Page 44 of War on Christmas

If I didn’t know he was playing, I would have melted into a puddle on the floor before dessert ever arrived. But if I were a puddle, I couldn’t enjoy the way Tiffany is glaring daggers at me. And I’m really,reallyenjoying it.

“Well…” Becky looks over either shoulder to be sure nobody else can hear. Then she leans even closer. “Last year, Jacob Fontaine and Amy Tahlier got married. You remember Jacob, right?” I nod. Jacob was a year ahead of us and played Kenickie inGreaseour junior year. He didn’t have the charisma to pull off Kenickie, but he’d been quick to joke with the stage crew. I’d liked him. “So, his buddies took him for this epic trip to Chicago for his bachelor party. And while they were there, they saw a burlesque show…”

I start for a moment, my shoulder jumping under Jeremy’s hand.

A rumor…a bachelor party…a burlesque show…

I’d known being recognized was a possibility, but between my stage name and the costumes and makeup, the possibility had seemed small. And for years, I’d been right.

Until tonight, apparently.

I brace myself, waiting for a rush of embarrassment or fear. Anticipating the itchy, pinprick crawl of guilt beneath my skin. Instead, all I feel is a soft swell of amusement, a laugh I swallow and hide behind a mysterious smile.

Next to me, Jeremy goes still.

“Hmm…” I hum into my pint glass as I sip my Guinness. “And…”

But before Becky can continue, Jeremy, who is suddenly payinga lotof attention to the conversation, interjects.

“At The Sphere Theater?” he asks. Becky nods, and he squeezes my hand under the table as he adds, “I caught one of their shows just a couple weeks ago. It was brilliant.”

He doesn’t offer the fact that I’m The Sphere’s theater manager. He’s leaving that up to me. It’s sweet. It also shows that he doesnotsee what’s coming.

“Um, the guys said it was amazing,” Becky confides, watching me closely. “They also said that the star of the show looked like a dead ringer for Northview’s own…Freya Nilsen.”

The table goes still. Dead still. Jeremy’s fingers, which had been flirting with the sensitive skin along my knee, stop. The breath I’d just inhaled stops. Across the booth, Tiffany’s fingers drumming on the tabletop stop.

Jeremy blinks, obviously trying to hide his shock. After all, if he was really my doting boyfriend, he would already know I’m the main attraction of The Sphere’s burlesque shows. But underneath the table, his fingers grip my knee a little tighter, and I don’t miss the way his pupils dilate or how his body next to mine goes rigid.

Men, in my experience, typically handle this revelation in one of two ways. One: They are threatened. Sure, they might enjoy watching my performance as a casual observer, but it’s not behavior they expect or desire from their partner. Two: They are turned on. Theywantto be with the woman who everyone in the room is fantasizing about.

I can’t tell which response Jeremy is having. He’s tense, every muscle in his body hard and unyielding as the truth rocks through his body like a silent bombshell, but beyond that…

I bring my hand up and cup the back of Jeremy’s head, pulling our faces together so Becky and Tiffany can’t hear us. “Does it bother you?” I breathe.

Jeremy gives his head a tiny shake, and his fingers on my knee start moving again, soft, sensual strokes that make me want to clamp my thighs together at the rush of warmth between my legs. But I keep my muscles soft, allowing the exquisite torture of his touch. “I bet you’re amazing, Frey.”

His head dips, and his lips are on mine, warm and sweet and possessive. I don’t bother lying to myself that it’s for Tiffany’s sake when I kiss him back, my mouth opening to welcome the taste of him, the tangle of his tongue with mine. His arm pulls me closer, molding me into him. Every touch, every action he takes, says one thing:Mine. And for a moment, I let myself believe it. I let myself get lost in the fantasy. That I’m his.

And, of course, Tiffany chooses that exact moment to find her annoying, shrieky voice. “You’re astripper?”

If I thought there was something wrong with being a stripper, I would find Tiffany’s words offensive.

Unfortunately for Tiffany, I don’t.

I would just ignore her, but Jeremy stiffens. Andnotin a sexy way. I have approximately 3.2 seconds to defuse this situation before he detonates. Don’t get me wrong—part of me is wildly curious to see Jeremy lose his shit at Tiffany. But even I have limits to my pettiness. I put my hand on his arm, an unspoken signal for him to let me handle it, and luckily, he listens. I turn to Tiffany with a corn-syrupy-sweet smile.

“Oh, sweetie.” I trail my hand up Jeremy’s arm, making sure she sees it. “Unfortunately, I just do the shows for fun. A hobby.” Tiffany scoffs, and I add, “I would makesomuch more money as a stripper.”

Becky laughs. Tiffany scowls. Jeremy slides out of the booth and pulls me with him, my hand clasped tightly in his as we stand.

“Becky.” Jeremy turns to her. “It was really nice to see you. Tiffany…” He turns to his ex, who’s glaring at us both. “You owe Freya an apology. For both high school and the way you just talked to her. I hope that someday you’re a big enough person to do it.” He takes a deep breath. “And on that note,Ioweyouan apology.”

NowI’mglaring at him too. Why is he apologizing to Tiffany? His eyes, that breathtaking shade of blue-green, rise to mine, and his thumb trails up the skin of my inner wrist. He’s addressing her, but his attention is on me.

“It was always her, Tiffany.” He shrugs oh-so-casually, like he just reminded us of the weather forecast or a sale at the supermarket. Not like those four little words—It was always her—just reframed everything I thought I knew about our relationship. “I suspect you knew that,” he says to her, eyes still on me.

Becky, who’s leaning forward in the booth, her head propped on her hand, nods. “Iknew it,” she whispers.

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