Chapter Four
Archie is definitely stupid.
It took us an hour to get back to the cabins. An hour . With no snacks! No water!
“You have to let me kill him now,” I grumble to Baz, eying Archie’s house as we pass it. “He deserves it, and you know it! Your legs must be killing you, not to mention your arms. And your back! Your poor, wonderful back. There’s no way it’s doing well after carrying me all the way here. You should have let me just walk, you silly man. You’re going to be sore for a week.” I throw my arms up in the air, tipping backward in Baz’s arms – arms that have still not let me down.
They hold steady beneath me as he tips his head down to raise one sass-filled eyebrow at me.
“Okay, maybe not, you humongous hunk of muscle, but that’s not really the point , is it?”
He doesn’t respond, verbally or otherwise, and I scowl when Archie’s house disappears from view as we reach our porch.
Bazzy drops the sled I made him rescue from a fate of earth-killing sadness, leaving it outside our floral-painted front door before taking me inside.
He walks the few feet to the stairs and sets me carefully on them before getting to work taking my boots off of me. All right. If he wants to take my boots off, I’ll let him. Far be it from me to keep a man from whatever makes him happy.
I watch him, enraptured by the way he sets my foot down after he’s got one lavender boot off. I’d say he’s almost reverent, if I didn’t know any better. The truth is, though, that he’s just Basil – sweet, caring, wonderful Basil.
He finishes with my boots and stands, holding out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me up but doesn’t step back to make room for me, so I end up practically on top of him, our coats squishing against each other. He doesn’t seem to mind, chocolate eyes gazing down at me, sparkling with the same predatory light that they had before the ten percent mouth kiss.
He’s making me nervous, and when I get nervous…
“Thank you!” I yell, directly into his face. “You didn’t have to do that! Any of it – the carrying or the shoes or the, um, everything, really. You’re just so– well, you know , obviously.” Word vomit. Perfect. Just so freaking perfect. “You’re the most perfect man to have ever existed. I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate you. You’re so kind and thoughtful and intelligent, and you look– uh, that is to say, you’re very– well, I think we both know how you look, yeah?” I laugh, a terrible honking noise that is almost more embarrassing than the words spewing out of my mouth unbidden. “Of cour–”
“Heidi,” he interrupts, and I could very gladly kiss him more than ten percent. Yes, please, stop this train wreck, you beautiful, perfect man.
My mouth snaps shut, and I just barely manage not to give him any percent of my lips on his.
Respectful . I am respectful .
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in for a hug where he gives me three quick squeezes before holding steady. I return the squeezes, using all of my might so he knows I really mean them. He grunts, and I pull away, letting him go.
Time for a hasty retreat.
“I’m going to go up to my room now! Bye!”
I don’t wait to see his response. I turn and book it to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me once I’m safely inside. I lock it too, just for good measure. Then I walk to my bed, grab a pillow, put it to my face, and scream.
Baz kissed me and he called me baby and he kept talking and Archie is an infuriating little brat and Bazzy kissed me.
I scream some more.
It’s too much. Everybody is acting very strangely, and it seems the only goal among them is to find out who can make me lose my mind first.
One more good shriek into the pillow, then I throw it back on the bed and get to work tearing off my snowsuit, which is becoming uncomfortably hot in the warmth of the house.
“I mean, what are they doing?” I mutter, yanking the zipper down. “Archie is being Archie. I’ll handle him. But Baz? Baz? ” I grunt when the zip gets stuck halfway down, and I have to shimmy to get the suit off over my hips. “Maybe that tree fell on him when he was chopping it down, and now he’s suffering from a traumatic brain injury, and I’m actually a terrible friend for not checking on him the moment I noticed something was up. What are the signs of brain injury anyway?”
I curse as I have to rip the snowsuit off my feet where it’s tangled itself into a giant, puffy violet knot, then plop onto my bed. I roll to grab my laptop off of my nightstand. I open it and head to my favorite search engine.
“Symptoms of… head… hmm… headaches, dizziness, confusion, fatigue.” Those don’t sound right… “Irritability?”
My brows furrow. Baz isn’t any of these things! Except maybe confused. Definitely a confused man would give his best friend a ten percent kiss.
The rest of them though…
A thump sounds in the hallway beyond my door, and my head whips toward it. I hold my breath and cross my fingers, hoping he won’t come in here. Not that I’m doing anything wrong, per se, but I’m not all fired up to tell him I suspect he might have a brain injury, particularly when he exhibits almost none of the regular signs and symptoms. He’ll think I’m nuts.
The barely-there sound of Baz’s footsteps strides past my room, then his door shuts softly on its freshly oiled hinges.
Freshly oiled because last week, before Basil lost his mind – or injured it, to be determined – my own bedroom door squeaked at him opening it and it woke me from a nap. Two hours later, after a trip to the nearest hardware store, he went through the entire house oiling every hinge he could find – he even oiled the one on the trash can lid.
