12
“ALL RIGHT, GUYS. This has been fun and all—” I rest my hands on my hips, facing the depths of the barn. Something has managed to unwind half the garland that I twisted around the support posts, and two ribbons are missing from the wreaths on the door. “But it’s time to clear out.”
I’m well aware that raccoons are nocturnal creatures, but my courage is fleeting. I had tried to come out here last night with a flashlight and a tennis racket, but that seemed like a bad idea as soon as I took two steps into the fields and heard an unexplainable noise in the dark. The flashlight went tumbling, and I went jogging back to my house. What I planned to do with a tennis racket, I’ll never know. Now, by the light of day, it’s certainly less scary. And I should be able to at least find out where these critters are nesting.
Again, I have no idea what I’ll do with that information. But we need this barn for Santa, and unless we can convince these raccoons to put on antlers, they need to find a new home.
Something rustles in the far corner and I steel myself. I can do this. I have done scarier things than this. I found that whole little family of cockroaches when we were gutting the tractor shed. I had nightmares of tiny legs crawling in my hair for weeks. This is nothing compared to that.
I take a step closer. There’s another shuffle of movement and then a . . . meow? A little braver, I make my way across the barn and poke my head over the top of our old-fashioned metal mailbox. Nestled just behind it, with some of the garland that went missing and a velvet red ribbon bundled together in a little nest, is a mama cat and her three kittens. All white with black spots around their eyes.
“Well”—Mama cat peers up at me with no shortage of distrust, curling her body closer to the three balls of fur tucked against her—“this is not what I expected.”
A half hour and a couple of phone calls later, Beckett, Layla, and I are staring down at the little family in my office, nestled in a laundry basket with the bit of the garland Mama refused to let go of. She hadn’t left her home without complaint, but as soon as she saw me place her babies gently in the basket and coax her to follow, she was agreeable enough. Now all four are dozing, sweet little snores from their tiny pink noses.
“This is fucking adorable,” Beckett mutters, almost angrily. He twists his baseball hat around backward and folds his arms over his chest. “What are
we supposed to do with them?”
“Take them to the shelter?”
Beckett unfolds his arms and brackets his hips with his hands, shooting me a glare. I hold both hands up.
“Okay, maybe not. I just—I don’t know what to do with four cats.”
“I think we should take them to Dr. Colson and go from there.” Layla lowers herself down to a squat, pressing her face up against the slats of the laundry basket. One tiny paw boops her nose, and she practically melts to the floor in a puddle. She sighs dreamily. “They really do sort of look like raccoons.”
With their coloring and the spots around their eyes, it’s no wonder I mistook them for raccoons all this time. Frankly, I had slid open the barn door once, saw a flash of black and white, and called it a day. I just always thought a very emotional raccoon was leaving those scratch marks on all the posts.
“Maybe we should name the mom Raccoon,” I wonder aloud, and both Beckett and Layla give me a look. “What?”
“If we’re naming the cats, it’s likely we are keeping the cats.” Layla stands back up, brushing her hands on the back of her jeans. I look back down at the tiny balls of fur and feel a sharp pang of longing. I always wanted a pet growing up, but we never had the time or the space. And with
our busy season coming up and Evelyn arriving in a week, we certainly don’t have the time now. But maybe, with the three of us, we could— “We are not naming her Raccoon.” Beckett huffs. “It’s insulting. I think it’s obvious what we should name them.”
Layla and I exchange a look, her smile hidden behind the tips of her fingers. Beckett hasn’t looked away from the cats once.
“Yeah?”
He points at the smallest bundle of fur, tucked in tight with her face hidden in her mom’s chest. “Comet.” He points at the other two curled together. “Cupid, Vixen.” He points at Mom, who has turned her face up to look at him with what, I swear to god, is the cat version of heart eyes. Beckett cups her tiny face with his large hand and she purrs, nuzzling into his palm.
“She’s Prancer.”
“Well,” Layla sighs. “I guess we have cats now.”
