope. Friends.”

She glares. I smile wider. Fiona Apple and Pete Wentz watch our silent showdown from the wall above the glass vanity.

I think Freya’s about to kick me out of her room, but then her face softens and she leans closer. Alarms blare—You’re in trouble, man. Abort, abort!—but I stand my ground, even when she plants a pale hand on my chest and runs her nose up the length of my jaw. She wears a different scent now. More mature. Still floral, but with earthy overtones of musk and patchouli.Fuck.Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

“Why are you pretending you’ll be able to resist me?” she whispers, and my head spins as my blood races to my cock. It’s disorienting. Not just the lack of oxygen but being back here in her room. Same setting, but different characters. This Freya is confident. Experienced. She’s not some trembling girl waiting for her first kiss. She’s in control. Every word, every touch is carefully plotted. “I’ll make them all come true, Jeremy.” Her finger trails from my chest to my stomach, and every muscle jerks at her touch. “Every horny, teenage fantasy you ever had. For two wonderful, blissful weeks, I’ll be all yours.”

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