Page 14 of War on Christmas

She is severely underestimating how many fantasies I had about her; two weeks wouldnotbe long enough. Her fingers, light and teasing, toy with the drawstring of my pants. Every sweep of her fingers brings her closer to my erection, and my eyes fall shut for a moment as I let myself imagine those pretty, purple-tipped fingers wrapped around my cock.

But I’m not a kid anymore either.

I grab her chin between my thumb and forefinger and tilt her head so she can see the promise in my eyes. Her breath catches, and her tongue darts out to wet her poison-apple lips. Down the hallway, I hear her parents turn off the TV.

“I’m going to friend you so hard, Freya,” I say softly. “I’m going to drink stolen liquor on the floor with you and be here to listen when you need to vent about Bethany. Because you will. I’m going to make you watch all the movies we should have watched in high school but didn’t because you were too fucking stubborn. I’m going to tell you why all your ex-boyfriends were morons while you paint my toenails. I’m going to friend you so hard that when we get back to Chicago, you’ll be giving me your extra apartment key and asking me to water your plants when you leave town for the weekend.”

Her dark eyes glitter in the shadows as she stares back at me, then something totally unexpected happens.

Freya smiles.

“Game on, Kelly.”

Ten

FREYA

14 days until Christmas…

TheGoodTwin:So…howdid the drive go? Is Jeremy still alive?

I pause outside the flower shop, staring at my phone. How did it go? I think of the sizzling battle of wills that took place on my bedroom floor last night. The way Jeremy’s pulse raced when I made my proposition. How his pupils dilated, taking over his blue-green eyes. How his fingers flexed against his thighs, like he was fighting for self-control. I want to smile, but I have a reputation to maintain. However, I do allow myself a smirk as I send my reply.

Me: He’s alive. I’m going to seduce him.

An elderly woman in a bright red coat with giant black buttons scoots around me on the sidewalk, and the giant wreath on the front door swings as she goes inside. I wait for Thad’s response.One…two…thr—

The Good Twin: And this conversation is officially over.

My work here is done.

With a sigh, I turn to Fox Valley Floral and Gifts. Located in the historic downtown neighborhood, it’s a cute, brick storefront with a large front window that’s always seasonally decorated. Two weeks before Christmas, that means pungent evergreen garlands, red and white poinsettias, and a collection of garden gnomes repainted to look like they’re wearing holiday-themed sweaters.

I’ve always liked the gnomes. They have black, beady eyes that follow you in the dark, and Thad and I have a tradition of stealing them from the shop and hiding them around the house. Nothing beats the anticipation of waiting to hear his terrified scream when he throws back his covers or opens a dresser drawer so I can yell, “You got gnomed!”

“Hello, Edward,” I mutter to the roundest, squattest gnome as I enter the shop.

Fox Valley Floral and Gifts (better known as “the shop” in my family) was my parents’ dream. Or, more precisely, my mother’s dream. My father had always wanted to own a business and be his own boss; he just hadn’t been particular about whattypeof business. Then he fell in love with my mom, who’d known exactly what she wanted. “A little flower shop,” she’d say with a faraway look in her light-blue eyes, “in a little brick building. With flowers like a rainbow, in every shade. We’ll get to surround ourselves in happy moments. Weddings and new babies and anniversaries.” At which point, I would interject, “And funerals.”

In some ways, the shop is home as much as our house. We’d all grown up here, playing tag around five-gallon buckets of long-stemmed roses and helping Mom and Dad restock the coffee mugs and trinkets they carry as easy add-on gifts. And all of us—Bethany, Thad, and I—worked evenings and weekends here throughout high school. It was a bit cheery for my tastes, but I’d enjoyed the creative outlet of arranging flowers, and Thad was usually there to interact with actual customers. It hadn’t, now that I think about it, been all that bad.

As I step inside, I’m expecting the shop I’d always known. Exposed brick walls and distressed tin ceiling tiles. Cutesy wall art with plant and flower puns: “I’m so excited, I wet my plants!” Bright but traditional flower arrangements filling the coolers.

Instead, I stop short, thinking for a moment I’ve entered the wrong building.

“Freya,” Bethany calls from behind the counter, giving me an overly bright smile as she finishes checking out a customer. “I’m so glad you dropped in.”

I blink. “What—whathappened?”

Our mom-and-pop floral shop is…well,gorgeous. Lush and bursting with color. The old shelves are painted a trendy, earthy green. Rows of tiny, round lightbulbs swoop from the ceiling. Small, indoor trees—weeping figs with braided trunks and rubber trees and money trees—line the walls. And the flower arrangements are…well, they’re different. My mom always had a decent eye for arranging, and she’d taught us all the basics, but the vases now crowding the coolers are edgy and eye-catching. Mixed textures and complementary colors that draw your attention from across the room.

Bethany sighs as she steps out from behind the counter, her hand resting on her hip. She’s wearing jeans and a flowing marigold top, a patterned scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. With her golden hair, she looks like a literal ray of sunshine. “Well…I thought we needed some updates.”

After getting married right out of college and having Abi at twenty-five, Bethany spent several years as a stay-at-home mom. And she’d been good at it. (Like she’s good at everything.) She’d done crafts and taken her kids to playdates and made home-cooked meals. She’d been on the cusp of returning to work when Andy had arrived—surprise!—and set back her professional plans another five years. When he started kindergarten this past fall, she’d shocked all of us by choosing to work at the shop again. It’s not like she’d hated working here as a teenager. I’d just always assumed she’d want to do something “bigger”…like world domination.

Mom and Dad had been thrilled. Of course. Their favorite daughter working at the shop? What could be better? And Momhadmentioned that it was going well. She just hadn’t mentionedthis.

“It looks really good,” I say. “Likereallygood.”

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