But … could she be right?
Not about my breasts, which haven’t grown since eighth grade. I just wear the right size bra now, though it’s helpful to know it’s working.
ANYWAY.
Could she be right that Weston does have feelings for me? Jealousy was the only thing I hadn’t seen in him, but tonight, he’s got it in spades.
Chase gives me a hopeful smile, his eyebrows raised. I like the fact that it feels like he’s on my team, hoping right along with me that Weston has feelings for me.
“Grandma, there you are.” Weston strides into the room and steers his grandma toward the living room. “Mom was looking for you,” he says. She mutters a few things under her breath but doesn’t protest. I wonder how much Weston heard.
Once Grandma is gone, Weston spins back to face Chase and me, that same look on his face. Dark, angry, jealous. I don’t know how exactly to describe it other than to say it’s intense. Quite a contrast with the red Santa hat he’s worn all night. But it works for him.
The fierceness on his face makes me want to attack him. (With my mouth, not my fists, in case that wasn’t clear.) Instead, I grip the edge of the counter so hard my fingers ache.
“We need to talk,” Weston says, his eyes burning right through me. Then his gaze swings to Chase. “Without him.”
Chase crosses his arms. Whatever he’s missing in height compared to Weston, he makes up for in bulk. He looks at me, searching my face.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks.
I still feel no romantic inclinations toward the man, but he’s going to make some woman very happy.
“I’m … okay.”
“I’ll be right in there,” Chase says to me. “In case you need me.”
“You might need me,” I tell him, smiling. “Grandma’s in there. And Uncle Tony. Watch your pants.”
Before leaving the room, Chase faces off with Weston. “As I said, I’ll be right in there.” The way he says it now is definitely a threat.
I swear, the two almost come to blows. To be completely, shamefully honest, part of me wouldn’t mind seeing that. Not at all. Even with two fingers in a splint, my money is on Weston.
I probably need to go outside and have a very strong talk with myself.
Chase pushes by Weston and disappears into the family room. And … I’m alone with this moody, growly, unhinged version of my best friend. I hardly recognize him.
The silence between us is awkward. I wait for Weston to speak. He called this meeting, after all. Whatever happens next, whichever direction it goes, I won’t be the one to put myself out there and say the first word. It has to be him.
So, I wait.
Finally, Weston speaks. “Every year, I make sure that cheeseball is here for you.”
The … cheeseball? I try to follow this train of thought, wondering if Weston hit the eggnog. I thought he wanted to talk about something important. Maybe to discuss Chase or the women his mother invited tonight or even the last few days of near-perfect dates.
Weston wants to talk about the party snacks?
“You—what?”
I’m suddenly furious. I’ve never been angry with Weston before this week. Not really. Only hurt. After so many years of repressing my feelings and then the last few days of actually realizing them, the anger is as refreshing as an after-dinner mint.
Weston moves closer until he’s standing centimeters away. I glare up at him, my back pressed up against the counter’s edge.
“The cheeseball,” he says. “You’re the only one who likes it.”
If the anger is refreshing, his proximity is stifling. He’s a fire, sucking up all the oxygen in the room. I place my palms lightly on his chest and shove.
Of course, he doesn’t budge. And now I don’t want to remove my hands. I remember what his chest looked like underneath the shirt, and my hands, which couldn’t care less about the cheeseball or my anger, want to go exploring. I shake off that thought and narrow my eyes.
“After this week, after tonight, you want to talk about the food?”
I swear, Weston is expanding, getting larger, growing closer to me even as he just stands there. Without taking a step, it’s like he’s crowding right up against my heart.
“Every year, I buy the cheeseball and bring it. For you.”
I throw my hands up. “Fine. You hate the cheeseball. Congratulations. Next year, I’ll bring it. I get it.”
I don’t, not really, but I feel like he’s telling me that he’s tired of going out of his way for me. The anger steps aside, just enough hurt has room to surface. I fight the prick of tears at the backs of my eyes. I should go, before he reads on my face every feeling I’ve ever had for him. But Weston snaps his arms out, trapping me against the counter. It would be totally hot if I weren’t already on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
“No,” Weston says, “you don’t get it.”
And then, his mouth slants over mine so fast that I don’t even have time to shout, Bingo, Yahtzee, or Hallelujah!
Weston’s lips are on mine, his chest pressing close, his arms caging my body in place. Even if I could, I wouldn’t move. Because our lips pressing together, his hot, sweet mouth opening against my own, THIS is the culmination of all my dreams.
Weston is kissing me!
This is no junior high kiss. The one I gave him back then was hardly more than a whisper. More of a platonic press of my dry lips to his. No movement. No passion. Just a whole lot of longing and inexperience. It was a plain white cracker, unsalted.
This? It’s like a buffet of exotic foods exploding in my mouth, rich and heady and delicious. It’s a Godiva chocolate fountain. It’s expensive champagne, the bubbles going straight to my head.
The kiss. Is. Everything.
I’m barely conscious, dragged under by the way Weston’s lips caress mine. His good hand moves to my hip, gripping me possessively. The hand with the splint cups the back of my head as best he can. He tastes like peppermint and happily ever afters. He feels like my future, solid and secure.
