Ho Ho Oh No #3
Light spills in through the window—soft, pale, almost blue. Snow light. The light that makes everything outside feel muted, like the world has agreed to lower its voice.
I breathe in.
Pine. Coffee, faint but there. Clean cotton. Something warm and human.
Then I realize I’m not home.
I’m not alone.
My arm drapes across a solid chest, my leg thrown over a thigh like it’s always belonged there. My face tucks against the back of Brad Lee’s neck. His warmth surrounds me, anchoring me, and my entire body wraps around him like I reached for him during the night and didn’t dare let go.
Oh.
Oh.
No.
Panic flickers, instinctive and sharp—but it doesn’t catch. It simply… fizzles out, like a match struck in the wind.
He’s still asleep. Breathing slow and even. And I kind of love this.
The realization lands gently, terrifying and quiet all at once.
I try to pull back without waking him, easing my arm away, inch by careful inch. I almost succeed.
Brad Lee stirs, a faint sound leaving his throat—half sigh, half protest—and his hand tightens around my forearm, pulling me closer. My palm presses more firmly against his chest, warm and taut beneath his thin T-shirt.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Merry Christmas.”
The words are barely formed, but they hit me square in the chest.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper back, my voice rough with things I’m not sure how to name.
He rolls over, slow and unhurried, until we’re face-to-face.
Nose to nose. Close enough that I can see the faint crease between his brows, a few pale freckles dotting his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth.
His eyes flutter open, still hazy, and when they focus on me, something bright sparks in my core, like all the twinkle lights in town flashing in unison.
I become acutely aware of my own existence. Of my breath. Of the fact that I have not brushed my teeth. Of the way he doesn’t seem to care.
Brad Lee just looks at me and smiles. It’s slight, sweet, and just for me. Damn if that smile couldn’t solve most of the world’s problems.
My stomach growls, loud and traitorous.
He blinks, then laughs, soft and delighted. “Oops.”
“I—sorry,” I say automatically.
“Hungry?” He pushes himself up on one elbow. “Gosh, where are my manners? I should’ve offered you a snack before bed.”
He’s so damn thoughtful.
“I’m fine,” I say, even as my stomach betrays me again.
He grins. “Come on.” He nods toward the tree, lights glowing. “Power’s back, and I’ve got breakfast ready to go.”
He moves through the small kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling things from the fridge. I sit at the small table, in borrowed pajama pants, and watch him like this is something I’m allowed to have. He pulls out a tray of cinnamon buns from the fridge.
“I prepped yesterday,” he says, catching me watching. “Habit.”
“They smell… incredible.”
“Wait until they’re baked.”
He cooks sausage on the stove, cracks eggs, and chops an onion. Watching him cook like this feels like witnessing a version of Christmas I stopped believing was possible.
The apartment smells amazing. Sweet. Savory. Like home.
“Don’t you want to be with your family?” I ask. “I mean, after the roads clear.”
He shrugs, stirring the sausage-and-onion mixture. “I’ll head up once it’s safe. Probably tomorrow. Already texted my mom.”
There’s no heaviness in it.
“I assumed you’d have a whole thing today,” I admit. “I figured you wouldn’t want to spend it with… me.”
He turns, leans back against the counter, studying me. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I don’t have a good answer. “I’m not exactly… festive,” I say finally.
He smiles. “You showed up. You stayed. You wore the suit. I’d say that’s festive.”
“Barely competently.”
“Still counts.” He winks.
Heat flushes my face, and I feel like Rudolph on Christmas Eve—nose and all.
Breakfast is absurdly good. We eat too much. Laugh. Sit longer than necessary.
Afterward, I’m at the counter drying dishes while he washes. The window above us is fogged with steam, mistletoe hanging crookedly from the frame.
The last time we stood under mistletoe, I was foolish enough to hope.
He glances at it. Then at me.
I dry the same fork twice.
“Feels wrong not to kiss under the mistletoe.” He pulls his lips in and waits for my reply. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
My throat tightens. My chest blooms, and I close my eyes and nod.
“You know, I’ve always thought you were cute, Phillip Jones. Grumpy pout and all.” He stares up at me with those giant brown eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks.
My entire body hums, and I nod again.
He steps closer, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to. But I don’t.
And then Brad Lee’s lips are on mine.
His mouth is warm, soft, careful. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s nerves, surprise, or both. My hands hover, unsure where to rest—on his shoulders? His chest? My brain is already a muddle of heat and snow light and breakfast smells lingering in the kitchen.
