The Santa Shack Up – by Susannah Erwin #5
“No, you—” I stop. Does it really matter?
The only things that concern me right now are the tight grip of his fingers, the warm press of his arm and leg against mine.
Let me have this moment, to keep locked up deep inside like the treasure this moment is after Sean goes back to Florida.
“Thank goodness high school is over, right?”
He turns his head and suddenly his face is right next to mine. His breath stirs the locks curling around my ear. My pulse accelerates like a racecar about to take the pole position.
“Yes,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Because otherwise I wouldn’t have the courage to do this.”
And he lowers his head to mine.
You know how when you’re a kid, you imagine what certain things will be like when you finally get to experience them? And then you do, and you’re horribly disappointed? Take coffee. When I was a child, I thought coffee would taste like really, really strong chocolate. I was wrong.
I spent years imagining what kissing Sean Boswick would be like. And the reality—the reality blows away my imagination. It’s anti-coffee.
Sean’s lips are hot and firm. They fit against mine as if they were created just for each other.
When his tongue sweeps the seam of my pursed kiss I eagerly open them for him.
He tastes of candy canes and cocoa (now I know what is in that thermos).
Then he shifts on the steps, angling his torso so he can draw me closer, and I stop making mental notes.
All I can do is feel: the dance of his tongue with mine, the combustible fire of his mouth, the sizzling pops short-circuiting my nervous system.
Sean’s right hand tangles in my hair, while both of mine clutch his broad shoulders, loving the play of muscles under his shirt. He disengages just enough to lean his forehead against mine. “This is okay with you?” His breathing is harsh.
I’m also out of breath, but I manage a short laugh.
“What do you think?” My fingers find the buttons to his shirt, and I undo enough of them to allow me to finally explore that sculpted chest. Again, my imagination was woefully inadequate.
My hands splay against his smooth, warm skin paired with just the right amount of crisp hair tickling my palms. “I’ve wanted to do this since seventh grade. ”
“I’m a late bloomer,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do this since ninth. But you stopped talking to me.” His hands cup my face, and he brushes his right thumb across my lips. A shiver runs from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, pleasure-painful tension pooling in my stomach.
I open my mouth to retort and then think of better uses for my lips. It doesn’t matter who ignored whom first. What matters is we’re communicating now, and with more than words.
I kiss him, our tongues tangling, our breath becoming one. With our mouths still exploring each other, he pulls me up to stand with him just long enough to climb the two steps to Santa’s Throne. Then he tugs me down on his lap.
The bottle storing my emotions overfills and breaks into a thousand pieces. I want him. I do. And he wants me. The proof is hard against my thigh. He groans, and the sound goes straight to my core. I need to be closer to him. I?—
His phone buzzes. We ignore it at first, but the caller is insistent. Holding me on his left leg with his left arm, he digs into his pants pocket with his other hand and draws out the offending instrument.
“Everything okay?” I ask, enjoying the opportunity to put my arms around his neck and curl into his side.
He grins and shows me the screen. “Should I say yes? Apparently she got tired of waiting for you.”
I read the texts. If she weren’t pregnant and I wasn’t looking forward to being an aunt, I would so kill my sister.
I hand the phone back to him. “I kind of like the thought of having your abs all to myself,” I say, and lean down to explore the skin between his ear and neck with my lips.
He shudders and settles me more firmly on his lap. “I like the thought of helping your family so you can go to college.”
Right. College. The sweet hot haze enveloping me begins to dissipate. This is a Santa Shack shack-up. A few hours of magic, but ultimately as real as the guy in the red suit himself.
I get off Sean’s lap. Without his body acting as the world’s sexist furnace, the Shack is cold. I pick his blanket off the floor and wrap it around me.
Sean’s forehead creases. “Lizzie? What’s wrong?”
“You said the ‘c’ word. College.” I chew on my lower lip. “I just realized this is a momentary thing. Not that I thought this was anything but, y’know, what it is,” I rush to add. “It’s just…I guess I didn’t think about it until now.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I think about it? I was a bit preoccupied, if you didn’t notice.”
He huffs, but there’s a smile on his face. “I mean, why is this only momentary? Granted, we haven’t had our first date?—”
Wait. Did he say date? “You want to go on a date?”
“—so this could fall apart, sure. But why assume the worst?”
I stare at him. He returns the stare, his gaze frank and open.
Doesn’t he get it? I’m Lizzie Sandoval. Good things don’t happen to me.
Incidents of Hot Shame happen to me. Part of me is waiting for this to be revealed as another prank and the video of my make-out session with Sean to be uploaded to YouTube for the world to laugh at the deluded girl who thought she had a chance with the sports star.
He unfolds himself from Santa’s throne and walks to my side. He takes the blanket off my shoulders, drapes it across his, and then pulls me close so we are both enveloped under the thick red and black wool.
“It’s Christmas,” he says. “Believe in miracles. I think we’re both due one.”
I put my head on Sean’s chest and listen to the thump of his heart, steady and constant.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should start realizing good things do happen to me.
Like my family, who loves me. Like my dad getting better.
Like going to college. Maybe a year or two late, but I can still follow my dreams.
Like Sean.
“I can’t go to school in Florida,” I say, my words somewhat muffled by his shirt. “I like winter.”
“Good,” he says, the words a comforting reverberation under my ear. “Because I’m transferring. That’s what I was watching. Game films from teams that might take me. Maybe we can look at schools together.”
Then he kisses me again. And my last conscious thought, before the heat takes over and the blanket falls off our shoulders, is that miracles happen. I do believe.
Susannah Erwin is a former Hollywood studio executive who traded in her high heels and corner office for yoga pants and the local coffee house - and she’s very happy with her decision!
A long time Los Angeleno, she currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.
If she’s not sitting in front of her computer writing her next novel, she’s probably in a theme park.
Thank you for supporting the city of her heart.