It was a bit of a culture shock to go from my neighborhood and shoebox apartment to Crosby's neighborhood and apartment.
There was no denying that Crosby and his siblings had a leg-up in life, but the only reason Crosby was able to afford his apartment was because he worked his butt off, he was constantly trying harder to make more.
It was something I truly respected about him even though I didn't have the same drive. I liked my little job that did some good in the world. And while, sure, I would have loved to live in a building that sported an Olympic swimming pool, basketball court, bowling alley, gym, indoor garden, and music room, I was happy in my littler life.
Still, it was always impressive to visit him, to walk into the sun-soaked lobby—though it was dark now, the city lights streaming in—thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows. The lobby was an expansive space, but kept minimalistic in style with light stone walls, dark wood floors, and small, modern furniture placed about.
I gave a smile to the doorman as we walked to the elevators, taking it up to Crosby's floor.
His apartment was about three times the size of mine. Which was still small by most of the country's standards, but was massive for New York City ones.
Much like the lobby, his apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows all across one side, letting in the city lights. These days, though, Crosby had them outlined in happy little twinkle lights, the sight of which made me smile immediately.
The kitchen was to the left of the door, cut off from the rest of the space with an island with chairs that acted as his dining room. The cabinets were a dark wood, the countertops white, the appliances stainless steel and fancy. But not nearly as fancy as his couch. I'd been with him when he'd picked it out. It was an oversize tufted sofa in a light champagne color. It had cost three-grand and my heart had skipped a beat at the price-tag. Crosby hadn't even blinked.
On that couch was Jellybean, sitting inside her circular fluffy bed, casually gnawing on a treat, pretending to ignore the fact that Jaw had arrived.
"Will she ever stop pretending she's not head-over-heels for the dog from the wrong side of the tracks?" Clarence asked, breezing in from the hallway, immediately dropping to a squat to accept some of Lock's abundant love as I shrugged out of my heavy jacket, hanging it over the couch arm. "We're going to have a good time, buddy. Some treats, a couple long walks, then we can all crash. You two sound like you have a fun night planned," he added, straightening, giving me a smile.
"It's going to be amazing."
"And you couldn't ask for better company," Clarence said, making my brows pinch together. Clarence was not typically the hype-man type of sibling. He was more of a rib-you-for-everything-you-do sort of one.
"Yeah, Crosby is Mr. Christmas, after all," I agreed, feeling weird when Clarence gave me a somewhat frantic nod.
"Oh, hey, Dea. I didn't hear you," Crosby said, coming out from his bedroom, carrying a bag in front of him.
"More presents? Careful, a girl could get used to this," I said, doing gimme hands until he forked over the bag.
"We had to have more ugly sweaters for tonight's festivities," Crosby declared, grabbing the sides of his shirt to stretch it wide for inspection.
He had on a red sweater with a giant target on the front with three red and green plastic balls wrapped in velcro attached with the words, "You miss, you drink" underneath.
"Oh, that shirt is going to get me in trouble," I grumbled. "I have the aim of a toddler."
With that, I reached into my bag, producing a red sweater as well with a big Christmas tree on front with actual twinkle lights attached and the words, "Let's get lit!" across the front.
"There's a little battery pack to turn on the lights," Crosby told me, coming over to click them on.
"Oh, my. That is truly hideous," I decided, beaming up at him.
"Come on, put it on. The dogs and I have a full night planned," Clarence demanded, making me laugh as I handed the sweater to Crosby, reaching for the hem of my own green sweater, and hauling it up and off.
I thought nothing of it, of course.
It wasn't like I was in my bra under it or anything.
It was the winter. We did a lot of walking in the cold. I dressed in layers. So I had my usual white tank top underneath.
But the air felt oddly charged when I got my head out of the neck hole. Curious, my gaze went to Crosby whose gaze was doing something I wasn't sure I'd ever seen it do before. A once-over. And not in a "You have a stain on your shirt" kind of once-over. No, this was a legitimate up-and-down over my legging-clad lower half and complete with a short pause at my chest.
