Chapter 12 Frankie
Frankie
Maybe this year you try something different
For the first time since I met him, I’m not sitting beside a mystery.
There’s something in the honesty he’s passed to me that I won’t take for granted.
Being open with people is hard, especially when you’re semi-new to a town, and somehow I’ve managed to dig beneath his grumpy exterior tonight and found the man hiding beneath it.
“So, do you always spend Christmas alone?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?” His huff is superficial, I realize, not intended for him to be miserable at all, and it has me preening again. He’s learning things about me too, it seems.
“Yes.”
There’s that twitch at the corner of his mouth again—fleeting, but real. He looks back to the window where the snow curls against the glass. “Not always,” he admits. “I used to do the big dinner thing with friends, but after a while it felt… forced. People move on. Life moves on.”
One question still plagues me. “But are you happy?”
He hesitates, his hand flexing against the arm of the couch.
The motion pulls my attention, and before I can stop it, I imagine those hands, such capable hands, cradling my face, my hips, claiming what I’d already give him without question.
The thought is gone as quickly as it comes, but it leaves a heat behind, one I’m not sure I want to ignore.
“Happy’s a stretch. But at least I’m being honest,” he says quietly, bringing my attention back to his voice. “I think I could be happy here.”
What he isn’t saying is that it's easier to be alone, and I can empathize with that to a degree. It is easier being alone with no one else to worry about, but I can’t deny the joy I get from knowing I’m seeing my family soon, cuddling people who love me unconditionally, and he doesn’t have any of that. My heart squeezes for him.
“Well,” I say, pushing to my feet and brushing off my plaid pajama pants, “maybe this year, you try something different. You can’t erase the old memories, but you can stack new ones on top until the bad ones aren’t the only thing you feel at Christmas.
Start small. Tonight, even. Just one new memory. ”
“With you?” he replies quickly, standing alongside me.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say, planting my hands on my hips as I look up at him. “But… the storm’s got us stuck here anyway. We might as well make the best of it.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
I grin, but I’m not really sure what I’m suggesting. All I know is I’d like to give him a memory for this year, so he has something to hold on to. “Want to do something crazy?”
He shakes his head, watching me with interest, and that’s all I need to see. “I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into here.”
“Trust me,” I say, hoping he’ll hear what I actually mean, that he can trust me with all of it. I reach for my coat and boots, and he follows behind.
His face turns pale as he watches me. “Wait, where are you going?”
“To my house,” I reply, shrugging on my coat as I turn to face him. “And you’re coming with me,” I say, bopping his nose.
“It’s bloody freezing, Frankie.”
I yank my boots on with a grunt. “I’m aware it’s bloody freezing.” I mimic his cute accent, poorly, I might add.
“And you want us to go to your house?”
I stand tall again, with a satisfied sigh, ready to leave. “You like repeating what I say? Now,” I smile, “are you coming with me?”
Sam grumbles something under his breath but grabs his coat anyway, shoving his arms into the sleeves as he mutters, “You’re lucky I like you, Frankie.”
My smile is as wide as a river looking at him. “You like me, huh? I knew it wouldn’t take you long.” I wink, opening the door to the storm outside.
The wind slaps icy pellets against my cheeks, the kind that stings like tiny needles, but his hand steadies my elbow before I stumble down the porch steps.
For all his complaints, he stays close, his touch tethering me to the ground.
The storm howls, flakes sticking to my lashes, and yet all I can focus on is the heat radiating from the solid line of him beside me.
The street is empty, blanketed in untouched snow.
I imagine everyone holed up in their houses, waiting for Christmas Eve-Eve in the morning.
That should’ve been me in Boston. My heart aches at the change of plans, but I push it aside for now as we step off the curb, and the force of the gales immediately shoves into us.
Sam tightens his hold on my arm to steady me, his grip firm but warm even through the layers of fabric. “You’re going to get us killed, you know that?” he shouts over the storm.
“Are all British people this dramatic?”
“When it comes to weather, it’s one of our favorite topics to discuss, actually.”
We finally reach my house, both of us breathless and covered in snow. I fumble with the keys, my fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. “Come on, come on,” I mutter, shoving the key into the lock. But the door refuses to budge.
“Is it stuck?” Sam asks, leaning against the frame as he rubs his hands together for warmth.
“It does this sometimes,” I huff, bracing my shoulder against the wood. “Help me?”
He steps up beside me, pressing one hand against the door while the other reaches around me to steady it. “On three?”
