CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Christmas Eve
Barrett
“Ready for another?” Sergei asks, raking his hair out of his glacier blue eyes.
I glance up, a devious smile creeping across my lips as I roll my head across the down pillow.
“Always yes.”
With a flash of his eyes, he strolls across the cream rug.
My heart rate starts to rise, my gaze drawn to his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, exposing every contour of his muscles stacked up his abdomen where the edges of his tattoo peek around his ribs.
And below the waist, they leave nothing to the imagination. I could just eat him up.
Again.
Sergei arrives at my shoulder and leans down, planting his hands on either side of my head. I reach up, twirling a lock of his corn silk hair around my finger.
“I shouldn’t even ask,” he says, running his eyes up and down my body. “Needy little princess.”
“But you will,” I grin up at him, “because you’re such a sweet boy. You can’t fool me anymore.”
Sergei narrows his eyes, and after a few moments tips his chin, motioning for my hand.
I hesitate, only for effect, and then raise my arm to hand him my midnight blue glazed coffee mug with “Gunnison Diner” painted on the side.
He takes it and dips down to kiss my forehead before returning to the kitchen.
I glance out the wall of windows, at the snow beginning to fall on the mountain, and wince as I adjust my position.
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m lying on Sergei’s sofa with an ice pack on my groin.
“I think it’s safe to say that even though I was your first true sexual partner, you’re still one of my firsts, too”
“How so?”
I shift on the cushion, adjusting the frozen gel pad beneath me. “Well, you’re the first to ever put me out of commission.”
The last 12 hours are momentary flashes in my mind’s eye.
Every position. Every inch of his bed. Hanging off his bed.
Bent over the edge of his bed, clawing at the sheets.
Asleep. Awake. In his shower. Half out of his shower.
On all fours on the vanity. Against the door.
Every word. Every sound. Just one more time—promise.
I’m by no means an athlete. Brett’s only convinced me to bike with her a total of twice in the course of our entire friendship and both times I nearly croaked.
But I found out that balance and coordination are relative when someone can just lift and hold you where they want you to be.
And now I want to remember every moment like a mental photo album with glittery hearts and little snowflakes on the cover.
“What you need to do is strip down and go sit in one of the snow drifts,” Sergei says as he rounds the counter with another coffee for me.
“Is that what you do after one of your Spartan workouts? Sit naked in a snow drift?”
“Sometimes,” he shrugs. “And there’s no one else up here to see you—anymore.”
I shouldn’t like the way he says it, like a sordid secret between us.
Maybe I haven’t completely wrapped my mind around it, but I’m still surprisingly OK with the fact that I watched Sergei—the man with whom I’ve been cohabitating and having rough virgin sex—shoot an arrow through my psycho ex’s leg and literally throw him off a cliff.
One-handed, I might add. It was cold as hell, like the blood in the snow.
But aren’t we used to psychos, blood, and being cold around here?
In any event, it’s not a secret. Everyone knows what happened to Caleb; Brett, Colson, Alex, Dallas, Katie back home, the city of Columbus, the entire Gunnison law enforcement community…
I’ll tell my family what happened after I get home—maybe. That is, if they haven’t already heard some version from the news, social media, or the parents of some rando person I went to high school with whom my mom is still friends.
Oh, yeah…home.
I’m trying to relax and bask in this moment, drinking delicious coffee drinks with Sergei inside this perfect snow globe.
But I’m on edge, acutely aware that my flight leaves in a matter of hours—the one that I finally booked at the last minute on the last plane arriving in Columbus before midnight. And I’m dreading it.
I’ve flown into that airport countless times.
But tonight will be different. It will be cold, and dark, and probably raining.
It will be late, too late for attending Christmas Eve festivities.
I’ll grab a ride share home, walk into my dark and empty house, and listlessly get ready for bed and go to sleep just so I can pass the time until tomorrow morning when I drive to my parents’ house to finally see everyone.
But not everyone will be there.
A lump begins growing in my throat. Why does this feel so final? It’s not, is it?
I should be looking forward to seeing my family; my mom wrapping too many gifts and preparing more cheese balls than any family of four could ever possibly consume, my dad roasting his famous Christmas prime rib, Clay taking shots with whichever one of his rogue friends he decides to drag home with him.
