'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  “It’s just another Saturday night,” he says, fixing tables near the door and putting the stools on the top of the tables. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little,” I tell him while I walk around, picking up the dirty glasses. “You?”

  “Famished,” he says to me. “Come on, let’s go eat.” He walks to me, grabbing the bin of dirty glasses out of my hands and placing it on the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me with him to the kitchen. He walks to the stove where there are two sets of plates. “We have cheeseburger or shepherd’s pie.”

  “Why don’t we share?” I say, and he smiles.

  “Sharing is caring.” He sings the phrase my mother used to say when we were younger.

  “Sharing is not caring,” I snap. “Why should I share something if it’s mine?”

  He laughs. “You were always that way.”

  “I just didn’t get it.” I watch him turn around and go to warm the food. “If it’s mine, why should I share?” He just chuckles. “There has to be something you refuse to share?” I look at him as he runs his hands through his hair. His shirt lifts just a bit at the waist, showing me the Calvin band of his boxers

  “There is only one thing I would never share,” he tells me while the microwave beeps. He takes the plates out and comes over to me, putting the plates down in front of us. He cuts the burger in half and takes a bite.

  “I’m waiting,” I say, grabbing a fork and eating the shepherd’s pie. “What is it?”

  “My woman,” he says, and the food gets stuck on the way down. “I’ll never share my woman.”

  Chapter 8

  Brett

  I look into her eyes when I say the words, “I will never share what is mine.” I take another bite while she plays around with her fork. “So, who do you think won?” I change the subject, and she looks at me, and I don’t give her a chance to answer. I lean into her. “You know that I win either way, right?”

  She rolls her eyes at me, “We can find out tomorrow morning,” she says, yawning. “I’m beat.”

  I grab the two plates and walk toward the back door. “Turn off the lights.” I motion with my chin toward the light switch near the door. We walk into the dimly lit loft, and she kicks off her shoes at the door and walks toward her bedroom.

  “Night,” she says without looking back at me. I put the plates on the counter and go to my bedroom, peeling out of my clothes and showering. I slip on basketball shorts and walk back into the kitchen to eat. Grabbing the two plates, I walk over to the couch and turn on the television. I always have a hard time going to bed on Saturday night. It takes me a couple of hours to decompress once I get off work. I flip through the channels now, watching a couple of things before settling on a Christmas movie that I’ve seen a million times.

  “What are you doing?” I hear her voice soft as she walks toward the couch.

  “I can never sleep on Saturday nights,” I tell her.

  “Can you not get dressed, either?” she asks, sitting on the couch, curling her legs under her.

  “If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can take your top off too.” I wink at her and then burst out laughing. She puts her head down on the arm of the couch, and I lean over, grabbing the throw blanket and handing it to her. “I know how much you like to snuggle while watching a movie.”

  She just looks at me. “How do you know that?” she asks, and my stomach flips.

  “I used to watch you,” I tell her, “in the most uncreepy way that can sound.” She just stares at me. “I mean, now that I think about it, nothing about that sentence made me sound good.”

  She laughs now, throwing her head back and bursting out. “If you tell me you watched me while sitting in a tree, I might just die.”

  It’s my turn now to laugh. “I did not watch you from a tree,” I tell her. “I watched you from across the street through binoculars.”

  We both laugh now and settle in to watch Love Actually. She moves down now, putting her head on the cushion and closing her eyes. Her legs stretch out onto my lap, and I look down at her foot in my lap. I don’t move for fear that I wake her, so there on the couch with her foot in my lap, I put my head back and fall asleep.

  I hear moaning and open my eyes. Hair tickling my nose, and I look down to see Leah in my arms. Somehow during the night, we ended up lying together. I’m looking down at her when her eyes flutter open. She smiles at me and then closes her eyes back again, sinking more in my arms. It takes her two more seconds before she jumps off the couch. “Oh my god, Brett,” she says, looking down at me, “what are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” I ask her, sitting up now, and the blanket drops off me, and you can see my full-on hard-on.

