I look at her and wink. “This should be … fun.”
She laughs. “Yes, it will be. We’ll be at the rink in no time. Are you ready to have your mind blown with my ice-skating skills?”
“One hundred percent ready for it. You aren’t some professional figure skater or something, are you? You gonna embarrass me on the ice?” I let go of her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in closer to me.
Her head tilts from side to side. “Not exactly, but …”
“But …” I prod.
“I did play ice hockey from the time I was seven through college. I was a left wing.” She lifts her shoulder and looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Wow, that’s pretty amazing. So, you’ll definitely embarrass me on the ice then. Awesome.” I nod.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll hold your hand the whole time. I promise you, I won’t let you fall,” she whispers as she leans in closer to me. Then she places the softest kiss on my cheek.
I try to turn my head to meet her lips, but the rickshaw goes over a bump, leading us into the park, and she grabs on to the side.
“A little bumpy.” She turns her head, but I can see the pink coloring her cheeks.
“So, Vixen, what’s your favorite thing about Christmas?”
Her eyes soften, and for a second, the teasing slips away. “Hmm. I think it’s that feeling you get when you walk outside,and the air smells like snow, and everyone’s pretending life’s a little more magical than it really is.”
“That’s surprisingly deep for someone who just calls herself Vixen,” I tease.
She shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”
I grin. “For me, it’s the food. My mom makes these ridiculous sugar cookies, shaped like footballs. The frosting’s terrible, but … it’s kind of tradition.”
“Football cookies. That tracks,” she says, laughing. “Let me guess … you’re one of those guys who turns Christmas dinner into a competitive sport?”
“Only if there’s mashed potatoes involved.”
“Good to know,” she says, smiling.
I lean back and nod toward her. “All right, your turn for a tougher one. Least favorite thing about Christmas?”
“Oh, easy.” She lifts her gloved finger like she’s making a dramatic declaration. “Those inflatable yard decorations. You know, the ones that collapse into sad plastic puddles during the day? Terrifying.”
I laugh. “You’re anti-inflatable? That’s bold.”
“They just … stare at you when they’re half deflated. Like Frosty’s seen things.”
“I feel like that’s a personal story,” I say.
“It might be,” she says, mock serious. “You?”
I think for a moment. “Gift wrapping. I cannot for the life of me fold corners properly. It always looks like I let a raccoon do it.”
She laughs, head tipping back. “A big, strong guy like you taken down by Scotch tape. Tragic.”
“It’s humbling,” I say. “I’ve learned to lean into the ‘I tried’ aesthetic.”
She grins. “That’s what bows are for. They distract from the chaos.”
“Noted. I’ll add bows next year. Maybe even a little glitter.”
“Careful,” she warns. “Glitter’s a commitment. Once it’s on you, it’s forever.”