Some of the tension in my shoulders lessens as I remember him going at the fridge door with WD-40.
Okay, so maybe he is acting a little strange with the baby and the fractional kisses and the talking, but this is Bazzy – the man who always takes care of me in whatever way he can. Bazzy – the man who loves me.
And I love him.
Which means he can be weird and confusing if he wants to be, and I won’t jump to any conclusions about it. I’ll ask him. Communication. Love thrives on communication.
I snap my laptop shut and push it away, then I grab my recently finished friends-to-lovers – they did kiss! – and sneak downstairs.
Communication is going to have to wait, and love is going to have to thrive later. I have escapism to see to right now, that ever-impatient mistress.
I make it downstairs and put my book back on its shelf next to its brethren. My eyes catch on a book I haven’t seen before as I slide the purple one into its spot. The unfamiliar one has the gloss of newness about it, sitting in a row with the three books from Camilla Evergreen’s That’s (Para) Normal series that I own. My breath catches. He didn’t…
But he did.
It’s the fourth book!
I squeal, grabbing it. I make it to the couch in approximately point five seconds, throwing myself down and settling in. New book happiness has me wiggling on the cushions and kicking my feet, kiss percentages far from my mind. Who cares about a little ten percent kiss when there are new books to be read? Not me, that’s for sure.
Beaming, I open the book, then scream when a large hand swoops down from the heavens and plucks it away.
“Hey!” I yell, whirling toward the body connected to the hand. “That’s my book!” I stand on the couch and lunge for it over the back.
Baz steps toward me, catching me around the waist and spinning before dropping us over the couch back. My breath catches as we fall, then slams out of me when we land, me on top of him.
“What are you doing?” I wheeze, digging my elbows into his chest to prop myself up. He grunts, then wraps his arms around me – one at my waist and one at my shoulder – then uses his hold to pull me back down.
“Baz!” I protest. “I’m trying to read!”
I lift my head as much as his ridiculously large biceps will allow, and he shifts, pulling me up until we’re face-to-face instead of face-to-neck. I take the opportunity to glare at him. One of his thick, dark brows rises, and the corner of his mouth ticks down. I roll my eyes.
“Well, how was I supposed to know you wanted to read too?” I ask. Honestly, he thinks I can read his mind!
He grunts, then rolls until I’m left on the couch and he’s somehow standing, despite the impossible mechanics of his movement. The man gets where he wants to be by the power of Christmas magic, I believe. Either that or plot armor. I eye him as he crosses the room to choose his own book – Hating the Cinnamon Roll CEO – and then returns to the couch. He sits in the corner and drags me to my usual spot against him.
Magic, I decide, as he drapes his arm across my collarbones and an army of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
Definitely the magic.
I really could not handle it if he were some sort of bookish romance hero, especially when it’s so painfully obvious he is not my romance hero. Christmas magic it must be, for the sake of my sanity.
Speaking of sanity…
I twist, contorting my body so that I can get a good look at Bazzy’s pupils. They appear normal-sized.
Interesting.
“Do you remember yesterday?” I ask. “Specifically when you were getting the tree? You don’t have any gaps in your memory, do you?”
His brows furrow, then smooths, and an amused almost-tilt graces his lips. He shakes his head.
I narrow my eyes at his still regular-sized pupils, considering.
“Would you remember if you don’t remember, though?” My gaze shifts to the side, and I bite my cheek. “Probably not,” I mutter. “Maybe I should do that flashlight thing the doctors do…” My eyes shoot back to his. “Do you have a flashlight anywhere?” I ask.
He scoffs.
You’re being ridiculous.
“I am not!” I counter, offended. “I’m worried about you! That’s not being ridiculous. That’s being a good friend, actually. Thank you very much.”
I nod my head. What a silly boy, calling me ridiculous. I am clearly just the very best friend a man could have.
Bazzy’s eyebrows migrate to his hairline. I huff.
“Fine!” I concede, throwing my hands up, nearly taking his eye out with the book I still hold. “But if you die in your sleep because you secretly have a concussion, that’s on you. Let the record show, I tried to help you.”
I spin around, settling against his body once more. I open it in a calm and reasonable fashion. I definitely do not sigh or grumble or mention the confusing idiocy of men under my breath. That would be immature, and I am not immature.
Once I’m fully settled – and quiet – Baz nuzzles the top of my head, then his body relaxes under my back. I follow his example, forcing my own muscles to let go of their tension one by one, starting at my toes and working my way up my body limb by limb until it’s all I can do to even hold the pages of my book open for my lazing eyes to read. I manage the harrowing task, though, because I would manage anything for even a glimpse of Camilla Evergreen’s worlds of unhinged beauty. A whole book of the goodness? I’d scale mountains for it. I’d swim across the ocean for it. I’d sell my firstborn child for it.
Why, no, I’m not dramatic at all. Why do you ask?