  “Can you cover that up?” she says, turning to look at the other side.

  “That,” I say, getting up, “would be because you were moaning in my arms.”

  “I was not,” she says, and I get up now when the buzzer to the door rings. “Who are you expecting?”

  “My harem,” I tell her, looking behind my shoulder at her as she glares at me. “Why don’t you go and put something on?” Her glare gets even more. “It’s cold out.”

  “Whatever,” she says, storming back toward her bedroom. I press the button for the guys with the Christmas tree. They set up the tree, and when she comes back out, her eyes light up, and she claps her hands.

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “You were right about getting one so big. We need a ladder, and then do you have decorations. The last time I decorated a tree was six years ago.”

  “You always loved Christmas,” I say, shocked. “Like every year, you would ask to put the tree up for Thanksgiving.”

  She shrugs. “Alan just thought it was so much work for nothing.” I watch the sadness in her eyes.

  Asshole. “I’ll go get the ladder and decorations. You start the coffee.” She claps her hands together, and I secretly vow to always make sure she has that look on her face. Well, as long as she’s with me.

  Chapter 9

  Leah

  “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” I sing while I hang the ornaments on the tree. I don’t think I stopped smiling since I saw the tree. “How many lights are on this tree?” I ask Brett, who has been stringing lights.

  “I think there was a thousand last year,” he says, and I look at him, shocked. “I like the glow of the Christmas tree.” He plugs in one of the power outlets. “And it’s a big tree.”

  “I love all these ornaments,” I say, unwrapping the colorful balls from the bubble wrap. “So many Irish ones.”

  “Yeah,” he says, coming down off the ladder, “most of them I collected and then sent home.”

  “Did you like living there?” I ask him, suddenly interested in everything about him.

  “I loved it.” He smiles, and his whole face lights up, “it’s like I found myself there.” I watch him fix the lights. “Here I was, just a geeky nerd. There I was, a foreign with my American accent. I was a popular kid, and I loved it, really.”

  “You finally got comfortable in your skin.” I hang a Guinness ornament.

  “I started to work out, and well, the girls started to,” he says shyly, and the little pieces of him are right there.

  “You dirty dog, you,” I say, laughing, “getting with the ladies.”

  “I guess it didn’t hurt,” he says, and now I want to know everything.

  “Was there a special lady?” I ask him, not making eye contact as I hang another ornament and pretend not to care that he was with someone.

  “There was,” he answers without skipping a beat.

  “Did you leave her heartbroken?” I ask him, trying not to look at him.

  “She wasn’t the one for me,” he says. “She never was.” I look up now, and he just stares at me. “Time to start the lights.”

  He gets down from the ladder and plugs in the tree, and the whole room lights up, and I bounce up and down on my feet, clapping my hands. “it’s so pretty.” I
put my hands to my chest, the smile on my face hurting my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve smiled this much in a long, long time.

  “Only one thing left to do,” he says from beside me now I look up at him, “take the mandatory selfie.” He smiles, putting his arms around my shoulder and turning us around. His phone in his outstretched hand, and then in his other hand as he pulls me even closer to him. My hand goes to his chest while my head leans on his chin, and we both smile. “Say Mistletoe.”

  He takes five pictures with the last one of him looking down at me as I smile. “Now what do you say we sneak downstairs and make us some fish and chips?”

  “That sounds like a solid plan,” I tell him as he slips his hand into mine and pulls me to the front door. I ignore how good my hand feels in his and how safe I feel. He opens the back door and slips on the lights. “Are we going to count and see who won the bet?” I ask him after he lets go of my hand and walks over to one of the fridges.

  “Don’t you get it?” he says, taking stuff out of the fridge. “You here is me winning.” He smirks at me, and I have to look down. My face getting heated, and I think I’m blushing. “Now, do you want to help, or do you just want to stand there looking gorgeous.” His voice goes soft, and I look up to see him mixing things together.