It’s everything that I love and expect Christmas to be. Except, now…
I turn to the window as my chin starts to tremble.
Don’t start crying, I tell myself as I drag my thumb across the underside of my eye. But the tears begin to well and only keep coming. At the same moment, Sergei comes walking back across the living room.
“Barrett,” he stops in the middle of the rug, furrowing his brow, “what’s wrong?”
“I’m just feeling a lot of emotions right now!
” It comes out like a broken whine as tears stream down my face.
“I love Christmas. It’s my favorite time of the year and my family is nuts, but I love spending Christmas with them even if it’s an absolute zoo.
But now that I’m here—” I wave my arm around, gesturing to Sergei’s house that still looks like it was ordered straight out of IKEA or Nordic Nest. “It’s like this is where I’m meant to be. ”
Like a snake charmer approaches a cobra, Sergei gently takes a seat on the edge of the sofa by my legs and sets my replenished mug down on the table. I suck in a sniffly breath, determined to continue.
“Because even though there’s nothing Christmas-y about this place, it still feels like Christmas.
You feel like Christmas, even with your all-black wardrobe, combat boots, and bow and arrow you shot someone with on your front lawn.
” Then I think better of it and wave my hand dismissively.
“You know what, let’s not even talk about that because I still need time to process properly.
Anyway, now that I’m here, I feel guilty because I’d rather stay here with you, even if you don’t have a Christmas tree or decorations or even like Christmas!
And I wouldn’t tell you to be quiet or else you’ll wake up baby Jesus—unless you want to be quiet.
I’m pretty sure that’s just how you are, and I love that about you.
It makes me feel calm and safe and you don’t foist unrealistic expectations on me.
But no offense to your mom, I’m sure she’s a lovely person.
The whole stabbing thing was a long time ago, and totally justified! ”
Sergei stares back at me, long enough to make me wonder if I’ve finally succeeded in freaking him out.
If so, I need some kind of award. A medal, at least. On the other hand, maybe my long-winded speech was for naught and he’ll just toss me out into the snow in frustration and save me the internal turmoil.
But, soon, a grin spreads across his face, wider than I’ve ever seen.
He starts laughing. And I’m shocked to see that he has dimples and I can’t believe how white his teeth are in the daylight.
As if he could be any more beautiful. But I’m in the middle of a balsam and holiday spice-fueled mental breakdown and this is no time to ogle Sergei’s stunning features that would otherwise make me melt.
“Why are you laughing at me?” I wail, dragging my hands across my cheeks and sucking a wad of snot down my throat.
Sergei purses his lips, composing himself as I stare back at him with flushed cheeks and puffy eyes.
Then he reaches for my arms and pulls me to him, all the way into his lap, cradling me in his massive arms. He runs his calloused fingers over my cheek and into my hair line, bowing his forehead and gently pressing it to mine.
“I would never pressure you to stay, nor keep you from your family.”
But I can’t stand him being logical and reasonable and considerate right now.
“What if I want you to?” I press. “What if I want you to tell me not to go?”
Sergei gazes down at me with another one of his expressions that I can’t read. But now it’s not as fun. Now, I’m searching his face for any inkling that he feels the same way—that he feels the same way today.
Finally, he opens his mouth to speak. But before he can, a jarring buzz startles me out of my tailspin. My phone is ringing, vibrating across the table like an angry hornet.
God, what now?
I swing my arm out and grab it, tilting it up to look at the screen. I blink in shock, recognizing the name immediately, but unsure of why I’m seeing it.
“I…um…” I pull myself upright on Sergei’s lap, disoriented and confused.
“Take it,” he says, helping me to my feet.
He settles back onto the sofa as I slowly wander toward the window.
It would probably do me some good to pace, walk around the room to try and exorcise these demons falling out everywhere trying to sow seeds of emotional chaos.
Once I reach the far windows in the dining room, I finally answer the call.
“Dr. Holiday—Holloway!”
Shit. Fuck. Whatever. I’ve already accepted that this New Year’s resolution was dead on arrival.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Barrett,” Mark Holloway chuckles over the speaker.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you, too. I wasn't expecting to get a call from you…on Christmas Eve.”