Chapter Seven #2
“You look good too,” I admit later to Sean once our parents have dispersed. “Green is your color, but so is blue.” I don’t know why I open myself up to feeding him compliments, but the man is like a fresh cup of hot cocoa, and I can’t seem to resist being suckered in.
He grins, shaking his head. “Don’t let my coach hear you say that; he swears I was only made for green.”
His main team color is hunter green, since they’re the Pines, so I’m not surprised to hear as much.
I want to tell him he was made for every color because he looks lickable in anything he has on, even a paper bag, but I refrain.
These intrusive thoughts that hit me left and right whenever he’s in my vicinity are rough, I swear.
“My lips are sealed.” I offer with a smile, raking my gaze all over his impressive form, remembering the expanse of skin I saw at the coffee shop. I bet he’s a beast with his shirt off.
His stare immediately falls to my mouth, pausing there long enough that I know it was the absolute wrong thing to say.
We’re keeping space between us, and I’m determined not to make it awkward today between us.
I was all for avoiding him when he first told me about them coming for Thanksgiving, but after his sweetness he showed me yesterday that I can’t stop obsessing over, I’ve silently called in a truce on my part where he’s concerned.
“You didn’t text me.” He mutters, stepping into my space.
I take one back, putting my back to the wall.
He takes another step until we’re nearly touching all over.
One of his arms raises to rest on the wall above me, while his other hand moves under my chin.
He applies just enough pressure so I tip my chin up, meeting his intense stare.
I swear, if he leans in and kisses me right now, we can just put a fork in me, because I will be done for the day.
He's expecting a response, and I know he won’t move until I give him one.
Not that I want him to move at all, but if our moms come in and see us like this, questions will be asked.
I eventually shrug, wondering if he can hear my heart thundering away the way I can from his proximity. “I didn’t need anything.”
“Mm. I wish you had given me some sort of task. I can handle making sure you're satisfied.”
I swear I must have heard him wrong, because there’s no way he just said what I think he did. He has a way with getting my jingle in a jam to the point I can’t think when he’s close enough to kiss. Or climb. I’d happily do both. I swallow before whispering, “I couldn’t think of anything.”
He shakes his head, with a click of his tongue, and something tells me he’s thinking of putting me on his naughty list. Maybe my dream about that the other night holds some merit after all.
I watch with rapt attention as he steps away and heads for the entryway.
He reaches toward the narrow, tall table against the wall by the jackets, and I finally notice a large red and green cup from the Tasty Sip sitting there.
In the next beat, he’s back and holding the cup out to me.
“What’s this?”
“Your favorite,” he acknowledges, and I swear his cheeks seem a little pink with his admission.
My mouth drops open in pleasant surprise, “You brought me a capp?”
And is there an ulterior motive behind this?
He doesn’t strike me as the type to add salt to my drink or anything, but he does seem like he’d be one to use it to bargain or take a few sips.
You know the ‘quality control’ excuse men like to use.
Yep, I’m betting he’s a taster, and the prospect of his lips being where mine will soon be should bother me more.
Okay, simply put, it doesn’t bother me at all, and that’s a total red flag in operation: Willpower Around My Ex.
He nods, “Yep. With holiday spirit on top and all.”
He remembered my sprinkles and mini marshmallows? Who is this man?
“Wow. This is nice, thank you. I can’t believe you went in there on a holiday to surprise me.”
He shrugs. “I’d go in every day, if you wanted me to.”
My eyes widen, stunned that he just admitted that out loud.
Don’t get me wrong, Sean was always a sweet guy when we were younger, but he’s taking it up a big notch for some reason.
Especially, after all of my diabolical accidents I’ve had around him.
Talk about embarrassing, and the sad part is, I haven’t done anything worth mentioning to make karma my enemy right now.
“Noted, hockey boy, but you should be careful with words like that.” I fire back, hooking my pinkie with his, and lead the way to the kitchen.
It’s bad enough that I already can’t seem to peel my eyes off of him every time he’s around, and the fact that I once carried a torch for the man.
The last thing I need is even more reasons to fall head over heels for the guy.
He dutifully helps me set the table that’s at its full length, the leaves added to comfortably accommodate everyone.
I smooth the crisp mustard colored tablecloth, watching as the light streams through the dining room windows.
The sun hitting it changes the color, making the tablecloth seem lighter than it actually is.
The fabric is thick beneath my fingers, pressed to perfection before it was put away since the last time we used it.
It was Nan’s tablecloth from Mom’s side, and it has these fanciful embroidered patterns she’d sewn on it herself.
We only use it for special occasions like Thanksgiving.
Mom has a few different colors that we also bring out to admire around the holidays.
“Where do you want this?” Sean asks a little while later.
He’s holding the small, clear vase that’s shaped like a bowl I used to hold the mixture of burnt orange and plum-colored chrysanthemums I put together yesterday afternoon.
I added a few sprigs of greenery and finished it off by tying a bow around the middle of the bowl.
With the snow outside, the blooms won’t last long on Mom’s porch, so I took advantage of having the fresh flowers to add some beauty to our Thanksgiving table setup.
“I should’ve made some decorative place cards,” I comment, stepping back to admire our handiwork.
Maybe some little pumpkins with our names or something to give it the extra touch.
The warm glow from the tiny votive candles we placed near the ends of each side flickers warmly. “Are the candles too much?”
A snort comes from him, drawing my attention away from the special china and silverware we use for different occasions. His brows are raised, amusement dancing over his handsome features. “You’re worried about not making place cards, and you think the candles are too much.” He states.
My eyes turn to slits as I glare, annoyed that he had to point out the obvious of me being a bit over the top.
It’s weird enough not having my siblings around, and him doing this with me instead.
He’s obviously not used to me and my siblings trying to make it as fancy as we can to surprise Mom when she’s ready to serve the food.
We’ve done it since we were children; it all started the year my brother spent the week before fall break at school coloring everyone's placemats.
It was game on from then, over who could add special touches to make each year a little different.
Rather than tell him my life story, I spin on my heels and take off for the kitchen, ready for the next task.
Later, I’m outside huffing and puffing as I trek back and forth from the woodpile to the front porch.
Mom said we’re getting low on firewood, so of course I volunteered to grab some more.
What a dumb idea, because it’s cold outside and my cute thin Thanksgiving attire was not designed for this type of manual labor.
“Ouch! Shoot!” I drop the log I was carrying and check my hand. Sure enough, there’s blood on it now.
“You okay?” A sudden looming presence at my side asks, making me jump in my cute heeled booties.
“Mmhm,” I mumble, trying to ignore the way my body fires up with him beside me.
“Let me see,” he demands, his much larger, warm hand takes mine, flipping it over to check out my palm.
He leans in close, tilting my hand this way and that, and so help me, I get a whiff of his addictive cologne.
If I pull away from him, I’ll seem rude, but if I remain this close, I may just lean in and sniff his shirt.
“Uh, I’m okay. See, it’s just a scratch.” I attempt to step away, but he catches my wrist.
“It could be a nail. We may need to get your mom to look at it and give you a tetanus shot.”
I roll my eyes, because really? This is not a big deal in the slightest, and he’s the one overreacting now. Besides, I will fight him every step of the way if he thinks I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner with my family to get a shot over a scratch.