Nate runs ahead, backpack half-slung across his shoulder, leaving me with his twin to unpack the rest of our stuff.
Van der Hoff has his head buried in the trunk when I walk around the car to help. I wordlessly reach past him to get my travel bag—easily distinguishable from the twins’ luggage by the patches where the material has frayed—but Van der Hoff has already grabbed it. His hand is warm under mine, and I start at the unexpected contact.
I quickly retreat, my skin tingling.
“Can I get my bag?” I ask, forcing my voice to come out steady. Thankfully Nate is talking to his parents at the door, because I’m pretty sure a blind man could see my discomfort.
Van der Hoff’s green eyes glint with mirth as he holds out my bag.
For another moment I’m frozen in my tracks, painfully aware that it’s the first time we’ve been alone since I snuck out of the locker room at the Bonham Tech rink—but I’m too tongue-tied to make anything out of the situation, which ends as Van der Hoff rolls his eyes and drops my bag at my feet. It lands with a heavythudon the ground.
“Oh, come on,” I growl, but Van der Hoff merely takes his own duffel and turns toward the house.
With a shake of my head, I remind myself that this behavior is unacceptable no matter how hot the guy is. Still, my eyes follow him, trailing over his broad shoulders, down his trim waist, to the way his jeans hug his ass. With another grumble I lean downto pick up my bag. Whatever is going on, I must have seriously gotten my wires crossed to have butterflies instead of anger welling up in my stomach.
I stop in front of the entrance where a tall blond man has pulled his two lookalikes into a hug despite their protest.
I lean past them to offer my hand to Mrs. Van der Hoff, a brunette who is still every bit the athlete she used to be during her own time as a professional hockey player. Her athleticism is evidenced in her slim figure, the practical braided ponytail, and the functional wear that makes it seem like she just returned from training.
“Hello, Alexander, nice to see you again,” she says, squeezing my hand. Her greeting is friendly as always and I smile, even if her piercing eyes make me feel like I’m back in St. Bernard’s locker room, getting stared down by Coach. I swallow thickly to push my heart back into its proper spot between my ribs.
She has that kind of sharpness about her, that only one of her sons inherited.
“Let’s get all your things inside, hm? Hi, Xander,” Mr. Van der Hoff says, his voice tinted with just a hint of a Dutch accent. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder as he passes me. It doesn’t take away the feeling of being an intruder, but it helps to ease some of my tension.
Mr. and Mrs. Van der Hoff have dinner waiting for us. There’s some green vegetable mash and sliced sausage with a side of dark gravy. I’ve never had anything like it before and pick at it initially, but once I’ve tried all the components, I come to the conclusion that it tastes great, so I eat some more and then start mixing it all together.
Dinner passes without incident, even if I was unlucky enough to end up sitting next to Van der Hoff. He and I are both too hungry to start an argument about it.
Afterward, I help to clear the table, hovering a bit awkwardly around the dishwasher until I’ve watched Nate put in some of the cutlery. I copy him, hopefully without disturbing their usual way of loading up the trays.
I’m about to excuse myself when Mr. Van der Hoff comes back from lighting up their fireplace, placing a large cardboard box on the table. When he lifts the lid, the ornaments inside shine and twinkle.
“Would you boys do the honors? You know your mother won’t let me decorate the tree anymore, right,Liefje?”
“For good reason, darling.” They share a smile that makes me feel like I’m spying on an intimate moment.
Nate grabs the bag, and I’m grateful that I can follow him.
The tree is set up in a corner of the living room, right next to the TV. It’s tall enough to brush against the high ceiling, the branches sweeping out like a bristly skirt. Fairy lights are already strung around it, twinkling between the dark needles.
The small lights and the flickering flames of the fireplace make even the bulky leather couch and the bare walls feel warm and inviting. Paired with the woodsy smell of tree sap, the atmosphere is so potently homey I wish I could bottle it up and carry it with me.
“Okay, you can take the red ones, I’ll put the golden ones,” Nate delegates tasks, holding out a smaller cardboard box to me.
“We always have red and gold! Why not silver and blue for once?” Van der Hoff’s voice makes me jump. I instinctively hold the carton with its fragile contents more tightly.
“Because we don’t have enough silver. Besides–” Nate already has a big and intricately painted bauble in hand, studying the tree intently as if hanging the first ornament is a matter of life and death. “–red and gold look best.”
I don’t wait for them to settle their argument and start taking out red baubles to arrange in a spiral all around the tree.
“You shouldn’t put that one there.” Again, Van der Hoff’s voice startles me. I raise a brow at him, and then look to where he’s pointing.
“And where would you put it?”
“There, obviously.”
I sigh but reach out to take the ornament and move it a few inches. “Here?”