Maybe there should be a weird transition from friendship to this, but this feels completely natural. Inevitable, really. It’s like my body has simply been waiting for this moment, drumming its fingers along the arm of an uncomfortable chair, reading the boring waiting room magazines, until West threw open the door and called my name.
And now I’m the one who wants to be a barnacle, attaching myself to Weston. Except not even his beefy brothers could pry me off. Not now that I’ve finally got him. He’s mine.
I pull back, and it takes all the willpower I have. Weston’s eyes are hooded, fixed on my lips.
“Why were you going on about the cheeseball?” I ask. I have to know.
He groans softly. “Taylor. That’s the first thing you say after that kiss?”
I can’t help but look at his lips, which turn up into a grin. He’s like a black hole, sucking me back in.
Apply brakes! Apply brakes!
I place my palm flat against his chest, keeping him at bay.
“You were the one who brought up the cheeseball. I’m just trying to figure out how we went to kissing after you complaining about going out of your way to buy me a cheeseball.”
“No. You misunderstood.” Weston lifts his hands cupping my cheeks. “I wasn’t being critical. I was trying to tell you that I love you.”
I draw in a breath at his words. “You—wait. What?”
Weston’s smile is slow, patient, like he’s a man with all the time in the world. “I love you, Taylor. I have loved you for so long. That’s what I was trying to tell you with the cheeseball.”
Maybe I’m dense, but I don’t get it.
“You were saying I love you with the cheeseball?”
Weston leans forward until his forehead rests on mine. “I swear to you, after tonight, I don’t want to ever hear about the cheeseball again.”
“Agreed.”
“What I was trying to tell you, obviously badly, for years
through the appetizer-who-shall-not-be-named and this week with all the holidates, is that I will do anything for you, Taylor.”
“For years?”
“Years. Since before our first kiss. You surprised me with the kiss, which shocked me into awkward silence. Then you friendzoned me, and here we are today.”
He pulls back and sweeps his fingertips over my cheeks, careful not to jab the splint in my eye. I want to tell Weston how much I love him. I hope he knows, that he can see it in my eyes, because my mouth won’t form words.
I’m going back over the past in my mind. All the wasted time. All the other people we’ve dated who weren’t each other. When all along, we were both right here.
“Stop it,” Weston says, tapping my forehead with his splinted hand. “You’re thinking too much.”
“All the thoughts are about you. But if you want me to stop …” I shrug, grinning.
“I definitely don’t mind your thoughts on me, and me alone. But I’d also like to hear that you love me.”
“Pretty confident that I love you, huh?”
“Not confident. Just terribly hopeful and more than a little desperate.”
“I love you, Weston. I think I have since we were thirteen.”
I can feel a tension in his body release. He sags against me with a sigh, his soft lips meeting mine again, the scratch of his beard just what I need to ground me in this moment.
And that’s when we hear it. The sound of a shout from the other room, glass breaking, and the unmistakable growling of Uncle Tony as he rips into an unlucky someone.
A female, accented voice squeals, “Not my feet! I need them for work!”
I can’t help but laugh, dropping my head against Weston’s chest. He’s shaking with laughter too, and it only grows louder when we hear Grandma.
“If your feet are so important, you should have gotten them insured!”
When the chaos and our laughter dies down a little, Weston says, “Shall we end holidates eleven, twelve, and thirteen by making our moms the happiest they’ve ever been?”
“Absolutely! But wait—what were the dates tonight?”
“The holiday party was eleven. Grandma coming counts as visiting an old folks’ home, as she brought the old folk to us. And as for number thirteen …” Weston pulls off his Santa hat to reveal a leafy green bit of foliage tucked inside. “Kissing under the mistletoe.”
I grin at him, then watch as he scratches the top of his head, then scratches some more. I glance down at the plant again.
“Um, West. Who gave you the mistletoe?”
“Aaron. Why?” He’s still scratching, switching hands so he can use the splint.
“That’s not mistletoe. It’s a big ball of poison ivy.”
His hand freezes in place on his head, and I see the moment it sinks in. “I’m going to kill him.”
“With kindness?” I gingerly take the hat from him and dump the whole thing in the trash.
“No. With fruitcake. And my fists.”
Weston leans in close, pressing a lingering kiss to my mouth. Then, he grabs a fruitcake off the counter and runs from the room, still scratching as he bellows his brother’s name.
I lift my fingers to my lips, trying to memorize the feel of Weston’s mouth on mine. Hopefully, I won’t have to exist with only the memory of this one night of kissing. If I’m right about this, we’ll have forever.
Assuming Weston doesn’t end up in jail for assault with a deadly fruitcake first.
The Twelve Holidates
Dress in something sexy and hide in a person-sized stocking in your significant other’s bedroom Burn the stocking in a ceremonial funeral pyre
Eat s’mores over a campfire burning stocking
Have a photo taken with Santa
Attend an ugly Christmas sweater event
Go ice skating roller skating
Watch Christmas movies
Drink homemade hot cocoa
Wear matching Christmas pajamas
Build a gingerbread house
Give to charity
Attend a holiday party
Spread cheer at a nursing home Try to survive the wrath of Grandma
Kiss the heck out of Taylor under the mistletoe
Epilogue
Taylor
“Why are we parked here, watching this random apartment building?”
