Chapter 9 Crumb Coat #2
I spend the rest of Jack’s playlist following him around, reshuffling and re-spacing his—our—decorations.
Jack
“Let me just switch these two…” Audrey moves around our tree, muttering under her breath as she fixes my questionable bow placement.
Our.
The word slips through my head uninvited, lodging deep like a splinter I don’t want to pull out.
“Ready?” I squat in my new fleece-lined khakis—another local purchase I made and one that I hope does not attract local wildlife—and hold the plug dramatically by the outlet.
Audrey rolls her lips, trying not to laugh.
God, that half-hidden smile is enough to wreck me.
She nods, eyes dancing. “Ready.”
I shove the plug in. The tree detonates.
White, red, multicolor—every strand on a different setting. A disco supernova. One blinks like an ambulance flatlining, another twinkles like a Vegas marquee, and a third glows steadily, smug as hell.
Audrey throws her hands up, laughing, and I can’t look away. Not at the chaos. Not at the glitter now dotting her cheekbone. Just her, radiant in the gaudiest light show ever conceived.
“That”—her voice shakes with laughter—“is by far the ugliest tree I’ve ever seen.”
“Uh.” I stand, hand on chest, mock-offended. “How dare you?”
But when she points at the angel tree topper wobbling like it’s had too much sacrificial wine, it’s hard to keep a straight face.
I shrug, a chuckle catching in my throat. “You may have a point.”
We laugh together. And in our shared amusement over the catastrophe we’ve built, something shifts. An emotion catches in my chest—like a lock clicking open. I don’t want the moment to end.
I get my wish, as it doesn’t end so much as transforms—the laughter fading while the air thickens between us.
She steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I catch the scent of pine on her sweater, sugar on her skin.
Her hand lifts, tugging a tinsel strand from my hair, and I forget how to breathe.
“Jack?” Her eyes hold mine, unguarded.
“Yeah?” The word comes rough because she’s so close, her lips parted like she might say something that’ll undo me completely.
“I love our tree,” she whispers.
I was right—Our.
Nat King Cole croons “O Holy Night” from my playlist as something inside me reorients.
Her lips curve, and I feel like I’ve been walking off-kilter for years and just found solid ground.
My hand lifts before I can stop it, brushing glitter from her cheek. “Me too.”
And then we kiss.
Soft. Sweet. Tender.
Until it isn’t.
Our mouths part, and heat punches straight to my ribs. My tongue grazes hers, tentative at first—a question I’ve been dying to ask but never thought I could. She answers without hesitation, pulling me closer.
I grab hold of her waist to steady myself, but soon my touch turns greedy. I need to memorize the feel of her through the soft knit of her sweater. I need to absorb her heat and leave a trail of mine in return.
Her fingers fist the fabric at my chest, pulling me closer. Each brush of her lips sharpens my senses, the taste of sugar giving way to spice until I’m half-drunk on the very flavor of her.
The kiss builds like the tree—every reckless ornament, every mismatched piece stacked higher and higher until the whole thing glows. By the time the chorus swells, I’m ready to do what Nat King Cole sings—fall on my knees.
Client status, her family-life goals, me nearing my Hideaway expiration—none of it matters. Only this kiss matters. Only her.
Then—my pants vibrate.
And not in the good way.
Audrey
The sudden cold where Jack’s mouth had been on mine feels sharper than the draft sneaking through my apartment’s single-paned windows.
I just kissed Jack Lourd. Or did he kiss me?
Does it matter?
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
“Sorry.” Looking more flustered than I’ve ever seen him—and I’ve seen him dive-bombing a Christmas tree with a naked cat in hand—Jack pulls his phone from his pocket. He frowns at the screen like he’d love nothing more than to pitch it into the harbor. “I’ll turn it off.”
“No.” My voice is louder and harsher than I intended. “Ah, I mean, you should take it.” My lips are still tingling, and my pulse hasn’t slowed since he kissed me—I need a minute. Or fifty.
His gaze flicks to mine, brow furrowing, like he can’t quite decide if I’m brushing him off or being polite.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll ignore it despite my permission.
Then he exhales, swipes, and suddenly his voice is polished, professional, clipped.
So very different from when we fought over where to place the two turtle doves on our tree.
“Jack Lourd.” Whoever talks back on the other end has Jack’s frown deepening.
“Yes. I know who you are.” There’s more chatter on the other end, and I’m suddenly conscious of my silent apartment— the music having shut off when Jack’s phone rang.
“When is the movie supposed to start filming?” He runs a hand through his hair, no longer dusted in tinsel. “And the contract?”
Dropping to my knees, I busy myself with cleaning.
The shiny wrappers from his ornament spree, scraps of ribbon, cellophane from the lights—my hands gather them up, crinkling and snapping, not wanting to hear my internal thought process highlighting just how bad of an idea that kiss was. But how good it felt.
While Jack continues speaking fluent Hollywood, I can hear the harbor festivities happening outside a short distance away.
Getting up from the floor with my pile of festive trash, I make my way toward the front window.
Through the frosted panes I catch a blur of motion—scarves and hats bobbing under the lampposts, all heading to or from the harbor, where fireworks are soon to go off.
Behind me, Jack paces the length of the room, his voice sharp.
“Residuals are capped against international box office—hello? Can you hear me?” He pulls the phone away, frowning, then tries again.
“You’d need to—hello?” He stops mid-stride, listening to nothing, and finally lowers the phone with a muttered curse.
“Who was that?” I ask, aiming for casual.
Jack pockets his phone, his gaze never leaving mine, eyes stormy with something that makes my breath catch. “Potential client.”
Client. As in movie star. As in Hollywood. As in where he lives, all the way across the country. “Do you need to call them back?”
He shrugs, taking a step toward me. “I can call later.” His tone is easy, his eyes intense.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I back up a step, not sure if I’m ready for whatever his expression means. “Maybe you should call them now?” I try for nonchalance. “It’s never a good idea to turn down business.”
For a moment he studies me, eyes searching, as though he suspects that my unaffected countenance is forced. That I don’t mean what I’m saying.
He’d be right, but I double down on my poor acting skills by checking my nails.
Pausing, he frowns harder before giving me a cautious nod. “I guess that’s true.” His words come slowly.
Ignoring the hypocritical stab of disappointment at his agreement, I keep a smile on my face and tilt my head toward the door. “Go. I’ll finish up here.”
He hesitates like there’s something he wants to say before grabbing his coat off the back of the couch. Still frowning, he shrugs it on, the shapeless bulk looking decidedly un-Jack-like. “I’ll see you soon.” He says it like a question.
“Sure.” The word comes out flatter than I meant, like it already regrets itself. “Yeah.”
Yet as soon as the latch of my apartment door clicks shut, leaving me alone with twinkle lights and the pounding of my libido that sounds an awful lot like my heart, I’m absolutely sure of two things.
One, I’m the biggest idiot in Maine for sending him home instead of to my bedroom.
And two, that I’ll be wide awake regretting it until sunrise.