Page 36 of War on Christmas

“Why?” I ask Abi, handing the sticks off to a pair of teenagers. “It looks like everything’s going really well.”

Freya’s eyes flick up to me, and my stomach gives an involuntary lurch. I’ve been waging a constant war with my inner caveman, who wants nothing less than to drag her off to a hotel room for the next ten days and make love to her until our entire floor is complaining about her screams of ecstasy. We would emerge for a few hours on Christmas morning to exchange gifts with family and nourish ourselves with holiday delicacies—because we would have burneda lotof calories—and then I’d take her back to my condo in Chicago and start all over again.

The fact that I’m pretty sure Freya would enthusiastically comply with this plan—right up until Christmas—doesn’t make it any easier. So, I swallow the fluttering in my stomach and fall back on my new mantra, which crawls through my mind like a 24/7 news ticker:Not a fuckboy.

“I think it might be goingtoowell,” Freya explains, tipping her head toward the ice rink. “The line to see Santa islong.”

Abi nods and goes on tiptoe, leaning toward me so the hordes of small children around her can’t hear. I dip my head.

“Mom hired a new Santa this year. She said she wanted to try something different to compete with the mall Santa in Appleton.” Abi shrugs. “I guess it worked.”

My attention shifts to the ice rink and the line that snakes around it. Children are crying, mothers and fathers are arguing, and all of them are obviously freezing, rubbing mittened hands together and bouncing from foot to foot trying to keep their circulation going. With a grimace, I turn back to Abi, keeping my voice low.

“Does Andy need to see Santa?” I ask.

She nods. “Oh, yeah. It’s tradition. My mom doesn’t like us going to the mall Santa because she prefers to support local businesses here in Northview when we can.”

“Should we get in line?” I ask Freya.

Freya is holding Andy’s mittens as she watches him lick sticky marshmallow from his chubby hands. He’d been nervous about roasting his own marshmallow, but Freya had urged him to try it and stayed at his side, ready to help. But no rescue had been necessary. Her mouth is curved into a small smile, but at my question, she turns to me and nods.

The first twenty minutes in line are ok. Aiden and August entertain themselves with some mild roughhousing. For a while, Abi joins them in several rounds of slapsies. Andy dances around the group, brimming with energy from roasted marshmallows and the promise of meeting Santa.

Freya stands shoulder to shoulder with me, and every time we shuffle forward in line, I swear she steps a little bit closer. When her bottom lip starts to quiver, I grin to myself and wrap an arm around her shoulders, hauling her into my side. She huddles in, seeking out my heat, and I unzip my down jacket and pull her flush against me. The cold air is getting in now, but it’s totally worth it when her arms wrap around my torso inside my jacket and her face snuggles into my chest. I drop a kiss to the top of her head, take a moment to breathe in her flowery scent, and wrap my jacket around us both.

“You’re not wearing a hat,” I say, fitting her body more tightly against mine. Her curves mold into me, and I take a deep breath, willing my cock to behave since we’re surrounded by approximately a million children, including her niece and nephews.

She tips her head back. “Vanity,” she admits, teeth chattering. “I didn’t want to ruin my waves.”

“Well, they’re very beautiful.” I smile down at her, and she stares back. “Now that I’ve properly admired them, do you want my hat?”

“Auntie Freya, when do I get to see Santa?” Andy interrupts, tugging at the edges of her coat. His booted feet bounce back and forth. A sugar crash is coming. I can feel it. I just hope we make it to Santa before it hits.

“Soon,” Freya tells him, not letting go of me, and he returns to dancing and skipping. Then Freya’s nose wrinkles as she appears to consider my offer, and after a deep sigh, she reaches up and snatches the knit hat off my head, cramming it down over her own. I smile, even though my ears are immediately freezing, and wrap my coat tighter around us.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Freya asks, her voice suspicious.

I shrug. “I like seeing you wear something that belongs to me,” I admit. And I do. It makes her look like mine, and it’s doing nothing to suppress my inner caveman.

Freya rolls her eyes, but the corner of her lip twitches.

“So, when are you going to ask me out on a date?” she asks, then immediately clarifies, “Like a real date. Without adolescent chaperones?”

I sigh. I’d love nothing more than to take Freya on a real date. But if we go there right now, it’s going to end up with us in bed. Or on the floor. Or on the couch. Or all three?Dammit, Jeremy.The point is that we’ll have sex, and then she’ll pigeonhole me. I know it because I knowher.

I need more time. Time to show her what we could be. So, once again, I find myself chanting:Not a fuckboy. Not a fuckboy. Not a fuckboy.

“When you take back your ridiculous two-week rule,” I tell her.

She pokes me in the side. “It’s a ten-day rule now, mister.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Andy’s back again, tugging at Freya’s coat.

“Auntie?” He bites at his lip.

“Yeah, squirt?” Freya pulls back from me to look down at him, and I resist the impulse to pull her back.

“I need to go potty.”

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