"See?" he said, beaming down at me for a second. "Told you that you could trust me."
I don't know what happened then.
I guess I got distracted looking over at him.
And I just lost my footing.
But because he was distracted for a second as well, he wasn't as stable when I started to pitch forward toward the ice, my stomach dropping, my voice gasping out of me.
Inwardly, I prepared myself for the seemingly inevitable fall.
But just before I truly pitched downward, Crosby's arms were yanking me roughly up, and twisting, then pushing me back, slamming me up against the wall of the rink. His front pressed to my front as his hands grabbed at the top of the wall at either side of my hips to keep us both in place as he tried to find his equilibrium again.
Chest pressed to mine, I could feel his labored breathing matching mine, and I couldn't help but wonder if his breathlessness had less to do with the almost-fall and the save, and more to do with our proximity, with the fact that our faces were inches away from each other, that he was trapping me against the wall in a surprisingly delicious alpha move.
A fluttery sensation moved through my belly as I stared up at him, wondering if he could read the look that was surely on my face. A mix of confusion and uncertainty and heat and need.
It seemed pointless, trying to deny it anymore.
Something somehow somewhere along the lines had made me feel more than friendly about Crosby. I could try to blame inconsequential influences, like the fact that I hadn't been with a man in a long time, or the holiday season making everything more romantic, convincing us single girls that our own personal Hallmark movie was right around the next snow-covered corner. But none of those factors changed the underlying truth.
I was developing feelings for Crosby.
The heated kind of them, since I'd always had the affection, the appreciation, the respect, the interest in him as a person.
But this interest in him as a man was new and strange and a little scary, if I were being completely honest.
I mean, even if he did, miraculously, have the same feelings for me—which seemed unlikely given that Crosby was the kind of man who could have any woman in the world with his good looks, good job, and amazing personality—and I could get over the fear of screwing up a really important friendship, I couldn't help but worry there would be a weird factor.
Like if we started getting hot and heavy and layers began peeling off, would there be a moment of blinding clarity that this was a bad idea, that being naked together was just about the most awkward thing imaginable, or that we didn't jive physically like we did mentally and emotionally.
"I told you that you could trust me," Crosby said, that voice doing that velvet thing I was sure had only started a week or two before. I'd tried to rack my brain for other times I'd heard it, but I kept coming up blank.
"My hero," I said, trying for levity, but my voice came out too tight, too breathless, too, well, needy.
"You're flushed," he told me, reaching out, touching my cheek with feather-light fingers, and I swear that sensation moved through my chest as well, up my spine, and somewhere else entirely.
"I, ah, it's..." I wanted to claim it was cold. I wasn't cold. I was overheated, if anything. And not just from my ill-advised layers of clothing. No, this was a different kind of heat, the kind that came from the inside.
Crosby's fingertips grazed down my cheek, my jaw, his thumb moving over my chin, the very tip brushing the edge of my lower lip, turning my body molten.
And then a realization hit me.
He was going to kiss me.
My heartbeat tripped. My breathing felt trapped. My lips parted ever so slightly in a clear invitation.
"Get a room!" some teen yelled, getting a chorus of laughs from his friends as his shoulder rammed Crosby slightly as he skated past.
And just like that, the moment felt tainted. My thoughts managed to fight through the haze of new desire, allowing all the fears and uncertainties to creep back in, leaving me pushing against Crosby's chest, sliding away from him, holding onto the wall as I started to try to skate away.
The rest of the day felt oddly forced, awkward, like we'd lost our mojo somehow. It was so obvious that when I suggested both of us heading home without even getting something to eat, despite hearing his stomach growling, he'd immediately agreed.
And I went home and overanalyzed the whole thing until I felt listless and anxious about our planned cookie-baking the following day. Especially in my cramped little space.
So what did my cowardly butt do?
Text and ask if we could do it at his place, so we had more space.
There'd been a half an hour pause before he answered, saying "Sure," but reminding me that Noel was in town and staying the night with him before she hopped over to Clarence's house then, finally, her parents.
I felt two distinct reactions at once.
Relief, because there would be a buffer.
And disappointment, because despite all my doubts, a large—and growing—part of me wanted to be alone with him, to see if things might progress with us.
But the decision was out of my hands now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Crosby
"I think it's sweet," Noel decided, helping me unpack some bags of baking things I'd had dropped off from the grocery store. Dea would bring most of it, but with an extra set of hands, I figured I needed to contribute a bit to the whole thing as well.
"I'm starting to think it was a stupid idea," I admitted, lining up the different sprinkles I'd bought.
"Why?" Noel asked, making me turn to face her.
She had the family traits of medium-dark hair which she kept long. Most of the time, she had it pulled up in a bun, so it didn't get in the way at med school, but she had it down now, falling in loose waves halfway down her back, framing a face that was much more delicate than mine and Clarence's, with a nose that was dusted with faint freckles that made her appear younger than she was.
Christmas-loving being a family trait, she was dressed in red and green striped leggings with a dark green sweater dress over it.