I nod, shivering slightly, and I can’t tell if it’s from being outside or him being so close. “One… two… three!”
We push together, and the door gives way suddenly, sending us tumbling inside. I yelp as we land in a heap on the floor, the snow falling in with us as I realize I’ve landed right on top of him. For a second, neither of us moves, too stunned to do anything but stare at each other.
Then we burst into laughter. The kind where, within seconds, my ribs ache and my cheeks burn. And gosh, Sam smiling is something else entirely. Forget the hot, grumpy neighbor, I’ll take the happy, laughing neighbor instead.
His laughter fades first, his gaze dropping to mine. The space between us shrinks until I’m not sure if it’s me leaning down or him tilting up to meet me.
He smells like cold air and wet wool, and something that’s just him. My heart slams hard enough that I’m sure he can feel it. I try to laugh it off, to break the spell. “Well, that was… graceful.”
He grins up at me, his hand bracketing both of my hips, sending a spark to my very core. “You’ve got a unique way of doing a lot of things, you know.”
I shift to get up, but my hand slips on the wet floor, the movement dragging me forward, closer to him, and suddenly we’re nose to nose. The world narrows to breaths and heartbeats.
His fingers lift, brushing a stray curl from my cheek and lingering there, idly tracing the freckles along my skin like he’s learning them by touch. It takes everything in me to try and keep my breathing even.
“Frankie,” he murmurs, his voice low and uncertain, just like before, like he’s teetering on the edge of something he’s not sure he should fall into.
But I already know what I want. “Shut up and kiss me,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his.
The kiss steals the breath straight from my lungs, heat sparking where our mouths meet.
The cold outside disappears like it was never there, swallowed by the rush of him, his hand threading through my hair, then the soft drag of his tongue against mine.
He tastes like wine, sweet like cherries, and I want more.
When his fingers slide to the back of my neck, he pulls me even closer, and my legs naturally part until I’m straddling him.
A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with the fact that I can feel how hard he is beneath me.
“Mmm,” I moan into his mouth, the sound slipping out. I move without thought, chasing the heat and hardness of him.
I mutter his name between kisses and groping as his hand slides under the edge of my coat, connecting with my skin. The sensation of him touching me sends fireworks down my spine until it settles deep in my core. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, needing something to hold on to.
Time seems to blur. It could be seconds or minutes, but I don’t care.
All that matters is the way his hands are on me, the way his lips move over mine like he can’t get enough and how good he feels against me.
When we finally pull apart, it’s only because we’re both gasping for air, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
His lips are slightly swollen from my kisses, and the sight sends a flicker of pride through me, knowing I’m the reason he looks like that.
“So,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “are all your house guests greeted this way, or am I just lucky?”
I laugh, leaning my forehead against his. “I’m sorry, I really just climbed on and went for the yeehaw, huh?” I start to move off, but his hands wrap themselves around my hips, pulling me back down to sit right back on his dick.
He grins, his lips brushing against my temple. “I’m not complaining.”
I exhale a laugh. “I practically tackled you.”
His voice drops slightly, rough with something unspoken. “I’m trapped under a beautiful woman right now, Frankie. I’d say Christmas is turning around for me.”
There’s a thread of something magical that snags at my breath from the way his gaze holds mine—steady, searching.
His hands shift on my hips, the pressure just enough to make me acutely aware of every inch of space between us, and how little of it there is.
And no I’d say I can definitely tell he does not mind, judging by the anaconda trying to get out of the man’s pants.
I think I forget how to breathe. I haven’t been with a guy in over a year; that dry spell really took hold, but now with him beneath me, it’s taking all my willpower not to rip his clothes off and sink down on top of him.
I think he wants it too. I mean, I know he wants it, but what exactly does he want? There’s something in his eyes, in the way his fingers curl against me, that says he’s waiting for me to move first. To lean in. To close the distance.
Then the cold air sneaks in, icy fingers crawling up my back, and I shiver. His expression shifts instantly, concern flashing across his face. “You’re freezing,” he says, already moving his cold hands away.
“The door’s still open,” I manage, my voice a little breathless.
He shifts beneath me, lifting me effortlessly off him. He sits up in one fluid motion, and reaches back to push the door shut with a solid thunk. Then he stands and offers his hand. “Come on,” he says, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Let’s get you warm again.”
I take his hand; a delicious zap travels from me to him as he pulls me to my feet, and I’m wondering what activity might keep us both warm. I have a few ideas.