Page 66 of War on Christmas

“Hey.” Her voice is husky and sexy as hell.

Then she gives a wiggle, sending all my blood straight to my cock, and we’re laughing, foreheads pressed together until we’re desperate and breathless and not laughing at all. When our bodies finally still and settle, I curl myself around her, and she sighs as she presses a kiss to my forearm.

***

When I wake up again to sunlight shining through the apartment windows, she’s gone.

Forty-One

FREYA

3 days until Christmas…

“Idon’tunderstand.”Mymom stands in front of me wringing her hands, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “I thought everything was going so well. Christmas is still three days away, and Thad is here, and I thought you and Jeremy—”

“You don’t need to understand it.” She flinches at the ice-cold edge to my voice. Thank the gods for the numbness surrounding me, or I’d feel like a total asshole. But I can’t back down. “You just need to respect it. It’s time for me to go home.”

Home.The message is loud and clear. Home is Chicago. Home isnothere. I use that word like a weapon, and, judging by the way my mom rapidly blinks away tears and retreats to the kitchen, it’s a direct hit.

It’s better this way, I remind myself.

Jeremy isn’t the only victim of me letting the lines get blurry. Late-night tarot readings. Helping out at the shop. Christmas festivals and solstice parties. I let myself slip with Mom and Bethany, too. I let them think our relationship can be something it can’t.

I’m never going to be what they all want me to be. I’m never going to beBethany. Perfect daughter. Cutesy shopkeeper. The type of woman who looks at a man like Jeremy and says things like, “The man is going to be a fantastic dad.” I can’t be Bethany any more than I can be the partner Jeremy needs for his golf and gym and 401(k) life.

Something about this fucking trip lulled me. I let my defenses slip. Let myself play pretend, like I could fit in here. With my family. With Jeremy.

And now we’re all going to pay the price.

I sit on the living room couch, surrounded by my bags, with Hecate mewing grumpily in her carrier. My knees bounce as I watch the driveway and will Leo to appear. He’d immediately responded to my SOS text at four this morning and confirmed he could borrow Todd’s car to pick me up. Depending on how fast Leo’s driving, he could be here any minute.

Then again, so could Jeremy.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Last night got out of hand. Should I blame it on the mulled wine? That fucking sketchbook? Maybe it’s just the natural, way too predictable consequence of reconnecting with Jeremy, mybest friend,arch rival,one who got away,friend,lover, one who’s gonna break me. Whatever the reason, my defenses crumbled, and as I lay in Jeremy’s arms this morning, dreading Christmas with all the doom and gloom of an execution, it became clear that the time to say goodbye is right now. Or maybe it was seventeen years ago. Maybe, just maybe, eighteen-year-old Freya got it right.

Maybe the past two weeks have been a mistake.

I thought I had a few days left of the free fall. A few more days of the rush and the wind whipping across my face before I hit the surface.Splat!Whatever happened last night, though, it accelerated the impact. I can already feel the pain of it, sharp and jarring. Not just the ache of missing him, that low-grade pulse living in the background that I learned to live with after twenty years, but a splintering. A deep, terrifying knowing that, on some level, I’m never again going to feel totally complete once he’s gone.

Todd’s boxy blue MINI Cooper rounds the corner onto our street, and I surge to my feet, bags and Hecate in hand. I’m vaguely aware of my mom following me out to the driveway, of her muttered “I just don’tunderstand,” but my sole focus is on throwing bags into the back seat and getting the hell out of here.

Leo, either totally missing the mood or really enjoying the drama, rolls down his window and slides his aviator sunglasses down his nose, ignoring me completely to give my mom a wide grin straight out of toothpaste ad. (No, seriously. He did a toothpaste ad.)

“And you must be Mrs. Nilsen!” He puts the car in park and jumps out of the driver’s seat, gripping my mom by the elbows as he looks her up and down. My mom stops her fretting to stare back at him. Leo is, by all accounts, startlingly handsome. “Freya,” he chides, “you didn’t tell me that your mother is a dead ringer for June Cleaver. How flippin’ adorable is she? Now Mary—can I call you Mary?”—Mom nods, clearly dazed—“tell meallof Freya’s most embarrassing moments. I mean—”

I’m opening my mouth to shut this—whatever it is—down, but the screech of tires down the block sends an icy chill from my neck to my tailbone. I don’t need to turn around to know there’s a silver sedan racing toward us and that it’s driven by one seriously pissed off Viking.

“Mom. Bye. I’ll call soon.” I urge her back to the sidewalk, away from the car, and Leo pouts with annoyance. “You,” I jab a finger at Leo, “in the car.Now.We need to—”

Jeremy’s car slams to a halt in his mom’s driveway, and I jump at the bang of the driver’s side door. I swallow a shriek and grab Leo’s hand to drag him toward the waiting MINI Cooper.

“Freya Estelle Nilsen!” Jeremy’s voice booms as he tromps through the snow separating our driveways. He’s coatless, in his jeans and forest-green Henley from last night, the sleeves pushed up his forearms, his boots untied. Morning scruff dots his jaw, giving him an extra rugged edge. Snow flies with every step he takes, and I race toward the passenger door, but Leo—that goddamn traitor—stands rooted to the spot, his mouth agape.

“Ishethe emergency?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth. “Because I fail to see the prob—”

“Shut it, Leo!” I snap as I grab for the handle, but before I can open the door, two large, square-fingered hands splay on either side of my shoulders, holding it shut. Caging me in. I tug on the handle. I mean, don’t desperate mothers lift entire cars off trapped children? I should be able to open a cardoorwith enough adrenaline. But it doesn’t budge.

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