“Thank you. I’ve been so tired at night I just want to sleep, but we’ll definitely make an effort to be there.”
I head upstairs, passing by all the sorted items for sale. I have to admit Mrs. Edge had some treasures, things that keep catching my eye. I’m taken with the little antiques hidden amongst the basic stuff. She measured everything the same; an heirloom necklace was tossed in with cheap costume jewelry. A collectible vase from the 1920s on the same dusty shelf as the free glass ones from the florist. Cleaning out is tedious, each box, drawer, closet and shelf has to be sorted through thoroughly.
I step into his room, which I’ve only been in a few times and not since we were kids. At some point, the Star Wars figures were replaced by surfing gear and university logos. It’s not a huge mess, but they’re selling the house; this stuff has to get packed up.
His suitcase is in the corner—unpacked. He’s clearly been living out of it. A pair of running shoes and a second pair of boots, scuffed at the toes, sit next to it.
I look around the room. There are movie and concert tickets stuffed in the corner of the mirror. A trophy from a surfing competition he won the summer after his senior year. I remember that day—his skin bronze from the sun—his hair lightened. He’d been proud of himself for beating my brothers—a feat. It was the last summer he’d been home. The last time I saw him surf.
Feeling a little out of place and annoyed Miller’s kept him for so long, I decide to work on the bookshelf. I have a process for books, lining them up so it’s easy to decide what to keep. I’ve worked through the three top shelves and pause when I find a cardboard box. I pull it out and push my fingers under the lid.
“That’s a keep,” a voice says from the doorway.
I jump, nearly dropping the box.
“I didn’t hear you!” I rest my hand over my pounding heart. Julian stands in the doorway, in a gray zipped-up hoodie and a pair of loose jeans. He smiles apologetically and takes the box from me, sliding it on the dresser.
It’s the first time we’ve seen one another since we kissed, and all I want to do is kiss him again. I can’t tell if my heart is racing from being scared or from being in this small space with him. I focus on the book shelf, ignoring him behind me—or at least, that’s what I do until his arms slip around my waist and he presses a kiss on my neck.
“I found the tuna cans this morning. Big-Eye missed you.”
He laughs, warm breath on my neck. “I missed him, too.” Another kiss. “You, too.”
“I’m assuming my brother accosted you?”
“Oh yeah, he was waiting for me.”
I turn around, but he doesn’t remove his hands from my waist. I like it.
“Do I need to tell him to back off?”
He shakes his head. “No. He’s just being protective.”
“Over protective.”
“He’s afraid I’m going to hurt you.”
The nag of insecurity and fear tugs at my stomach. “Then don’t. Prove him wrong.”
“I’d rather prove it to you.”
His fingers skim my cheek, and a moment later it’s like we’re back under the mistletoe. His lips are warm—his fingers cold from being outside. He tastes like coffee, and it’s the perfect, mind-melting kiss. I throw my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he takes a step forward, my back hitting the bookshelf, books toppling over like dominoes. I’m caught between the hard surface of the shelf and the hard muscle of the man in front of me. Every fiber of my being knows I’ve never been in a more amazing, exciting, thrilling spot. Our kisses grow deeper, harder, our breathing heavier.
Through the fog of passion, I blink and pull myself away.
We are not under the mistletoe. We’re in Julian’s bedroom. My eyes shift to the flat, inviting surface of his bed.
Oh boy.
Our family—my mother—is downstairs.
Get ahold of yourself, Collins.
“Is something wrong? Was…” he swallows, taking a breath, “that was too much. I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say, moving across the room. “It wasn’t too much. It was exactly right. Too right.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “I know what you mean.”
I fumble through the books; hands shaking, heart pounding. What I say next I don’t mean, but it’s the right thing to say, “There’s a lot going on between us. Familiarity. Proximity. I think, in particular, while we’re at work we need to keep this professional. That,” I point to the bookshelf, feeling my cheeks turn even redder, “can’t happen again.”
“Ever again?”
Gosh, he’s adorable. “Not at work.”
He nods. “But it could happen again, if we’re on a date or something.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Are you planning on taking me on a date?”
Before he can answer, a pile of books, jarred from earlier, shifts and slowly fall off the shelf, landing on the floor with an extended thud.
“Everything okay up there?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs.
Julian holds my eye and shouts back. “Everything is perfect!”
Together we pick up the books, the buzz of electricity building between us, my heart never slowing that racing beat. I thought this job was going to be a disaster. Instead it’s a whole different kind of challenge.
One I definitely am ready to meet.
15
Collins
I push the cart through the grocery store, stopping in the baking section. I’d spent the morning going through Mrs. Edge’s recipe file, searching for the one for the cookies she always brought to the party.
The timing is crazy—everything jumbled up with the cookie party on Saturday and the sale starting on Monday, but the house is finally coming together. Christmas is on Thursday. Julian will be leaving a few days later.
“I found the dried fruit,” Avery says, tossing it into the cart. “Is that enough?”
I nod, looking over the recipe card. “I think so.”
