His gaze slides down to my thighs. “Eventually.”
The inside is surprisingly warm, all weathered wood and bare, but strong bones. Along the wall, a twin bed on a metal bed frame dotted with rust, and one the other side, an ancient wood stove in the corner.
A tall window overlooks the valley. "Wow, so you guys really do still come here then, even now."
"Everett keeps it up." Chance moves to the kitchen area. "Sometimes the weather turns and they crash here overnight instead of pushing it."
He drags a thermos from inside his jacket. Followed by a bottle of liquor.
"Is that schnapps?"
His grin is pure mischief. "Can't have a proper Shred Shack experience without it."
Great. Because what this situation needs is alcohol. You know what they say, nothing helps clear up romantic confusion like peppermint-flavored terrible decisions.
And like I said, I’ve had two shots of liquid courage already.
While he works his magic, I wander the space, perusing the photos lining the wall—the lodge in all of its iterations through the decades. There's something weirdly intimate about seeing the place's history, knowing we grew up in these snapshots.
He holds out the thermos lid, filled to the brim with spiked, rich hot chocolate. Definitely not from a packet.
I snatch it free and take an immediate gulp. Anything to hide the tremor in my hands.
Because we're actually here.
Alone.
With his promise to bite me eventually hanging between us. And I don't do good with vague.
Give me a timeline, my man. I’ll even take it in military time, with coordinates and a detailed action plan. Maybe someof those tactical maps with the little arrows showing troop movements.
"Go slow, Squirt. No more pimping out my junk to—what was it you said? 'Tweak your Twas the Night Before Christmas.'"
The cocoa slides down my airway with a sharp intake of breath.
I pound a fist to my sternum, you know, trying not to die.
Of all the moments for him to bring that up while I'm drinking his horny I-wanna-sex-you-up-in-the-‘ole-shack brew.
This is how I go out.
Not in some epic skiing accident, but choking on spiked hot chocolate because the guy I've been crushing on decided to quote my horny Christmas poetry back to me.
"I—God, I did say it out loud, didn't I?" I croak out the question, gripping the metal bed frame for support and trying not to drown in my own stupidity."
Eyes crinkling at the corners, he grins and lifts my cup for a sip, turning it so his mouth settles over the lip balm print I left behind. "Oh yeah, you said it." He tilts his head slightly, a wink slipping out like it’s second nature. "And then some."
Don't clench your thighs, don't clench your thighs... his gaze drops to my legs where I'm, indeed, clenching my thighs.
Because apparently my body has zero chill and all the subtlety of a neon sign flashing "AVAILABLE FOR CLIMBING LIKE A TREE."
“Problem, Squirt.”
“You have to stop calling me that.”
“Or, and I’m leaning this way, we could just change the reasonwhyI call you that.”
“If you think I’m taking a ride on your peppermint log here where you diddled Sierra, you are out of your damn mind.”
