Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
I swallow the harsh grumble I really want to let out, promising myself I will release all the pent-up energy once we end our call.
“The holidays are a time for family,” my mom says, sounding way more put-out than I would expect. Maybe she really wanted the joy of telling me all about my brother’s latest accomplishments in New York.
“If she has to work, she has to work,” my dad chimes from the other landline in their house.
“I may be working through Christmas this year, too,” I get out in a rush, met with a beat of silence before I plough on. “They’re paying really well, and there’s, uh… something I’m saving up for. Something big.”
I should be horrified at how easily I’m able to lie to my parents, but I just can’t handle them this year. I deserve to have the most joyful holiday season I can muster, while being unemployed.
Dammit.
“Oh, that sounds lovely!” Mom sings. “Any hints, Isabelle?”
My upper lip twitches. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
With that horror show out of the way, I make good on my promise to myself and let out a strangled growl before tossing myself back on the bed.
I only lay there for a moment before wiggling back off to head for the bathroom to finish applying a bit of makeup and straighten my twisted, chocolate brown Henley sweater.
Before making my way downstairs, I shoot off a text to Bec.
Me
Happy Thanksgiving, girl. I’ll call you tomorrow
It isn’t a millisecond later that her little dots pop up to indicate she’s responding.
Bec
You’d better! And Happy Thanksgiving, Izzy
In the living room, Asher is watching an extravagant parade on the TV, leaning forward on the couch as some Broadway performers sing and dance on the street. Well, lip-sync and dance, but that’s TV for you.
“Enjoying the parade?”
His head twists to look at me, those dark eyes growing hooded as they scan my form. Goosebumps break out on my flesh at the simple sweep of his gaze, and I find myself hugging my middle by the time those eyes meet mine.
“I must say, it’s something of a spectacle.” He looks back at the screen. “Although I never understood the appeal of watching a bunch of celebrities lip-sync on moving vehicles in the cold.”
I laugh and come closer to the arm of the couch to watch as the correspondents discuss the new floats for this year. I point at a particular cartoon dog balloon. “I don’t care if that show is for little kids, I freaking love it.”
Asher’s chuckle is accentuated by the movement of his forearm resting on the arm of the couch as it rubs against my outer thigh with the bounce of his shoulders. My breath catches on a small gasp, and I step away immediately.
Holy shit, I must be touch-starved. The warmth growing between my legs is not a normal reaction to a slight graze of body parts through layers of clothing.
“I’m going to go help Will,” I say on a nervous laugh before rushing into the kitchen and walking straight into Will’s back.
“Whoa,” he hums as he turns to me, leaving our chests to press together as he grips my upper arms. “Are you okay?”
Lips parted, I stare up at his dark blue eyes and see my reflection in them, looking like a deer in headlights.
But that warmth, that pulsing of my clit, grows even stronger with my body against Will’s, his hands on me.
Every bit of me wishes the neutralizers would all explode at once right now, be rendered useless.
I want to smell him, bury my face in his neck, and breathe in that vanilla bean—
What the fuck is happening to me?
I jump back out of Will’s grasp, my whole body going cold once I’m away from his warmth, and force a deep breath through my mouth.
Will is frozen in place, his gaze full of concern and steady on me.
I need to… do something. Anything.
A nervous laugh peels from my throat. “S-sorry,” I tell him. “I… I think I’m still a little off-kilter from the phone call with my parents.” I let my genuine shame show on my face and wince. “I don’t want them to know I was fired.”
Will’s whole demeanor changes, his rigid posture relaxing as he gives me a killer smile, those eyes filled with kindness. “I’m sure that things will get better before you know it. Maybe the next time you talk to your family, you’ll be able to give them great news.”
His positive attitude makes me smile back. I certainly hope he’s right.
“What can I do to help?”
Will puts me to work, prepping a basket with a couple of towels so it’s ready for the homemade dinner rolls baking in one of the ovens.
Once Will tells Asher and me that Matthew is expected in about an hour, we get to work setting the dining room table.
When we finish, the table is decorated with cloth turkeys and fake autumn leaves atop an autumn-themed runner down the center.
I grin at Asher. “You really have a knack for decorating.”
His dark eyes blink at me before he smiles and chuckles. “It’s a passion of mine.”
When the door buzzer sounds, I hop up and down once. “I’ll get it!”
I swing open the door, letting in a whoosh of cold air, and revealing Matthew on the front step. His cheeks are rosy, as is the tip of his nose, his hair just a bit mussed from the walk.
He looks a little embarrassed. “I figured I’d ring the bell this time so I didn’t scare anyone.”
I step aside to let him in with a, “Happy Thanksgiving!” and realize he’s hauling bags with him, some glass clinking.
“I’m early,” he says, brushing me off when I try to grab the bags from one of his hands, but noticing that he has no issue letting Asher take some when he approaches, nodding in greeting.
We place his bags on an empty space on the kitchen table before I take Matthew to the communal coat closet beside the front desk, where he removes his coat and scarf to hang them up. When he turns back to me, my breath catches in my throat.
“You wore it,” I breathe.
He’s donning a sweater with a collared shirt beneath, the sweater made of an array of browns, golds, and greens that match his eyes. A gift I gave him on the last Christmas we spent together.
The look on his face is so serious that worry washes over me, and I instinctively take a step toward him.
“This sweater has always meant a lot to me.” His large hand gently takes one of mine in its grasp, those fingers gliding along my skin. He lowers his voice. “I’m not okay, Iz. Not yet. But I’m working on it. I swear.”
The worry in my chest subsides, replaced by this strange coziness. Something comforting and positive.
Could it be hope?