AFTER A THOROUGH bath and examination, the town vet, Dr. Colson, declares Prancer and her babies ready to head home. He prescribes a medicated shampoo, just in case, and some food laden with supplements to help Prancer bulk up a bit. When he asks if I have all the necessary items to house a family of cats, I stare at him dumbly. I barely have the necessary items to house myself. I don’t even know where the closest pet store is.
But Beckett swoops in with a frown and pulls the laundry basket tight to his chest, muttering something about Amazon shopping lists and an old dog bed at his place. Some leftover feeding dishes from when his sister tried to foster two Frenchies. Sensing she’s back in the arms of her one true love, Prancer rises gracefully from the basket, hops onto Beckett’s shoulder, and curls herself into his neck with a purr. Dr. Colson and I watch with amusement as Beckett swings open the exam room door and wanders his way through the waiting room, a cat on his shoulder and a basket of kittens in his arms. He’s likely to obliterate the entire female population of Inglewild if he goes too far like that.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who wanted pets as a kid.
By the time we get back to the farm, the sun is hanging low in the sky, and there’s still plenty I need to do. But for once, I don’t feel the weight of the incredible amount of pressure I put on myself. Instead, I feel nothing but a bubble of joy as we turn down the lane. Giant arches lined with lights. Red- and-white striped posts. A massive sign with crisp white paint welcoming you to the North Pole. It really does look perfect.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to you this week with how busy we’ve been, but it looks amazing. Even better than last year,” Beckett says from the passenger seat, Prancer still draped across his shoulder, little Comet snoozing away in the front pocket of his jacket. “This place is what it is because of you.”
I turn left and head toward his cabin at the base of the foothills. Hank said the people who owned the land before him tried to use this place as a hunting lodge or something similar. But hunting has never been very good on the Eastern Shore, and they closed up shop quickly. I have one cottage, Beckett has another, and the third we turned into our administrative office and welcome cottage. I offered him the place as a part of his work here. It’s easier for him to live on the property with his early mornings, and before this, he’d been sharing a home with his parents and youngest sister, with his other two sisters stopping by frequently. He’s always been the first to take care of
others, almost to a fault.
“It’s because of you and Layla too.”
I feel terrible every time I get a compliment from either of them. I still haven’t been completely honest about our finances. I’m too afraid of their reaction, of their disappointment. I swear I’d chop off my arm before I let them down.
“Listen, Beck. This thing with Evelyn. It’s not just a good opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” He’s busy trying to move a comfortable Prancer from her perch across him to the laundry basket. She meows softly and he hushes her with a whisper, knuckles brushing under her chin. It’s unbearable.
“The exposure is great, and I’m hoping it can bring in more customers.
But I’m more interested in the prize money. It would—it would help us out a
lot.”
He blinks at me, face unreadable in the setting sun. “Are we in trouble?”
I shrug my shoulders, my heart in my throat and tension in my belly. “We could use a holiday miracle.”
He considers me, weighing my words. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to telling him the truth. It’s still less than he deserves, but the rest of the explanation sticks in my throat. After a moment, he hefts the laundry basket in his arms and slips from my car. He ducks his head back down with an arm
braced on the door, face serious.
“Then let’s make some fucking magic.”
I WAKE UP in the morning buried beneath a heap of blankets, the smell of coffee tickling my nose, the sound of clinking glasses in the kitchen pulling me from the cusp of sleep. I blink blearily at the weak sunlight pouring in from the window over the dresser and stretch out my legs, bare toes peeking out from the bottom of my blanket as I try to remember if there’s supposed to be someone in my kitchen. If it’s a burglar, they’re being awfully polite by putting on the coffee.
I hear movement in the hallway, socked feet against the hardwood. I don’t know how I know it’s him, just that I do, a comfort in listening to his movements around my house. When I was a kid, I hated how quiet our apartment was when my mom was working late. I always felt better when I heard her come home and start the tea kettle, reheat her leftovers in the microwave.
Luka appears in my doorway in the middle of a fierce yawn, eyes screwed shut, sweatshirt on inside out. His hair is flat on one side like he was wearing a hat when he came in and just now remembered to take it off. I dart a quick look at his toes. He’s wearing his Nugs and Kisses socks—the ones with dancing chicken nuggets holding hands.
