Page 113 of Go Back to December

That one time he and Alicia were together.

Baz wags his head jaggedly, a blur in the firelight. “What happened was my fault.”

“You were asleep.”

“I was in bed with someone, and he didn’t want to disturb us.”

“It doesn’t make you responsible for his choices.”

“But I am responsible for my behavior, and I was a dick to Alicia,” he insists. “After everything happened, I dealt with it badly.”

“You were grieving. I made some poor choices myself when my dad died.”

“Doesn’t excuse what I did.” He huffs. “That day at Q. Luiza arriving was awkward, but Alicia dropped in like a bomb. I didn’t know how to act.”

His voice descends as he adds, “You had just started looking at me like I was worth your time, and I was trying desperately not to fuck up everything with us.

“When I ran into Alicia tonight at the champagne thing tonight, I had to apologize for what happened at Q. And everything else. I owed her that.”

It was a decent thing to do. The Gentleman Johnson thing to do.

“Alicia knows there are no feelings on my end.” He takes both my hands. “When we spoke after the concert, I told her I was involved with someone.”

It’s so quiet in the icy garden, I can hear his labored breaths, see the rings they make in the dark, frosty night.

The peace is interrupted by the whir of a golf cart motor and the unmistakable screech of Annabel tearing out onto the cart path.

Baz and I exchange one look before we rush inside.

Flames crackle in the fireplace, and lit pillar candles line the simple wooden mantel. The scent of beeswax mingles with pine and spiced fruit. Extra blankets pile on the bed. The aggressive rooster canvas bag perches on top bearing a hotel sign that reads Privacy.

“I can’t believe she actually did it,” Baz murmurs.

“What?” My pulse is pounding in my ears.

“Forfeited the igloo for tonight.”

I laugh nervously. “We can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

If Baz and I stay here tonight, we will have no buffer between us. No pinging phones, or orthopedic restraints or obtrusive family wake-up calls.

Only us.

“If we go back to your family’s house—”

“You’d be sharing with Luiza, and I would be on the pull-out couch.” He glances at the dome. “We could just stay for the fireworks.”

“Yeah, right. The second we lie down on that bed, we won’t be leaving it.”

Baz crouches down to find my eyes. “We’ve shared a bed before.”

“You were in restraints,” I say shakily. “And I wouldn’t say nothing happened.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “But if you don’t want—”

“It’s not a question of want.”