I lean against the passenger door, crossing my arms and raising my eyebrows at Weston. He glances at his watch again.
“Patience, Iago,” he says.
My fiancé—A term I’m going to use as much as possible until our wedding in six months—is the kind of man who still quotes random things like Aladdin. Saying yes to him? Best and easiest decision ever. I admire the ring on my finger before responding.
“I’ve been patient, but it’s been like twenty minutes and you still won’t tell me—”
“Shh! It’s time!” Weston grins and pulls me as close as he can with the center console between us. He presses a kiss to my temple. “Just watch.”
That’s when I see his two brothers, plus several other brutish football player types, all struggling to roll a large trash can across the parking lot. I know better than to ask. Ever since Weston picked me up this morning, he’s been secretive and very excited.
I’m just glad he waited until he had already proposed to do this. Otherwise, I would have thought this was the engagement and been sorely disappointed by whatever this is.
Seth, Aaron, and their buddies get the trash can up over the lip of the sidewalk. Water sloshes out of the top, which makes me realize why they’re having to struggle.
But why a trash can full of water?
They navigate the can right up to one of the apartment doors, and I start to get nervous. Carefully, they prop the can against the door, then all slowly remove their hands.
I’m beginning to see where this is going. An epic prank. But on whom? And why?
Weston is grinning. He senses me looking and squeezes my shoulder.
“This has been a long time coming. And is completely deserved. So, don’t feel bad.”
“Why would I feel bad? I’m just a passenger. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Here we go!”
Weston points, and as we watch, Aaron gives Weston the thumbs up, and then knocks on the apartment door. Aaron and the rest of the big guys scatter, ducking behind cars and shrubbery until they’re out of sight.
I throw a hand over my mouth, suddenly filled with nervous excitement for whatever this is.
The door opens. And like something out of a movie, things seem to slow down. The trash can tips, splashing water over the rim, and then falls to the ground.
A wave of water rolls out, even as the man standing in the doorway holds out his hands as if that could stop it. He’s soaked in an instant as a trash can full of water rushes out and into his apartment.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Weston! Why did you—”
A woman runs up to the door from inside the apartment. She’s frantic while the man stands there like he can’t believe that just happened.
I can’t hear from where we sit, but it’s clear she’s screaming, her mouth open and her hands waving around. It all clicks into place when I recognize her. It’s spider lashes, aka Melyssa, aka the girl Chad cheated on me with. I lean forward, squinting.
“It’s Chad!” I breathe. “You’re pranking Chad!”
“Yes. We are. And it’s about time. I’ve been saving this—it’s the longest I’ve ever waited.”
I glance back once more at Chad and Melyssa, who have righted the trash can and are now using towels to sop up the water. Hope they’ve got a lot of towels.
I’m so surprised by this whole thing that it takes me a minute to decide how I feel. I don’t harbor any weird feelings about seeing Chad still with Melyssa. I also realize that I don’t feel guilty or bad at all about their current predicament. It’s because I’m thinking about this that Weston’s words sink in slowly.
>
I turn to him, grabbing his arm. “Wait. What do you mean the longest you’ve ever waited?”
Weston studies my face, biting back a smile. Clearly, he’s trying to decide how much to tell me.
“West. Spill.” I reach for the ticklish spot right on the side of his neck, and he laughs, trying to pull away. But in the front seat of the car, there’s nowhere to go.
“Fine! Fine! I give.”
I stop my tickle assault and lean back in my seat, waiting.
Weston runs a hand over his beard. “Let’s just say that over the years, I’ve enjoyed making your exes pay for hurting you.”
My eyes go wide. “You pranked my ex boyfriends? How many of them?”
Weston smirks. “All of them since tenth grade.”
“You were the one who put fish in Wade’s tailpipe? And the classified ad in the paper for Breck?”
“Yes and yes.”
My mind is spinning. I didn’t date that much, but there are probably eight guys I dated for at least a few months. I knew about the two pranks from high school but never would have guessed Weston was behind them.
It’s … overwhelming. Because, like the stupid Christmas cheeseball, this is a totally strange and unexpected way Weston expressed his love for me. Totally ridiculous, obviously. I mean, who does stuff like this?
My fiancé. That’s who.
“Are you mad?”
I guess I’ve been silent too long. I swing my face toward him, and he catches sight of my tears.
Immediately, his face softens. “Oh, hey. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I never should have—”
“No. I love it. I love you.”
I launch myself across the car to press my mouth to his. Weston is surprised, but it only takes a moment for him to catch on. His hands sweep up my neck and tangle into my hair.
Our movements are hurried, filled with the kind of passion that comes from bottling up our feelings for so many years. It’s been this way since Christmas, and for the past four months, we’ve been making up for lost time. To some, four months of dating and a six-month engagement would be way too fast.
But there’s nothing I want more than this man. Every minute. Every day. I can’t get enough.
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