“What time is it?” I mutter, snaking my hand through my nest of blankets to reach for the mug of coffee in his. It’s the only part of my body I’m
currently willing to move. He sits at the edge of my bed and pats my foot, handing me the mug and making sure I have a good grip before he pulls
away.
“Seven. Sorry it’s so early.”
I squint at him. “Did you leave at three in the morning?”
He shrugs, noncommittal, avoiding my eyes to look at something on my headboard. I’m not sure the stitching on my discount upholstery is that interesting. There’s something he’s not telling me, but it’s too early in the morning to try and figure it out. I’ll let him have his secrets for now.
I take a sip from his mug. Whatever this is, it’s certainly not the coffee I keep in my cabinet. It’s rich and delicious, and I take another long pull, moaning when I get a hint of mocha. Luka’s gaze trips a shade darker, and I slip down a little farther in my bed. It’s different now, knowing that his eyes turn the exact same color when his mouth is on mine.
I clear my throat. “I thought you were supposed to call me from the road.”
“I meant to,” he says and leaves it at that. His voice is scratchy around the edges with sleepiness, an adorably flustered softness to him in his exhaustion.
“I’m kind of glad you didn’t if you left at three in the morning.” I look at the circles under his eyes, at the way he’s listing slightly to one side like he can’t commit to holding himself upright. I curl myself to one side of the bed.
“Luka.”
He hums, eyes closed, mug raised to his mouth but not actively drinking from it. It’s like he forgot what to do with it halfway to his mouth. I bite my lip against a smile and flick back my blankets. “Luka, lay down. Come back to sleep for a little bit.”
He looks down at me, eyelids drooping with heavy, slow blinks. “I can sleep on the couch.”
I take the mug out of his hands and put it on the nightstand. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.”
“I was going to sleep on the couch,” he mutters again, letting me pull him down and collapsing into my bed with a borderline pornographic moan. “Is this memory foam?”
All I can see of him through the mound of pillows and blankets is a tuft of brown hair and the curve of his ear. The mattress bounces slightly as he shimmies beneath the blankets, his feet slipping under my calf, his hand at my hip a second later. He squeezes once as I burrow myself back into my
pillow.
“Get some rest, Luka.”
All I get in response is a light snore, his foot twitching against my leg.
I WAKE IN increments, sunlight warming my cheek and the jut of my ankle where my foot is twisted out of the bedsheets. It still smells like coffee, but it’s muted now, the birds fully awake in the trees that sit at the very edge of my yard. I can hear them calling to one another, jumping from branch to branch. I squint one eye open, and golden, sparkling sunlight fills the room, dancing off the snow globe I have sitting on my dresser and the old vintage floor mirror I found at a flea market in the city and made Luka strap to the top of his car.
I’ve almost forgotten there’s someone in bed with me until fingers flex on my belly beneath my sleep shirt, a heavy palm sliding lower against my bare skin. Still caught in the haze of sleep, it feels like the edges of a delicious dream. I tuck my body closer to the man curled behind me, his knees nudging against the backs of mine. Two spoons in a drawer.
“Skin’s soft,” he mutters somewhere into my hair, voice rough, nosing until he finds my shoulder. His hand flexes again, thumb dragging up once and then back down, memorizing. Goose bumps light up my arms, a heavy tug low in my belly. Warmth settles and spreads, and I push back into him, wiggling, trying to get closer. He grunts, and his hand shifts from my belly to my hip, holding me there. For a second, I think he might angle me away, roll onto his back and fall asleep with his forearm over his eyes, but he doesn’t.
He tightens his hand at my hip just as his left knee pushes forward, nudging mine until I’m off-balance, surrounded by his heat. Our bodies touch everywhere—his chest flush with my shoulders, his belly to the small of my
back. I can feel every inhale he takes, the cotton of his sweatpants soft against my bare thighs. I arch my back and shift again, restless, and feel a hardness press into the curve of my ass. Luka shies away from me with the motion, tilting his hips just slightly until we’re no longer touching. And maybe it’s the sticky slowness of a lazy morning, or maybe I’m just tired of pretending all the time, but I chase his touch and rock back into him once, his sharp inhale answering against the shell of my ear.
