Page 42 of War on Christmas

“Sunshine…I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you right now.” His voice is low and deep, and at his words, my entire body tightens. My nipples pebble, and heat takes root deep in my belly. “But let’s be clear. No matter how amazing you look—and you lookincredible—I’m damned if I’m going to be your fuckboy.”

I smirk, grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling him closer.

“You’re damned either way,” I tell him. “But at least fuckboys get tofuck.”

I draw the word out, long and dirty, and his nostrils flare. The background noise—the band’s slow, hypnotic rendition of “My Wild Irish Rose,” the clink of silverware, the hum of voices—fades. There’s him, his face hard and his pulse beating heavily at the base of his throat, and there’s me.

His fingers tighten on my hips.

“I’m not one of those simpering man-boys who let you lead them around by the dick. AndwhenI fuck you,”—his voice in my ear is all gravel and grit and promise, and the rough edges of it send a delicious shiver from my nape to my tailbone—“I’m going to teach you some manners.”

I hear his words with my ears, but Ifeelthem in my core, reveling in the heat unfurling there. When I stand on tiptoe, pressing my chest to his, I’m relieved to feel the hard press of his erection against me. At least I’m not the only one getting turned on by this conversation.

“Aww, do you talk to all the girls like this?” I breathe. “Or am I special?”

His laugh is strangled, like he’s in pain. “Never doubt, Frey, that you are the only one who can drive me this far out of my goddamn mind.” He pulls back, so he can meet my eye. “You know you’ve always been special.”

His expression is serious, his gaze direct, and I fight the urge to clear my throat. Because he’s not just talking about our chemistry, about that throb of electricity always simmering below the surface of our interactions. He’s talking about the other stuff too. The whispered conversations. The dark-humor jokes he’d only make to me. The unabashed nerdiness of our two-hour debate about the most recent Star Wars trilogy. He’s talking about all of it, and I don’t want to hear it.

“You know what else is special?” My smile is too bright, but I push on, desperate to wrestle the conversation where I want it to go. “Thesearms.” My hands slide from his chest to his biceps, and I give them a hard squeeze. But instead of looking flattered, like Tim/Tom would, Jeremy rolls his eyes and eases himself away from me.

I laugh and give his chest a soft push, like it wasmyidea to put some space between us, but he just shakes his head and mutters something that sounds, if I’m not mistaken, like, “Chicken shit.”

I can’t be sure, though. Because at that exact moment, the restaurant fills with a piercing shriek, followed by a long, high-pitched, “Oh my gawd! It’s Jeremy Kelly!”

And the next thing I know, Tiffany Ebner is wrapped around my date.

Twenty-Eight

JEREMY

Clearly,unbeknownsttome,I did something royally awful that made me the flashing-red target of karmic retribution. Because I’ve just been thrust into whatever circle of hell makes Tiffany Ebner magically appear in the middle of my first date with Freya.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I puff out a breath, trying to get the strands of Tiffany’s long brown hair out of my mouth, and plant my hands on her shoulders, pushing her gently away from me. She’s already babbling—“Oh my gawd!”…“So long”…“Where have youbeen?”…“It’s beenforever”—but I’m not listening. I’m watching Freya, whose red lips are pinched and tense. Fuck. I want to turn to Freya and assure her that I didn’t know Tiffany would be here, but Tiffany is already trying to wriggle closer for another enthusiastic hug. I keep my arms braced, blocking her from clinging to me, and try to smooth over the situation. Fast.

“Hey, Tiffany. It’s good to see you,” I lie. “But if you’ll excuse me—”

“It’s so good to see you, too!” she squeals, trying to throw her arms around my neck.

I duck out of them and step in closer to Freya, holding a stiff arm out to prevent Tiffany from coming too close.

“Becky is here too!” Tiffany enthuses, slapping my shoulder with every word. Then she turns and yells over her shoulder, “Hey, Becky! Look who I ran into!”

“Oh, that’s great,” I reply, but in my head, all I can think is,Jesus Christ, please just go away.

Next to me, Freya mutters a dry, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…” and despite the stress of the situation, I find myself chuckling with relief. If Freya is cracking jokes, she’s probably not going to hex my testicles. Maybe.

“And who is this?” Tiffany turns her smile to Freya, who arches an incredulous eyebrow back at her. “Sister? Cousin? Coworker?”

Tiffany and I dated for six months. It was twenty years ago, but she knows very well I don’t have a sister. I roll my eyes, already sick of the smell of Tiffany’s bullshit. She’s trying to look friendly, but her dark-blue eyes narrow at Freya, and her hand clutches my arm tighter. It’s been less than thirty seconds since Tiffany Ebner came crashing into this date, and I can already remember what I disliked so much about dating her. The double layers to everything she does—what shewantspeople to see, and the hidden subtext. I didn’t like it at fifteen, and I sure as hell don’t like it now.

I shake Tiffany’s hand off my forearm and start to make introductions. “You remember—”

“Freya Nilsen!” Becky Floyd, Tiffany’s faithful sidekick, has no problem recognizing Freya. She bounces up to Tiffany’s side, carefully balancing a full-to-overflowing pint glass in each hand.

Becky has always been the better half of their dynamic duo. Whereas Tiffany was—and I suspect stillis—cool and calculating, Becky was warm and friendly, always the first to welcome a new kid to class or check in with you during a bad day.

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