“Fruit cake cookies. I hate to say it, but that sounds gross.”
“I agree, but for some reason they’re delicious. Or at least they were when Mrs. Edge made them.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “It’s really nice of you to make these for him.”
I laugh. “Oh, I’m not making them. I’m going to teach him how to make them. Julian doesn’t want to lose his family traditions, which means he’s going to have to figure out a way to carry them on without his mother.”
She shakes her head and grabs a package of flour.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just thinking about how you finally got Julian out of the big-brother zone, and you’re playing therapist.”
I shrug. “We do this with everyone that has an estate sale. There’s always a lot of baggage. I’m just helping him the same way I’d help anyone.”
“You’re really telling me you’d teach any other client how to bake their mother’s famous cookies?”
I frown. “Well, no, but Julian isn’t any other client.”
“So you admit it. He’s more than a client.”
“Of course.” I know what she wants. She wants me to tell her exactly what he is to me. Right now, he’s still the boy that grew up next door and is best friends with my brother. Only one thing has changed. Instead pulling my pig-tails, he’s kissing me. I don’t know what that is, exactly, but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.
Avery isn’t content. “He’s cleaning out his house to sell—forever. It’s a huge change. Have you two talked about what happens between you next?”
I pull three bottles of red and green sprinkles off the shelf. “I don’t know, but we can text and call and visit one another.” She frowns but says nothing. “Are you seriously having a problem with the two of us getting together?”
“I’m just judging the timing, I guess. Julian had years to make a move and never did.”
“He was dating Shelby back then, and I was dating Toby. We weren�
��t ready.” Seriously, from the kisses alone, I can attest I was not ready for Julian Edge in high school.
“And suddenly in the middle of all this grief and upheaval, he is?”
Anger flickers in me. “What are you trying to say, Avery?”
She stands on the other side of the cart, her hands on the basket. “I want you to be careful. There’s no denying you’ve been listless and looking for a change for a while. Quitting the business is huge. And Julian’s mourning over his mother, and losing his childhood home is real. I just don’t want you two to get into something that could ruin your relationship because you’re both in a weird spot.”
“I’m not in a weird spot,” I say, trying not to be hurt, “I’m finally in the right spot. I’m working on my art, I’ve got the show coming up, and yeah, my long-time crush finally is into me. I’m not sure why that’s a bad thing.”
She gives me a worried look. “Just be careful, okay?”
I bend over and pick up two bags of sugar, heaving them into the cart. “Thanks for the concern, but really, I’m going to be fine.”
I push the cart past her, heading toward the other side of the store. The last thing I need is for Avery to put doubt in my head, because everything she said is something I already know, I’m just not ready to deal with it until it’s actually time.
Juggling two bags in one hand and my purse and keys in another, I lift my foot and press it against the truck door, aiming to slam it shut.
“Hold up,” Julian calls, running down the path between our houses. I glance up, struggling to balance.
He’s there in a heartbeat, relieving the weight by taking the bags from my hands. I lower my foot and shut the truck door with my palms.
“Thank you,” I say, turning away from the vehicle and finally getting a good look at him. It’s cold and almost dusk, but Julian is standing in front of me shirtless and with damp hair. He’s in a wet suit unzipped and hanging at his waist, the expanse of his well-defined chest right in my face. I’ve seen him without a shirt hundreds of times—we live at the beach, after all—but this is different. He’s different. More muscular, more man, and less of the lean boy I’d known forever. I react physically—my heart thrumming, and he smiles down at me, bags clutched in his hands.
“This is so weird.”
“Surreal.”
“I need to bleach my eyes.”
I glance up at the porch where my three brothers are dressed similarly, just come from an afternoon of surfing. They’re staring at the two of us in astonishment.
“Shut up,” I tell them.
“It’s just unnatural seeing the two of you…together,” Van says, holding open the door.
“It’s not a big deal.” I grab a bag from Julian, who looks like he may be on the verge of panicking under my brothers' assessment. “We’re the same people as two days ago.”
We pile the bags on the kitchen counter, and I start to unload them.
“Yeah, but two days ago Julian was one of us,” Tillman says. “Now he’s, I don’t know, the guy that’s kissing our sister.”
“So what?”
“So,” Tillman continues, grabbing a hunk of cheese out of the refrigerator, “It would be like one of us kissing, I don’t know, someone like Avery. How would you feel about that?”
Julian focuses on the groceries. I can’t help but steal a look at Miller as I say, “As long as you weren’t pigs and treated her well, I would be happy if one of you dated Avery.”
At that, Miller becomes less concerned about me and Julian and more interested in getting out of the room.
“First shower,” he calls, implementing the bathing rule in the house—which goes by who calls it first. Tillman grimaces, mouth full of cheese, when Van declares second shower before he can say it first.
The exodus leaves me and Julian alone.
“Sorry about that,” I say, not sure why I’m apologizing. He knows them as well as I do.