I should have been annoyed. Or frustrated. Or, I don't know, something other than what I felt right then. Which was a little breathless at the way his eyes seemed a little heavy-lidded when they landed on my face again, at the strange tightness to his jaw.
"You've got a great ass," Clarence's voice interrupted the heated moment, making my head turn to find his gaze directed on said backside.
"I, ah, thanks?" I said, feeling more flustered than I should have. "I'm sure all the cookie-binging I am doing is going right to it," I added with a strange, choked little laugh. "Here," I said, snatching the sweater out of Crosby's hands, yanking it down over my head, and hastily pulling it into place, covering up most of my body. "It's perfect," I added, turning to grab my jacket off the couch, wanting to cover up myself a little more.
Crosby teased me about my jacket, claiming it was like the one Claudia had to wear in Home for the Holidays when she lost her stylish one at the airport, and her mom loaned her one of own.
Mine was a black bubble-style coat with a fleece lining that had absolutely no shape at all, and landed somewhere around my calf. It even had a snorkel-style hood that made it nearly impossible for any wind or snow or rain to get inside.
I just wanted to cover up more.
I wasn't sure I could handle Crosby's gaze on my butt like he'd been looking at my chest.
"So, you're feeding me, right?" I asked as I leaned over to pull the zipper all the way up my body, hiding any shape beneath its bulky warmth.
"That I am," Crosby agreed, snapping out of his thoughts, making his face carefree and open again as he walked toward the door to grab his own coat—an old leather one worn soft as silk after being handed down two generations, one that he'd taken to get a lining sewn into because he said while he liked the look, it was like he hadn't bothered to put a jacket on at all. I could see a flash of the ridiculous paw-printed lining before he wrapped himself in it, and did up the zipper. "Ready?"
"Yep," I agreed, excitement chasing away any of the other weird, lingering feelings. "Where are we eating?"
See, Crosby knew me.
And when I said that, I meant he knew me well.
So while I might claim that my favorite food was sushi or soup, he knew that what I really enjoyed more than anything was stuffing my face with a smorgasbord of various favorites.
Which was why he brought me to a spot we only went to a few times a year because we both knew we would walk away feeling bloated and regretting half of the choices we made inside the walls.
Joe's Everything You Can Eat Buffet was a low-brow place in a high-brow neighborhood, boasting mismatching tables and chairs covered in red and white check vinyl picnic liners. The music was old Jersey beach music, even though everywhere else in the city was catering to carols. And the buffets themselves lined two whole walls, then there were also two rows of three separate heated buffets.
And let's not forget the help-yourself soft-serve ice cream machine.
"Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man," I declared, feeling excitement bubble up as Crosby led me inside, and we saved a table with our jackets as we went to stack our giant plates with food.
One hour and four plates later, I was glad I'd opted for leggings because the waistband of my jeans would have been digging in as we moved out onto the street.
"Thank God we have some walking ahead of us," I said as I p
ulled on gloves and a hat while we made our way to the right subway, prepared for a cool walk across the bridge to get into Brooklyn.
"I'm not sure I have room for alcohol," I told him as we stepped in front of the bar a while later.
"Oh, you're drinking," Crosby told me, shrugging out of his jacket, reaching to take mine as I did the same.
So, yeah, then we drank as we walked around looking at the different theme trees, taking our turns at the karaoke machine, getting—in our minds—better with each passing song, and drink.
About three hours later, we were both buzzing as we stumbled back into the cold, me drunkenly bumping into various things until Crosby linked our arms to keep me close as we started our walk toward Dyker Heights.
"Oh, wow," I said, sighing out my breath at the lights before us.
It was something like out of a movie or a TV documentary about those people who dedicate their lives to having the most extreme Christmas displays known to mankind.
Some houses went for a classier display, lining every angle of their houses, porches, and front paths.