  “Since when do you cook?” I ask him, and he smirks now shyly.

  “When I moved to Ireland, my roommate worked at a pub. One night someone called in sick, and he offered my services. I went in and went from busboy to line cook in a week. The owner, she liked me. Said I was too skinny and needed some meat on these bones, so she taught me how to cook.”

  I shake my head. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “What? That I filled out or that …?”

  “That you have that accent.” I play with my fingers, nervously, “That you have facial hair. That you cook.”

  “I grew up,” he tells me as he dips the fish into the batter.

  “That you have,” I mumble under my breath.

  “I also do lots of things I didn’t do back then,” he says, and his voice, his words, everything makes my body shiver.

  “Can I help?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Okay, fine.” I tell him, “then I’m going to go back upstairs and set the table.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” he tells me, and I watch him work for a couple of minutes longer than I should before turning and walking back upstairs.

  The soft light of the tree fills up the whole room. “Music,” I say to myself and turn on soft Christmas music. Walking into the kitchen, I search for plates and find a couple of candles. I set up the table and open up a bottle of wine. I try not to listen to the snicker in my head when I pour a glass and drink it. Not sip it—no, I drink it in one gulp.

  I hear his footsteps coming closer and closer, and the door opens. He walks in now with two plates on one arm. He places the plates down. “I’ll be back with the rest,” he says, running back out. He comes back a couple of seconds later with two glasses of Guinness. “We can’t eat this without some Guinness.” He puts the glasses down next to the plates, “Come sit.” He looks at me.

  I walk to the table and see both plates filled with deep-fried golden fish, “Is that newspaper?” I sit down now and see them. It’s wrapped in a newspaper.

  “The only way to eat it,” he says, and I just look down at it. “Okay, it’s not a real newspaper because that is not okay, but it’s good.”

  “I can’t wait to try it,” I tell him, and I’m about to grab my fork. “Thank you.” I tell him, “I don’t know when the last time someone cooked for me was. It’s nice.”

  “Challenge accepted.” He winks at me, and all I can do is stare at him.

  Chapter 10

  Brett

  “Stop doing that.” She snaps at me, and I take my own bite of food.

  “do what.” Chew now.

  “Flirt with me.” She says, and I shake my head.

  “Not going to happen,” I tell her, and she shakes her head and moans when she places a piece of fish in her mouth. “Well, that didn’t happen like I thought it would.”

  “What do you mean?” She asks me, and I pick up my glass of Guinness.

  “I thought the first time I would make you moan would be when I kissed you.” I bring the glass to my lips and try to hide the smirk that is now on there.

  “you aren’t going to stop.” She tilts her to the side, and I look at her. She is even more beautiful than she was when I fell in love with her.

  “I want you.” I tell her now, “I wanted you then, but I was a kid.” And I watch her take in the tone of my voice, “now that I’m a man, I want you even more.”

  “You don’t even know me.” She points at me.

  “Bullshit,” I tell her, and she gasps. “What? You think because it’s been seven years that I don’t know you?” I roll my eyes. “Your favorite color may have changed, and you may drink your coffee with half and half instead of cream, but …” I push away from the table and walk to her. I scoop down in front of her and turn her to look at me. “Your eyes, they twinkle right before you are going to smile or laugh. I know that when you are just a touch nervous, you bite the inside of her cheek. I know that when someone pays you a compliment, you always look down first and then thank them.” My hand comes up now to her face. “I know that right here.” I touch her near the corner of her mouth with my thumb. “Right here is where your dimple comes out when you laugh with everything that you have.” I see her swallow now. “So I may not know the little things, but I know you.”

  “Brett.” She says my name so softly that if I wasn’t in front of her, I couldn’t hear it. “This is wrong.”

  “Why?” My hand doesn’t move from her face.

  “You are.” She starts to say.

