“The alcohol, Squirt. Where’s the alcohol?”
“Not telling.” A chill races across my neck, sending a shiver rippling through me.
"Knew you'd be freezing," he mutters. "You never did dress for the weather."
"I dress-hic-just fine," my head lolls back with the words, but I catch it before it can fall off. May not be able to operate a motorvehicle, but this body… I’ve got this.
Another sip it is.
“Give me that,” he says, swiping the mug from my fingers.
“Hey, I’m not done?”
“Oh yeah, you are. Did you eat today?” He’s patting me down and now I really do regret my adult sippy cup because I’m too lit to enjoy it.
The sleigh lurches forward, finally getting the damn show on the road. The jerk of the sleigh acts as a power button launching my parents into their regularly-scheduled, Christmas-themed primetime programming.
"Remember when Holly used to beg to sit up front with the driver?" Mom sighs.
Yup. Cause he was hot—my modern-day Almonzo Wilder. Tall, strong, hardworking, blond, wore khaki work pants with all kinds of stuff tucked away in his pockets—my gaze swings to Penetrator Man.
Uhhhh.
Fuck.
“Eat this.” He doesn’t look at me when he shoves the granola bar in my hand, and that’s fine.
It’s fine.
We hate each other.
It’s how we roll.
Gnawing my way through bite after bite, like a beaver determined to build a damn in one day, I focus on whatever I see that’s moving the least.
He shoves a bottle of water in my hands with a stern look. Like he’s giving me my meds and waiting me out to make sure I don’t hide them under my tongue until I can throw them away.
Fine. Never taking my eyes off his, I guzzle more than half. He’ll regret that in about twenty minutes.
The more alert I become—Mad Libs slipping away by the second—the more I fidget.
And along comes the nervous bouncing.
Being this close to Chance is sensory overload. Pretending we hate each other while his body heat seeps into mine—torture.
If he thinks my just sitting there minding my own business was bad, he should have heard the shit running through my head.
We glide through the woods on a wave of off-key carols. By the time the second rendition of Winter Wonderland circles around, the brooding prick next to me, carrier of granola bars, confiscator of my fucking drink, clamps his hand down on my thigh.
My spine snaps straight.
High on my thigh.
Like high high.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Way up there.