Others went whole-hog.
Meaning every square inch of their properties were crowded with various pieces of Christmas kitsch. Plastic soldiers flanked the walkways, trumpet-bearing angels stood thirty strong around the porch. Giant nutcrackers here. Santa and Mrs. Claus there. Polar bears, snowmen, gingerbread men, and candy canes were everywhere.
One property lined their entire front lawn in colored twinkle lights.
"Oh, here," I said, using my free hand to rummage for the special glasses. "Okay. First things first... Santa or reindeer?"
"Reindeer," Crosby decided, releasing me to fold the glasses to sit over his ears. "Oh, that's trippy," he decided, wobbling a little as he looked around.
Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I slipped on the Santa glasses, and did a slow scan of the street.
"Whoa there," Crosby said when I nearly rammed into a wooden nutcracker bigger than I was. "Come here. We have to stick together," he decided, reaching down to take my hand.
We'd walked arm-in-arm more than a few times in our friendship. But I wasn't sure he'd ever reached for my hand. Hand holding was somehow more intimate, right? It certainly felt that way. Even through the leather of his gloves and the thick wool of mine, I could feel the way his fingers laced through mine, held on tight.
My stomach did another of those strange flip-flops at the touch, making me pull to a stop as Crosby attempted to pull me with him across the street.
"You alright there?" he asked, reaching up with his free hand to pluck the glasses off my nose, tucking them into his pocket as he looked down at me.
"I...ah," I started, not sure what to say, how to explain that his hand holding mine felt wrong and right at the same time, that there seemed to be a battle going on in my body between what Crosby had always meant to me and what he could mean to me.
I couldn't find words, but I felt my hand do a little involuntary spasm against his, tightening and releasing.
Recognition crossed Crosby's face at that. He'd always been so good at reading me, reading between the lines, between the words.
His arm started to raise, pulling mine and my linked hand up as well until our hands were up near our faces.
"Is this not okay?" he asked, voice velvety, almost unfamiliar. I thought I knew all of Crosby's voices, but this one sounded different. It sounded smooth and sexy; it managed to slither under all my layers of clothing and tease across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Can I not hold your hand, Dea?" he pressed when my lips refused to work in conjunction with my brain, all my wires getting crossed trying to decipher what was going on with my body.
But one thought did manage to cross my mind, doing so loudly, boldly, undeniable.
I liked how it felt when he held my hand.
Hell, I liked how it sounded when he said my name in that voice.
"You can hold my hand," I told him, voice a strange, choked little whisper.
"Good," he declared, his free hand raising, pulling my hat that had slipped upward down over my ear. "I like it," he added, his fingers leaving my hat to trace down my jaw, making a shiver work its way through me.
For one suspended moment, I was sure his fingers were going to snag my chin, tilt my face, lower his head, seal his lips to mine.
But then something crossed his face, something that seemed like a mix of uncertainty and disappointment and regret.
His hand dropped from my face as he deliberately turned away, pulling me with him down the street again, making endless small talk for the next half an hour before we both decided it was time to get going as the crowds from the bars started coming in.
"Tired?" Crosby asked, sitting next to me after we finally made it back to the subway after a long, cold walk across the bridge. I was. Alcohol always did that for me. A quick, soaring high, followed by complete exhaustion.
"Mmhmm," I agreed, yanking my head back up from where it had been bobbing toward my chest.
"Here," Crosby said, arm going around my shoulders, half turning me into his side. "Take a rest," he demanded softly even as I felt my head leaning into his shoulder. I didn't stop to wonder why I wanted to do so, just sucked in a deep breath, breathing in his spicy, but understated cologne. "Better?" he asked.
"Mmhmm," I agreed, eyes drifting closed as his arm pulled me closer.
"We'll be back in a couple minutes. You're gonna crash with me." It wasn't a question. Usually, Crosby wasn't that demanding. He always asked, made suggestions. He never told me what I was going to do. He knew I didn't like that, had seen endless men talk to my mother that exact way, and she just dutifully followed their demands.