"I never get a chance to dress up anymore; leave me alone," she'd said to me when I suggested that she was a little dressed up for baking cookies.
"Because we are close to the end now, and I haven't even kissed her."
"No, but you are making progress. It sounds like you almost kissed her yesterday."
"Almost doesn't count," I reminded her. "And today isn't going to lead anywhere."
"Sorry I am being such a blocker," she said, wincing. "I would have stayed with Mom and Dad today if I thought I was cramping your style."
"It's fine," I told her. It was especially fine because the chipper response I got from Dea about Noel being around seemed to suggest to me that she wasn't as interested as I had thought at the ice-skating rink the day before.
Everything was started to feel stupid and pointless all of a sudden. All the planning, all the hope, and I was getting nowhere.
And then I had to start wondering if the whole scheme in the first place had been wrong and manipulative, that I was being that stereotypical jerk who didn't want to be friends with a girl, who felt like there always had to be more to a connection with the opposite sex, that I was being the kind of creep who thought he was entitled to her body just because she gave me her time.
But no.
No, I knew I wasn't that guy.
I had plenty of other casual female friends.
They were buddies. We had fun when we hung out, but there had never been a spark there, there'd never felt like there was potential for anything more.
With Dea, it was different.
There was a closeness there that I had never experienced with friends of either gender before. And if this experiment had produced absolutely no results, I would have known for sure that this was one-sided. But all I had gotten from Dea was mixed signals. And, the longer it went on, the more I was pr
etty sure those signals weren't as mixed as they had once been, that there was a spark on her side as well.
It was just getting rough to keep up the hope when each date just never seemed to lead anywhere.
"What's tomorrow's date?" Noel asked, reaching for her cup of tea.
"Tomorrow we have a charity thing at the shelter we got Lillybean and Lock from." More public places, less chance for anything to spark.
"And then?"
"Then we have a friend throwing a big Christmas Eve party."
"That's promising."
Maybe.
Hopefully.
"And then it is Christmas Day. She was originally going to do that with her mom at her place, but I suggested she come to our parents' place to celebrate. I hate the idea of her being alone on Christmas."
"You're a good egg, Crosby, a good egg. And if you saw even a hint of a spark, then I think you need to buck up and make a move already. I mean, not with me standing here. Gross. But find a stolen moment tomorrow or at the Christmas party. You owe this to yourself to try."
She was right.
This was a marathon, not a sprint, and we weren't at the finish line yet.
"Ugh!" I heard as something clattered to the ground outside my door.
"She's here," Noel said, wiggling her brows at me.
"You alright?" I asked when I opened the door, finding her crouched down, trying to gather all of her dropped items while holding Lock's leash, and not spill the coffee in her hand.
"It's one of those 'everything that can go wrong, will' days," she said, looking up at me with eyes that said she was seconds away from tears if something didn't give already.
"Alright," I said, taking Lock's leash from her hand, pushing him in the door behind me to go greet Lillybean and Noel, then grabbing her hand that was frantically trying to gather items, only managing to make them scatter further. "Take a breath," I suggested, giving her hand a squeeze. "Good, now go on inside and say hey to Noel. I will handle this."
"You don't always need to save the day," she said, offering me a wobbly smile.
"You don't always have to do everything yourself," I countered. "It's okay to accept help when you've had a bad day. Now go relax," I told her.
"Thank you," she told me, her hand turning under mine so she could give mine a squeeze. There was a pause then, her gaze finding mine, and there was something there, something she seemed like she wanted to share, but then she pulled her hand away, moving to stand. "You're the best," she added in a light tone, but it sounded oddly forced for her.
But she was gone before I could press it, leaving me gathering up the groceries before moving in to find her trying to pull Lockjaw off of Noel's leg.
"I'm so sorry!" Dea said, wincing down at the run in Noel's stocking.
"Don't worry about it. I have it glued on my other leg from Lillybean too," my sister said, shrugging. "I probably should have known better than to wear stockings in a house where a dog lives."
"Dea, this is Noel. Noel, Deavienne," I said, putting my armfuls of groceries down on the island.
"I've heard all about you," Noel said, making me cringe, wondering if that was too much.
"I've heard so much about you too. Does it feel good to get away from school for a bit?"
"I almost feel like I'm doing something wrong," Noel admitted, smiling. "I'm excited to get back this way after I graduate though. I'm going to be doing my residency in the city."
"That's what you want to do, right? Be an E.R. Doctor?"
"Yeah. I know, I'm breaking the lady business doctor tradition in my family, but I've been more drawn to the idea of having each shift having different challenges, y'know? Not the same thing day in and out."
"That's awesome. I felt faint when I accidentally cut Lock's quick one time I gave him a nail trim. I admire people with a tough stomach for things like that."
"She called me sobbing," I recalled. I'd barely been able to understand her over her sniffling as she went on and on about how he was never going to trust her again, and she needed to go get more treats because she'd already given him a whole bag while she applied pressure to the nail.
"He showed up with styptic powder and a giant bone for him and a big milkshake for me," Dea told Noel, smile warm.
