“Here,” I said, threading my fingers through his and wrapping them around my side. He stiffened when I tucked myself against him and rested my other hand over his middle, just above the swell of his belly. “That’s better. Now, just pretend you like me for a few seconds.”
His eyes darkened. It was like a switch had been flipped. I let out a small squeak when the fingers around my waist tightened, digging into the velvet material draped across my body.
“Oh, Janelle,” he crooned, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. His hand skimmed the side of my neck, lower still until he met the collar of my dress. Goose bumps pricked my skin. “We both know there’s no need to pretend.”
It was a wonder we didn’t set the snow globe ablaze.
Even after Sloane took our picture, his fingers stayed laced with mine. “C’mon,” he said as he guided me out. “I’ll buy you some popcorn.”
Be still my beating vagina.
The man knew how to pressallof my buttons.
Austin
I hadn’t been this nervous around a girl since ninth grade, when Penny Moore had invited me over for her “make-out party.” The night had ended with me receiving my first ever blow job on her Lisa Frank bedspread, which had lasted for all of seven seconds.
A lot had changed since then, most notably my staying power. However, my lack of dating prowess remained the same.
This isn’t even a date, I reminded myself.
Yet here I was, clinging to my gingerbread slushie with one hand while searching for the courage to wrap the other around the woman next to me. Thankfully, she was too focused on her bucket of popcorn—well, her commemorative Nakatomi Tower of popcorn—to notice.
“I’m never going to be able to let this one go,” she whispered, turning in her seat to face me. “Die Hardis obviously a Christmas movie.”
“Are we really having this conversation?”
She bypassed my question, diving into her well-crafted argument. Something told me she’d had this conversation more than once. “First of all, the movie takes place during a Christmas party, on Christmas Eve. On top of that, it’s full of popular Christmas songs, memorable one-liners about Santa, and family dysfunction, all of which are classic Christmas tropes.”
“Plus, his wife’s name is Holly.”
She threw her hand up in the air. “I rest my case.”
“I knew you were a good lawyer.”
“I’m notthatkind of lawyer. I deal mostly in contract disputes and angry actors.”
“But you love it?”
Her pink, plump lips turned up. “Yeah, I do. I appreciate the order and how black and white it is. It’s the gray bits that tend to get messy.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
She mulled over my question. I resisted the urge to lean forward and press my lips to the wrinkle between her brows. “I used to think so, but I’m starting to see things a little differently.”
Because of me.She didn’t have to say it; it was written all over her face. And it made me feel fucking amazing.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“How does a man who hates having his photo taken decide to become a photographer?”
I scanned the seats closest to us to make sure we weren’t disturbing anybody. Nothing irked me quite like people talking through a movie, except maybe the assholes who didn’t properly return their shopping carts. Those people could fuck all the way off by way of a path of Legos.
Fortunately, the few people scattered across the balcony were mostly couples more caught up in each other than the movie on screen.
“It starts with being the only boy in a sea of sisters and ends with dropping out of business school.”