But, somehow, I didn't mind. Just this once.
"Okay," I agreed, voice slow and sleepy.
I was half awake for walking out of the subway, for getting ushered into a cab, then riding up the elevator to Crosby's apartment.
I stripped out of my outerwear at the door, not even sure I bothered to hang any of it up, making my way down the hall toward the guest room since the dogs were passed out on the couch.
"What's the matter?" Crosby asked when a whining sound escaped me when I stood in the doorway to a room I'd crashed in a few times in the past.
"Clarence," I grumbled, waving toward the bedroom as I backed out of it, closing the door.
"It's late," Crosby reminded me, sounding more sober than I felt. "I guess he decided to crash."
"I want to crash." I was a whiny, miserable thing when I was overly tired. I would regret that sound in my voice after I got some proper sleep, but at the moment, it felt warranted.
"I know. Come on," he said, putting a hand to the small of my back, leading me across the hall, into his room. "Got a bed here," he reminded me, pushing me toward the side of the bed. "Kick out of your shoes and climb in before you fall over," he added, voice light, teasing, as he moved across the room, kicking out of his own shoes as I did what he demanded.
"Ugh, I can't breathe in this," I grumbled, reaching down to rip the sweater off, tossing it to the ground.
I was too tired to truly analyze the look Crosby gave me right then, as I stood there in my leggings and my tank top as I reached up under my shirt in the back to work the clasps of my bra free, feeling like the underwire was cutting off my air supply.
I was too drunk and too exhausted to understand that pulling off my bra in front of him was not exactly like doing so in front of my girlfriends. Was I naked? No. But my tank top wasn't exactly hiding anything either.
"Get in the bed, Dea," Crosby demanded, voice tight as he stood there, frozen in place as I lifted the comforter and climbed under.
Only then did he move. I could hear the shower running as I drifted off to sleep.
But I was dead asleep when he climbed into the bed as well, situated as far to the other side as possible.
I woke up many hours later to the bright morning light on my face.
I was warm, I realized, and
not just because of the light on my face, or the blankets up over my body. Oh, no.
There was a body under mine.
My mildly hungover brain only took all of five seconds to realize who that body belonged to.
Crosby.
I'd never felt it like this, so up close and personal, with so little between us. Because Crosby had gone to bed without a shirt on, with only thin pajama pants on. And my tank top and leggings weren't exactly much of a barrier either.
I'd always known he was fit, had even seen him without his shirt, but it was a different thing entirely to feel all those hard lines of muscles beneath my much softer body.
It felt good.
He felt good.
The kind of good that had my belly tightening, that had my pulse quickening.
I became aware of so many things all at once.
The rising and falling of his chest beneath me, too slow and steady to be awake. The beating of his heart against my ear. The way his breath was warm on the top of my head. His heavy arm around me.
Desire spread slowly through my body, warming me even more, making me acutely aware of the ache between my thighs. My nipples hardened, and I had this unexpected desire to shift slightly, to feel my breasts press to his hard chest.
Every alarm bell went off in my head, telling me to pull it together, to slide back off his body, to get out of his bed.
But I didn't seem to hear them as I shifted slightly, just enough to slide completely over his body, legs on either side of his hips, my face burrowing into his neck.
I didn't move then, just lay there, let myself feel all the things, all the lines of his body.
Hunger gripped my system as I felt him start to respond to me, even in sleep, feeling his hardness grow against the most intimate part of me. I could feel my own desire respond to him, create this clawing desire to grind down against him, feel his need rub against my own, provide a small bit of relief.
But I forced myself to stay still, especially when I felt Crosby start to shift, sensing the change, having it bring him toward consciousness.
A low, rumbling sound moved through Crosby, vibrating into my chest. I'd never heard something like that from him before. But if I wasn't entirely mistaken, it was a surprised but hungry sound.
Ugly Sweater Weather NEW Page 5