"He's a keeper, that one," Noel agreed, nodding, making Dea look over her shoulder at me.
"Yeah, that he is," she agreed, ducking her head for a second as a pinkness tinged her cheeks. "So!" she started, voice loud enough to make the dogs jump. "Cookies. That's what we are doing today. I brought my recipe book and just about every ingredient known to mankind, but we need to decide which ones we are working on. I mean... chocolate chip and sugar go without saying."
"Oatmeal is my favorite," Noel said as Dea dug through her bag for a small binder, flipping through to find each recipe that were each in laminated sleeves, putting them on the counter.
"And Chrusciki for Crosby, obviously," Dea said, making Noel send me a raised brow look.
"Chrusciki?" she repeated.
"Polish angel wing cookies," Dea explained. "Oh, I thought that was his favorite," she said, eyes going wide.
"I always thought it was peanut butter," Noel said.
"It was," I agreed. My mom's peanut butter cookies, to be exact. "Until Dea made Chrusciki for me last year. She converted me."
"What are they?" Noel asked, looking at the picture.
"Basically, deep-fried twists of dough covered in powdered sugar. They're amazing."
"Well, if they are Crosby's favorite, we have to make them," Noel agreed, giving me a knowing look. "Just out of curiosity, is his favorite dessert still Boston Cream pie?"
"Oh, ah," Dea said, looking between the two of us, unsure. Since I'd told her differently.
"Actually, it is Dea's peanut butter cup cheesecake."
"Really now? That must have been some cheesecake," Noel said, smirk pulling at her lips. Because since I was four years old, the Boston Cream pie had been my favorite. It was what my mother made me for my birthday.
"It is," I agreed. "Maybe if we are lucky, we can coerce her into making it for Christmas Day," I said, getting a smile from Dea.
"I already planned to do it. I mean, I know you want it for your birthday too, but I figured you wouldn't be sick of it."
"Not at all."
"So, Crosby, do you have a new favorite meal as well?" Noel asked, and while I had long outgrown acting on it, the elementary desire to slap her for the comment sprang up.
Watch it I mouthed at her when Dea turned to find the sugar cookie recipe, her personal favorite.
To that, she gave me a classic What are you going to do about it look.
From there, we got to work on the cookies, cranking up a Christmas playlist on Spotify that Dea and I had worked on the previous year, putting on it all our favorites. Including her beloved Christmas Tree Farm.
"Did you see that? He's singing along," Dea said when it came on and she and Noel sang their hearts out. "He still claims he doesn't like it, but he was totally singing it. I think I am wearing him down."
"I think you might be right," Noel said, giving me a knowing look behind Dea's back.
CHAPTER NINE
Dea
My feet hurt from baking cookies for ten hours the day before. We hadn't even finished. There was still a ton of cookie dough in Crosby's freezer that he said he would work on before our Christmas Eve party at our friend's house where we were expected to show up with some sweets.
"Lock, you already had five," I told the whining dog at my feet as I popped the peanut butter and coconut oil treats out of the dog bone shaped molds from the fridge, adding to the already passive tin of them I had close to overflowing.
I had no idea how many dogs the shelter currently had, and I wanted to make sure each of them got a couple treats if they wanted them. On top of the new toys I had gotten little by little over the course of the past several months. I'd even gone online and found a giant box of tennis balls for the
dogs that weren't fans of the squeaky and pull type toys.
Crosby had bought new beds for each kennel because he was just that awesome. They were the good ones, too, not just the cage liner ones that weren't soft at all. He'd sprung for the comfy ones that had covers that came off for washing.
That shelter meant a lot to us.
Not just because of Lockjaw and Lillybean, but because through our adoptions of those unwanted dogs, we'd also found each other.
During the year, we both gave to them monetarily to help with the overhead of feeding and vetting strays and surrenders, but at Christmas, we wanted to make it about the dogs, give them a little bit of the cheer we gave our dogs on a daily basis.
"Okay, fine, but this is the last one," I told Lock who let out a pathetic whimper. "And you have to take an extra-long walk before bed. Maybe even a power walk," I told him. But he wasn't listening as he chowed down on the treat. "Are you ready to go see some sweet puppies?" I asked, sealing the treat tin, bringing it over to the door where the toy bags were already set up.
Twenty minutes later, Lock was in the gated yard playing tug with some sort of short-legged Dalmatian mutt while I helped organize donations.
It was on my third trip up into the front lobby when I saw it.
The next love of my life.
A broad-headed, stubby-legged, gray and white pitty mix.
My heart just turned to goo in my chest as I moved forward, a loud squealing noise escaping me as I scooped it up off the ground, getting a face full of wet kisses.
"Oh, oh my God. You have to come home with me," I told him, feeling his tail wiggling so hard his whole body was moving in my arms.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but he is already in the process of getting adopted," Lynn, who had facilitated my adoption with Lockjaw, said, wincing.
"No. No. You don't understand. It's love-at-first-sight. Who would steal my second true love from me?" I demanded, pouting, feeling my heart aching at the idea of losing out on him.
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