“I expect a little ribbing from them.” He leans against the counter and grabs me by the waist, positioning me between his legs. He’s still bare-chested and it’s way more distracting than I’d like to admit. “And they’re right, it is a little weird.”
“How so?”
He shrugs his rounded, smooth shoulders. “Just knowing that I do get to kiss you now—it’s not something I have to dream about.”
“You dreamed about that?”
“Sometimes.”
I tilt my head. “I thought about it, too.”
His eyebrow raises. “Really? Poor Toby, he never had a chance.”
I push his chest, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me close. His eyes drop to my mouth and I lift up on my toes, kissing him first.
When we part, he says, “I should go shower, too.”
“Want to come back for dinner?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Then cookies after?”
“I’d like that, too.”
He smiles and brushes his lips against mine before heading to the door.
“You’re right,” I call, as the screen door screeches open.
“About what?”
“Toby. As long as you were living next door, he never did have much of a chance.”
The statement lingers in the air, the truth behind the words. I’d liked him all along—I’d admitted it, and he did as well. This is more than just a short-term fling. But there’s something else that we both know as he steps out on the porch to head home. He’s leaving soon and selling the house, and after that he’ll no longer be the boy next door, and neither of us are sure what happens after that.
16
Julian
“Julian, would you like some more?” Ms. Fleetwood asks, offering me the last porkchop. I’d totally take it, she’s a great cook, but the way three guys stare at me from across the table makes it clear they think I’ve taken enough from the family this week.
I’ve eaten dinner at the Fleetwoods' house countless times in my life, but tonight is the first time I’ve come specifically because Collins invited me. That little fact changes everything. The way the guys treat me, the way Ms. Fleetwood looks at me, and especially the way my heart slams around my chest every time my leg not-so-accidentally grazes Collins’ under the table.
“I’ll take it,” Tillman says, stabbing the piece of meat with his fork before anyone else reacts. “I’ve got a long shift tonight.” He cuts off a piece and looks at his brothers. “You guys coming?”
“Probably,” Van says through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “I’ve got to fix the carburetor on the truck before I go.”
“I’m meeting Rita,” Miller says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure Shelby will be with her, and I’m going to have to answer a lot of questions.”
I grimace and squeeze Collins’ hand under the table. “Sorry about that.”
He shrugs. “You owe me a milkshake if she cries on my shoulder all night.”
The guys finish eating, shoveling in the rest of the food. They take their plates to the dishwasher, cramming them inside. Ms. Fleetwood vanishes in her office and once again, me and Collins are alone.
“Do you want to go to The Dive instead of making cookies?” she asks, wiping down the counter.
“Nope. I’m perfectly happy staying here.”
Her perfect, adorable eyebrow raises in question. “Avoiding Shelby?”
I laugh. “Maybe a little, but really, I want to be here with you.”
It feels weird to say it and to mean it; yeah, I want to stay home and bake cookies with a girl. A hot girl. My hot neighbor girl. The hot neighbor girl I’ve waited a long time to hang out with like this. Also, the one I don’t have that much time with, and I’m not wasting it.
She hands me an apron and loops it over my head then ties it around my waist. She puts on one of her own, looking ridiculously cute. It’s not until she starts spreading out the supplies, flour, sugar, butter, and small containers of jewel-toned, dried fruit that it slowly it dawns o
n me what she’s done.
“You’re making my mom’s cookies?”
She nods. “Yep. I got the recipe out of the kitchen.”
A wave of emotion rolls over me. Part grief, part appreciation, but that’s not what’s overwhelming me the most. Without dropping the stick of butter in my hand, I throw my arms around Collins and pull her into a big hug. At first, she’s surprised, but slowly reacts, wrapping her arms around my back and squeezing me tight.
“Thank you for doing this for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hold her for a moment longer, hoping to get my composure back. Crying about my mom and cookies isn’t exactly the image I want to give off—even if I know Collins would understand.
I release her, kissing her on top of her head.
“You know my mom wouldn’t let me in the kitchen—tell me what to do.”
She laughs and points to the card on the counter. “Start by reading the instructions—hopefully we can figure it out.”
I pick up the card, my mother’s handwriting recognizable, and together we hold onto a piece of my family history.
Four hours later, we’re surrounded by dozens and dozens of freshly baked cookies. Collin’s didn’t stop with my mother’s fruit cake cookies. She dove into other recipes; sugar, ginger, shortbread…by the time the last batch is in the oven, we’re both covered in flour and have tasted one of each.
The best part is that when I kiss her lips, they’re sweet and sugary.
“Tell me about your art project,” I say, taking cookies off a cooling rack and placing them in a container.
“There’s not much to say. I’ve been tinkering with it, but I’m having a hard time finding inspiration.”
“Can I see what you’ve done?”
She leans against the counter. “You just want to come up to the crow’s nest, don’t you?”
“I am curious if the ‘no boys allowed’ policy is still in effect.”
She smiles, and it makes my heart flutter. “I can maybe make an exception to my long-standing rules—but only if you promise not to tell the guys.”
After Christmas Page 7
