“I’ll have you anyway I can take you, Snowflake,” he says.
My cheeks burn as I look out into the street, let the Christmas music blaring from the truck overwhelm my thoughts instead of thinking about how perfect Nicholas Saint has been.
“What about living here? You see yourself living in Crescent Bay?” He asks.
My head snaps back to him. I shrug, trying to play it off. “It crossed my mind,” I say.
“Me too,” he says, turning his face up to the canopy of trees above us. A somber smile blooms on his lips.
Unchecked emotions clog my throat. “Why?” I inquire.
“I’ve been watching my life go by for the past three years. I’ve documented it and watched the tapes back. I thought I was moving on, but being here with you woke something up. I’m ready to experience life again, and not just through the lens of my camera,” he explains, his finger scrolling through the shutter dial mindlessly.
“Nick,” I sigh, hating the wobble in my lips and the watery sound of my voice. He rests his hand over mine, squeezing without looking my way. I rest my head on his shoulder, trusting that he understands that I feel the exact same way.
Nick
Idecrease my aperture and increase my shutter speed as I line my viewfinder up with my right eye. The trees are flocked with snow, the juxtaposition of the dark green creating the most beautiful contrast in the glaring afternoon sun.
We turn into the Christmas Tree Farm just outside of Crescent Bay. When we file out of the van, there are cars with license plates from Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania. I can see why — the place is huge. The farm seems to go on for acres, and there’s a barn that’s been converted into a restaurant and bar just off the side. Sat between two enormous, decked-out Christmas trees is a man dressed as Santa taking pictures with children.
Michael Bublé’s rich voice croons about a holly jolly Christmas through speakers I can’t see. The holiday spirit burns inside me. I look over at Krystal, angelic in her white turtleneck and leather miniskirt. Her legs are swaddled in thick fleece leggings, and I frown a smile at her high-heeled boots.
“Are you going to be comfortable on this scavenger hunt?” I ask, waving the flyer Gayle passed out while we were on the shuttle over here.
She raises a curious brow at me. “Presumptuous of you to assume I planned to participate.”
“Hmm,” I hum. “What were you planning to do here?”
Her shoulders rise and fall with an apathetic shrug.
I could have sworn she was warming up to the holidays. There’s no excitement in her eyes, no wonder in her voice. I power my camera down and let it swing by my side as I turn my body towards her. She instinctively leans towards me, and I bite back the smile threatening my mouth at this observation.
“I was gonna take a couple cute selfies, then go get a hot toddy at the bar,” she explains, nodding her head towards the barn with an invitation sparkling in her eyes. I sigh, dissatisfied with the image of her sitting alone by the bar while the rest of us go on this scavenger hunt.
“What if I add an extra prize?” I suggest.
“Go on,” she hums.
The corner of my mouth turns up in a smile. “What if,” I say, resting my hand on her hip and pulling her body flush against mine. Her hands slide into her back pockets, her pulse flutters under the heat of my gaze. I dip my chin so I can whisper in her ear. “What if for every item you find, I owe you an orgasm?”
Her face flushes with a rosy blush as she blinks up at me.
“Do you think you can deliver?” She asks.
“Snowflake,” I chuckle, “the question is, can you?”
With a sly smirk crawling across her face, she snatches the list of items to find out of my hands. There are things like a pinecone, mistletoe, and tinsel listed. I cast a look over her head at the bar, wondering if I should get myself a redbull or something for the night ahead of me.
We head toward the rest of the group, just catching the tail end of Gayle’s instruction to meet back up at this spot in an hour and thirty minutes. “Okay, everyone! Have a ball! Remember, the bar is open for all Emerson B&B guests, just show them your flyer and you should be good to go!” The crowd disperses in a flurry of eagerness.
When Krystal walks by me, I hook an arm around her waist and kiss her on the top of her head. “See you in an hour and a half, Snowflake,” I say, inhaling the bubbly scent of her perfume.
She snorts, slapping a playful hand against my chest and pushing me away. “You’re cheating!” She exclaims, wagging a warning finger at me as she struts away. Her hips sway artfully as she walks. The soft ground seems like tile under her stiletto heel. I make quick work of getting my camera ready and bringing the frame to my vision. Zooming in, I catch the sunlight bouncing off the flyaways of her hair. I snap once, already pleased with the outcome, when she turns, offering me a sultry look over her shoulder. My jaw slackens as I watch, hypnotized by the molten look in her eyes. Saliva fills my mouth as I stand there, transfixed. I almost forget to trigger my shutter.
Almost.
Immediately after the lens closes, I hit the playback button to look at the picture. Everything about it is perfect. Her hair dancing in the sunlight, the shadow on her face being the perfect brightness for my exposure, the glint that sparkles in her eye.