  “If you are going to bring up my age, I’m going to toss you over my shoulder and drag you to the bedroom and show you what I think about our ages.” She looks down, and I raise her chin now with my finger, “You're perfect,” I tell her. “Everything about you is perfect.”

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend,” she says to me. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Then stop overthinking everything and do what you feel like doing.”

  She looks at me. “What do you feel like doing?” She looks down now, and I give her the time she needs. “Can I tell you what I feel like doing?” Her eyes come up now, and she looks at me. “I want to get up and dance with you.” She looks shocked. “I want to hold you in my arms, and at the end of the song, I want to lean my head down and kiss you.” I get up now and look down at her. “What do you say, Leah?” I hold out my hand. “Want to make all my Christmas wishes come true?”

  “I mean, if you put it like that.” She puts her hand in mine. “If only to thank you for taking me in.”

  “I’ll take whatever you give me,” I tell her, dragging her right in front of the Christmas tree. My mouth dry, my knees almost shaking, my stomach flipping and flopping. This is going to happen. I’m going to have her in my arms.

  “Brett.” She says my name after I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to me, “there is no music.”

  I throw my head back and laugh now. “Jesus, I thought I was really smooth there. Alexa!” I shout. “Play Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I look at her, and her eyes light up again, “on repeat for five hours.”

  “Smooth,” she tells me, and instead of holding my one hand, she wraps her two hands around my neck. My hands go down to her waist now, and I pull her closer to me as the song comes on and starts to play.

  “I’m nervous,” we say at the same time, then we both laugh. She looks down again. When she looks back up, I raise my hand to push the hair away from her face. “You are beautiful.” I finally say the words while she looks in my eyes. “I’m going to kiss you,” I tell her. “Now is your chance to tell me no.”

  “Brett.” She says my name as my head lowers next to hers, stopping me right before our lips touch. I can f
eel her breath on my face. “Kiss me.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I say, moving my hands up to her face and tilting my head to the side. “Leah.” It’s the last thing I say to her before my lips finally touch hers. For my whole life, I’ve dreamed of this moment. My. Whole. Life.

  Her tongue slips into mine, and when our tongues meet, she moans again, but this time, it’s for me. This time, it’s my kiss making her moan.

  Chapter 11

  Leah

  I’m kissing Brett. I’m. Kissing. Brett. No matter how much I repeat it, it doesn’t feel real. “Good God,” I finally say when he lets my lips go.

  Is that a good god in a good way?” he asks, taking my lips again. I mold my body to him, and I just nod. He walks me back to the couch, and we both fall on it. There is so much to say and talk about, but the only thing I can think about doing right now is kissing him.

  “You can really, really kiss,” I tell him, my eyes trying to open to see him. When I finally get them open, I see him smirking.

  “I don’t know about that,” he says, leaning in and kissing me softly. “I think we need to spend the night making sure.” He gives me another soft kiss. “Then we should make sure tomorrow.” He gives me another kiss. “And then the day after tomorrow.”

  I laugh now, and we spend the whole night kissing. I fall asleep with my head on his chest, and I wake to him, hugging me even closer to him five hours later. “Good morning,” he says when I look up and find him watching me.

  I smile at him. “Good morning.” I get up and walk to the bathroom. When I come back out, he has two cups of coffee ready. “Tonight, I was thinking we could make out in a bed.” He rolls his neck. “Not that the couch is bad, but …”

  “You are a lot bigger than I remembered.” I say, grabbing the cup of coffee he hands out to me, “everywhere.” I wink at him, and he laughs.

  When we walk into the bar four hours later, his hand slips out of mine. He shows me what he usually does, and I help him take inventory. When the lunch crowd comes in, I do it for him. He drags me into the back office, where we make out until we are both panting. The night goes by so slow, and every single time he touches me, my body tingles. It could be his hand touching my hip to pass or him using his pinky to touch my hand. Either way, when we run upstairs, we are attacking each other.