Page 19 of War on Christmas

Except, I realize, I don’t have a car, and a quick search for my parents’ car keys is unsuccessful.

For any other mission, I’d wake them up and ask them where they are. But then they’d ask where I’m going, and I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do about Abi. To be clear, I know what I’msupposedto do: dutifully report all the details to her loving parents, etc. But I also feel like she might need someone to confide in, and how can she trust me if I narc her out to her mom?

Want to know what kind of holiday celebrationsdon’tlead to dilemmas like this? Drinking on the couch and watchingChilling Adventures of Sabrina.

When the solution comes to me, I groan. Just last night, I boldly declared my intention to seduce Jeremy. And now we’ll have spent a day together staging a funeral and rescuing a drunk teenager.

Sexy, Freya.I sigh.So sexy.

***

I tap my fingernails along the frosted window,tap-tap-tap, then wait for a response. It’s freezing. The kind of freezing that transcends the spectrum of heat-versus-cold and goes straight to painful. As my fingertips start to tingle and go numb, I almost feel sorry for how long I made Jeremy wait in the cold last night before letting him in. Almost.

“Hey, Asshat, open your window,” I hiss.Tap-tap-tap!Then I make a mental note to think of nicer endearments before I actually try to seduce him.

A series of bumps and thumps tell me Jeremy has heard me, and a minute later the window slides open.

“Hey, Sunshine.” He leans out the window, grinning. His hair sticks out in all directions, and there’s a line from the sheets across his cheek. He looks adorable. Sleepy and rumpled. I can tell just looking at him that he smells like dryer sheets and toothpaste. Something pleasant and warm stirs low in my belly. “Come on in. It’s freezing out there.”

I swing my leg over the windowsill and hoist myself into Jeremy’s room, except I manage the maneuver with all the coordination of an aardvark on shrooms and stumble as I land. Immediately, strong hands reach out to grab my elbows, and he helps me regain my balance as I straighten.

“Thanks,” I breathe. Then, as his hands slide away, my eyes adjust to the dark and I make out Jeremy’s form standing a couple feet away from me. “Umm, wow.”

Jeremy is shirtless. Jeremy wasn’t lying when he said he takes his gym routineveryseriously. I vaguely remember making a snarky comment about this gym routine, but I was wrong. Very wrong. Whatever Jeremy is doing at the gym, I wholeheartedly approve. Two thumbs up. Five stars. Yes, I would recommend this experience to a friend.

I remind myself to breathe.

There is no amount of money or torture that could get me to admit this to Jeremy, but as a teenager, I wasn’t above watching out my bedroom window for him to return shirtless and sweaty from his morning runs. He’d had a nice body, tall and lean, and he had a clearly defined six-pack that I’d loved to hate.

He was very cute.

But grown-up Jeremy? Grown-up Jeremy couldcrushteenage Jeremy. Not “crush him” in the figurative, he’d-beat-him-in-a-friendly-competition kind of way. Like, he couldphysically crushteenage Jeremy.

His arms, his chest, his stomach. They’re all wrapped in thick, heavy layers of muscle, not as defined as they used to be, but more powerful. This isn’t a boy training for high school football. This is a man who’s been preparing for war. A man who could swing a broadsword or a battle ax. A man who could singlehandedly push a pickup truck out of a mud pile. (That’s a real-life thing, right?) A man who could, at any moment, pick me up and fling me to the bed to—

“I’ve gotta admit,” he says, crossing his arms over his beautifully sculpted chest, “I don’t know how ‘friendly’ it is, but I don’t entirely mind you randomly showing up in my bedroom to eye fuck me. It’s pretty hot, actually.”

My gaze lingers on his torso. The only light in his tiny bedroom comes from the glow of streetlights filtering through the window, and I can just make out the faint texture of hair across his chest and stomach. No manscaping for him. This man is a straight-up Viking, and Iloveit. My heart thumping in my chest, my blood rushing through my veins, my breath tickling past my open lips…arousal heightens these usually unnoticed bodily activities into a pleasurable hum that could easily drown out every other thought.

But…Abi.

“Um, I definitely want to talk aboutthissome more later”—I swing my hand in a circle that encompasses his body, getting lost for moment in the Eighth Wonder of the World that is Jeremy’s black joggers dipping down his waist to reveal the jut of his hip bones—“but I actually have a very friendly favor to ask.”

“Oh.” He sounds surprised, but not upset. Maybe even a little eager. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Friends for an hour,” I concede with a sigh.Dammit, Abi.“Abi’s drunk. She—”

“Bethany’s oldest?” he asks. When I nod, his thick eyebrows fly up and his lips twitch. He’s already grabbing a T-shirt out of the dresser as I continue.

“She texted me that she needs a ride home, and I can’t get my parents’ car keys without waking them up.” I wince. “Are you up for a rescue mission?”

Fourteen

JEREMY

Ifmyyearsasan RA in the dorms prepared me for anything, it’s drunk adolescents. Belligerent ones. Sick ones. Silly ones. I’ve seen them all. I have the presence of mind to grab the tiny plastic garbage can from my room—just in case—but as I climb into the driver’s seat, I’m more excited about a late-night lark with Freya than I’m worried about being able to handle one drunk teenage girl.

Freya’s only been my friend again—albeit anunwillingfriend—for twenty-four hours, and she’s already shaking things up.

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