“I guess I should actually try winning today so you can get your hands on those cookies,” he says, slipping his hands into a pair of gloves.
I honestly couldn’t care less about them, I just want to enjoy my time with him. Still, I play along. “This gingerbread house better be AD Magazine-ready when we’re done with it,” I quip. His warm laughter seeps into my skin, and my smile grows wider.
“Here, I’ll start on the roof and you start on the walls,” he says, the laughter still hiding in his voice.
We work silently side by side. I settle with how much I enjoy his company, and somehow, after last night, the idea of continuing whatever we have going on after the holidays doesn’t scare me so much. “What’s it like living in D.C.?” I ask.
His eyes brighten, his smile spreads from ear to ear. My heart skips a beat. I don’t know if it’s the thought of me being interested, or if he loves his city so much that it prompts this reaction.
“I love being around so many Black people all the time. It’s one of the only cities in this country where you can count on your doctor, lawyer, etc., to all be Black,” he muses. He goes on to explain the unique culture of the DMV, and in the end, he adds, “But I think it would be better if you experienced it for yourself.”
I add a dollop of icing to the border of my window and reply, “I would like that.”
“If I were to come visit you in New York, where’s the first place you’d have me take you?” He asks.
I nibble on the inside of my lip as I continue to work on the gingerbread. If he were to visitmein New York, not just visitNew York. I take a minute to answer so he doesn’t know I’ve thought about this already.
“There’s this Black woman-owned ramen shop in the Bowery Market. She fuses traditional Japanese cuisine with the South. I think you’d like it,” I shrug.
“Hmm,” he hums, the deep timbre of it rolling down my back and to my core. “You’re getting to know me so well, Snowflake. I would love that.”
I swallow the desire suffocating my throat, clearing it before I mumble my acknowledgment.
“So you’re seriously considering moving out of New York, then?” He inquires.
Maybe. Whatever I do needs to be a decision I make for myself and not for a man. Been there, done that.
“I like New York,” I begin, blinking over at him before returning to my isomalt window. “I think a change of pace will be good for me, though. I don’t know where I would move to. I would want to visit a number of cities before making a decision. D.C. is one of those cities.”
“Wherever you go, I’m a phone call, train ride, or flight away,” he says, a smirk hidden in the hills of his thick, kissable lips.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Is that what you want?” I ask.
“I want whatever you want,” he answers, not missing a beat.
As much as I wanted him to say yes, I get it. He doesn’t want to extend himself too far just for me to reject him anyway. With everything he’s lost, God knows I get it.
I look up briefly to catch him smiling down at me. His attention holds mine, and the carefree energy between us rapidly rises into the heated tension I’m becoming addicted to.He presses his slightly parted lips over mine, slipping his tongue inside my mouth.
“Whoop!” The couple behind us, George and London, I believe, cheer when we kiss. I jump away, my eyes bulging when I realize the whole room is watching us. Nick laughs, shaking his head and beginning the assembly of our gingerbread house.
???
Later that night, we pile into the tailgate of a truck and head into Old Crescent. Piles of snow line the sidewalks. Old trees with thick trunks and spindly branches drip with white lights. The streetlamps have the same red, velvet bows with bells hanging from them as in downtown. Nick, who didn’t leave his camera behind today, doesn’t miss any opportunities to capture the moment.
We ride slowly through the town, and each house we pass has the charm of a village that’s been around for longer than any of us has been born. As we pass, they come to life, and the homeowners stand in their yards and wave at us.
London holds the glittering tin of gourmet cookies in his lap. Apparently, they’re the owners of a bakery in their hometown. Their gingerbread house favored something out of a magazine. Even Collette was impressed. He pops it open, offering us all a cookie. I take one for myself and one for Nick.
The soft, chewy, buttery sweetness of it melts in my mouth, and I stifle a moan as it hits my stomach. “Remind me to buy a tin of these before the trip is over,” Nick says.
I choke, covering my open mouth as I let the laughter spill out of me.
His skin warms, and with all these pulsing lights reflecting in his eyes, they seem to shine extra brightly. “You’d probably eat them all before I even get the chance to visit,” I say, swallowing the last of my cookie.
“So you do plan to visit,” he muses, eating half his cookie in one bite.
I smile down at my hands. “I like you a little too much to pretend that I don’t, if you’ll have me.”
