Chapter 3 #2
I threw a stray cranberry at him. He caught it. Tossed it back. I ducked behind the counter, laughter mixing with frantic motion, trying to keep up with the clock and the spread.
By the time the last tray of yams went into the oven for caramelization, Landon was hovering at my shoulder again, commenting on spice levels and how “brave” I was to mix chipotle with cranberries.
“Brave or desperate,” I muttered, swirling the sauce and tasting again. “Depends on how you define survival.”
He winked, and the butterflies in my stomach went ballistic. “I’d call it genius if it weren’t so terrifying to watch in real-time.”
And somehow, despite the chaos, it was working. I was saving Friendsgiving with the most unlikely sidekick.
I collapsed onto the barstool next to him. My apron was covered in streaks of sauce and flour, my hair escaped in a dozen wild strands from the ponytail I’d given up on hours ago. I was messy. Exhausted. And, inexplicably, a little giddy.
Probably because the heat from his naked torso was seeping through the flannel of my pjs.
“You know,” I said, trying to sound calm but still catching my breath, “there was one year Dallas won the Cup, and they didn’t have a great season leading up to it.”
His brow lifted, a flash of surprise crossing his face. “Uh… okay?”
“Think about it.” I gestured with the spatula to guide him through my thoughts.
“Surge’s current stats are way better than theirs were back then, and with you as the secret weapon…
” I let my gaze flick briefly to him, catching the steely gleam in his bluest eyes.
“All I’m saying is, despite what other fans are whining about, I totally believe you guys can take it a second time. ”
He stared at me, eyes narrowing just a touch, that teasing curl on his lips. “Secret weapon, huh?”
I flinched as if he’d called me out on something personal.
“I guess… It’s not so secret. Everyone knows how great you are,” I admitted too quickly, before realizing I’d just broadcast exactly how much I thought about him.
His smirk widened, and I cursed my own brain. I turned, pretending to fuss with a random bowl just so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
“That must be a lot of pressure,” I said, forcing an eerie level of calm conversational tone into my voice.
He groaned loudly, shaking his head as if I’d just insulted him.
“What is it with everyone and this pressure thing? I’m a pro.
My job is to play the game and win the game.
Nothing else factors into it. That’s all there is.
How good are you really if conditions have to be perfect all the goddamn time?
Everyone’s always on me about this pressure thing, and I wish I could just—”
My face must’ve given away everything, because Landon stopped short and the rest of his argument dissolved into a sigh.
“Never mind.”
“No, I agree. Totally,” I said. “Real pros should be able to play their best game under any conditions.”
“And win,” he added, eyes locked on mine.
“That right there,” I said softly, holding the spatula like it was a mic, “that’s how I know you guys are taking it again.”
He grinned, an easy, knowing curve that made my chest squeeze in a way I immediately hated and loved at the same time.
We lingered in that moment, a spark hovering between us, the kind of electric pause you never notice until someone—or something—breaks it.
In our case, the buzzer of the oven did the job.
“Sounds like dinner’s ready,” Landon said, lifting a hand like he was physically conducting the aroma. “Even if it’s unconventional, it smells amazing.”
“Just what I needed to hear.” I stood up, juggling the cranberry-chipotle sauce off the stove with a quick flick of my wrist. “Thanks for letting me take over your kitchen like this. The good news is I’ll probably be living off leftovers for a week, so I won’t be kicking down your door any time soon. ”
He leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “Thanks for keeping your hands where I could see them at all times.”
I had the oven open, steam billowing out from the most perfect bird I’d seen in a year. “What?”
“Stealing my underwear,” he said simply, motioning with his head in the direction of his bedroom.
My mind lurched into the gutter, and reams of dirty thoughts cascaded over my sensitive disposition before I could get a hold of myself.
“You’re welcome,” I said, finally finding words again.
“Here, let me help.” Landon stood up, and filled his arms with dishes.
I hesitated, and guilt pricked at me. Shirtless, smirking, dazzling, and yet clearly alone on a day when I, and my ridiculous menu, would have a home full of people. I swallowed.
“Well, if you want,” I said, deliberately casual, “you could join us. My friends are normal. Mostly. And you’ve earned a warm plate of food at the very least.”
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, without even considering the invitation. “I don’t do holidays, remember?”
I tried to hide the twinge of disappointment. “Suit yourself.”
We spent the next few minutes hauling everything back to my place. This time, with the urgency gone, he took a moment to actually look around. He stood in my living room, mouth open as he stared at my wall of Surge memorabilia.
“This is… a lot.”
“A lifetime’s worth of collecting. Well, my parents helped from age three to about ten, when I could spend my own money on it,” I said proudly. “And this is only the stuff I’m willing to expose to the elements. My more valuable items are properly contained and stored in my— You don’t care.”
He shook his head with a laugh. “I mean, I think it’s great. Fans are part of the machine, after all.”
I cringed inwardly at the word “fan”. It never quite suited the way I felt about the team.
“Well,” I said, forcing a smile, “thanks again. I better get some clothes on before people start arriving.”
His gaze moved over me, a smile tugging at his lips. “Good idea. I don’t think you’ll be able to pass off Hello Kitty as a traditional pilgrim figure.”
My laughter as I saw him out quickly turned into a pained groan as I fell against the closed door. I didn’t even care if he was still on the other side. The weight of what just happened was way more important.
I’d been in his kitchen. He’d been topless. There was touching and I could’ve sworn there was a look or two. He saw my stuff. He called me a fan. A fan!
“Oh, God.”
Deep, harrowing mortification formed the base layer of my Friendsgiving outfit. I was sure everyone would pick up on it despite the cute cashmere sweater and brown corduroy slacks.
But as my guests started arriving, I was forced to push my feelings aside so we could start having fun. My apartment smelled like an impossible fusion of some kind of holiday, and the table groaned under the weight of all the food.
“You’ve outdone yourself this year,” Rosemary said, tucking her napkin under her chin. “Thanks for taking my Chipotle suggestion.”
“The yams look and smell amazing.” Otto’s eyes rolled back as he took a deep inhale over the bowl.
For the first time all day, I let myself stop panicking.
Wine glasses clinked. Someone queued up a low, jazzy playlist that hummed through the apartment without demanding attention.
The chatter layered over itself in that familiar, comforting way, jokes overlapping, people talking with their mouths half full, laughter breaking out in pockets around the table.
My shoulders finally dropped from somewhere near my ears.
This was it. This was the whole point.
I leaned back in my chair, fork resting against my plate, and took a moment to just look at them. My friends. My weird, loud, opinionated little family. The food was disappearing at a pace that suggested no one was being polite about seconds, which was exactly the kind of compliment I thrived on.
I smiled into my wine and took a sip.
Then there was a knock at the door. It cut clean through the room like a record scratch. Conversation stuttered, and forks froze mid-air. I glanced around the table and marked everyone as present, which made it even weirder.
“Why are you all looking at me? I don’t have any other friends.”
That earned a few snorts, but curiosity had already taken over. I pushed my chair back and stood, smoothing my hands over my thighs as I headed for the door, still confused.
I opened it, and my full belly did cartwheels over itself.
Because, once again, ladies and gentlemen, Landon.
“I’m wearing a shirt.” He seemed proud of himself.
I stared at him, brain buffering hard. “I noticed.”
He smiled then, eyes flicking past me toward the warm glow of my apartment, the noise, the smell of food.
“Is it too late to change my mind about dinner?”