His body presses gently against mine, steady, grounding, and I’m keenly aware of something new.
Being wanted. Being allowed to exist here without pretense.
Brad Lee’s hand brushes my forehead, whether by accident or intention I can’t tell, and it’s enough to make my stomach clench and relax all at once.
I open my eyes for a moment and glimpse the Santa suit on top of my work bag.
My mind wanders back to the long night of children, glitter, and cocoa.
Of my embarrassment last year. Every awkward moment and every small disaster that led to this—and it’s like all of it was necessary, like it was the prelude to a single, perfect moment of stillness under the mistletoe.
I inhale, caught between wanting to pull back and wanting to sink further into the warmth of him, into the quiet certainty of this small apartment, snow muffling the world outside.
My pulse races in a way that’s uncomfortably perfect.
I notice his eyelashes, the slight rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s on his toes, and the way his presence presses into me.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. Just enough to rest his forehead on my chin. My heart is still thrumming, my mind whirring. I could stay like this forever. Or at least until the roads clear. And I hope he knows that without me saying it.
His phone buzzes on the counter, interrupting the quiet of the moment.
He checks it, then looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Trina says the roads are still bad.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already tugging me gently toward the bed.
“Looks like you’re stuck for a while,” he says, smiling.
Somehow, being snowed in with Brad Lee Robert Levi doesn’t feel like trouble at all. More like an unexpected Christmas miracle.
CHAPTER FOUR UNWRAPPED
The snow outside hasn’t stopped. Light filters through the window, dusting the room in a gentle glow. The apartment is warm. Cozy, even. It’s bright. Maybe too bright, but nothing like the sparkle in Brad Lee’s brown eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands resting on my knees, watching him. His movements are slight, intimate gestures—adjusting a pillow, brushing lint off the comforter, folding the throw neatly.
I feel exposed. Not in the usual way I do when someone sizes me up. Which, let’s be honest, doesn’t happen very often. Brad Lee’s gaze doesn’t do that. It’s warm, steady, intent. He sees me—surly, stubborn, reserved, the world’s worst Santa—and still wants me. That thought makes my pulse quicken.
“You okay?”
“I—I think so,” I say, though my voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
“You know,” he says, sitting beside me close enough that his shoulder brushes mine, “maybe it was the punch, but I was really hoping you’d kiss me at the festival last year.”
“Excuse me?” I stare at him. “I leaned in.”
He blinks. “You—what?”
“You mentioned mistletoe. I stepped closer and you asked if had any nieces or nephews.”
His entire face falls. “Oh my god.”
“Exactly.”
“Phillip, I panicked. You moved in and I thought I was imagining the whole thing, so I changed the subject.”
“To children.”
“I know.” He lifts his hand to rub my smooth head. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
I close my eyes, and lean into his touch.
“Do you forgive me?” His voice is gentle, even as his fingers are firm on my scalp.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I want you to know, you’re safe here,” he whispers. “Even the parts you think are… grinchy.”
I want to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. But the warmth in his eyes stops me. My hands tighten in my lap before loosening again.
“Trust me,” he says, leaning closer.
And I do.
He reaches for my T-shirt, fingers catching the hem.
He lifts it slowly, giving me time to breathe, to steady myself.
When it clears my head, the room feels cooler, quieter.
Then he peels his shirt off with the same unhurried care, and Merry Christmas to me.
He’s got more hair on his chest than I expected.
It’s clipped. Neat. But my fingers twitch, wanting to touch it.
I notice the heat of him—the sharp lines of his shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of his breath. How did I get so damn lucky?
The bed is small, but it doesn’t matter. There’s room enough for warmth and closeness. The blankets smell faintly of our sleep, mixed with breakfast. I’m aware of everything and nothing at once—the sound of his breathing, the weight of him leaning in, the nearness of his face.
I finally let myself exhale, letting him take the lead. His lips brush mine again, slower this time, soft, teasing contact.
“There,” he says, mouth still brushing mine.
My stomach does that strange fluttering thing. My hands hover, once again unsure where to rest. Lord, I want to feel him.
He takes my hands in his. “Do you want to touch me?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.
He guides my hands to his chest. The instant I make contact, my eyes go wide. While his pecs are firm, the soft hair feels like a warm blanket against them. Deck the freakin’ halls, I’m touching Brad Lee.
“That feels nice,” he whispers. “You’re getting me all worked up.”