It’s still between us, nothing but birdsong and the pounding of my heart.
He doesn’t move at all except for fingers gripping and releasing at my hip, his pinky slipping half an inch down beneath the hem of my sleep shorts. It’s an innocent touch, all things considered, just his finger brushing the bare skin at my hip bone, but it feels like another step forward in this strange dance we’re choreographing together. I feel that touch in the hollow of my throat, in the tips of my breasts. A silent conversation, his body asking, Is this all right? I lean my head back into his shoulder. He tightens his grip and uses the leverage to pull my hips back into the cradle of his, more insistent this time.
What about this?
It’s a slow rhythm, his body rocking forward, mine curling back. It’s a bit like being out on the bay in one of those little dinghy boats we sometimes rent in the summer, a rise and fall with every whispered exhale. It’s gentle, searching, and the heat in my belly grows and spreads until my breathing shallows out, a single bead of sweat rolling down between my breasts. He nudges harder, hips rolling, and I hold on to his wrist, urge his palm up until his hand is pressed flat just beneath the swell of my breast. I want him to move that last bit himself, cup me in his hands until it’s nothing but bare skin.
It’s a delicious tease, all movement and no friction, and it’s creating an aching wetness between my thighs. His thumb smooths up, tracing once along the bottom curve of my breast. We both groan.
“Luka,” I stutter. I want to ask what we’re doing. I want to ask for more.
He makes a noise deep in his throat at the sound of his name, half groan and half growl. He pushes into me harder for a perfect moment, body heavy against mine. “Luka, could you—”
My words break the spell between us, a shiver of awareness rolling from his body to mine as our rhythm falters and slows. I swear I can feel the blood rushing under my skin, pulsing hot in the places I want him the most.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Stella,” he says, voice caught on the rasp of his breath, forehead against the back of my neck. His skin is flushed hot, slightly sticky with sweat. Suddenly my bedroom is an inferno. I hear him swallow. “We don’t—we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Something about the way his voice splinters around the edges, the tremble in his hand that he tries to hide—it doesn’t feel right. I twist in his arms and get distracted by the sight of him. Pink cheeks, dark eyes, a single lock of hair plastered to his forehead, bottom lip red from where his teeth were holding it. He looks like he was dropped into the washing machine and set to heavy cycle.
I brush my toes to the top of his foot beneath the blankets. “What do you
mean?”
Does he think I want to stop?
Oh god.
Does he want to stop?
His hands fight to hold me close as I try to pull myself to the opposite side of the bed, his hand gripping at my hip, still tucked beneath my shirt. “Stop, no.” He pulls my wrist to his mouth and drops a quick kiss on my pulse point.
It sends another lick of heat curling up my spine, and I shiver. If he notices, he has the decency not to say anything about it. “No, I just meant—if you wanted to stop. We could stop and—” He swallows. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
I absolutely do not want to stop. He’s watching me so carefully that it’s like I’ve spoken the words aloud. His entire frame softens, the fingers around my wrist spreading out, thumb stroking the center of my palm. One dark eyebrow arches high on his forehead. He looks like sugar and spice and everything not so nice, sleep rumpled and flushed in my bed.
I’ve had dreams that started and ended exactly like this.
“Or . . .” he says, and leaves it at that.
I shuffle closer. “Or what?”
The hand that’s been tracing patterns on the bare skin of my hip slips from beneath my shirt and finds my chin instead. His thumb drags lightly over my bottom lip, back and forth. “Or we could try something.”
“What something?”
I wish my voice didn’t sound so breathy, that it wasn’t so obvious I want his touch everywhere.
He licks at his bottom lip, eyes mapping the curve of my jaw, the tangle of my hair twisted like a crooked halo against my pillow. Whatever hesitation he had is gone now, a thoughtful intention in the way he curls a lock of my hair around his finger.
“I could see how much it takes. The sounds you make,” he says, voice low and intimate, a grit to it I’ve never heard before. His bedroom voice, I think faintly. Half of his mouth curls up in a wicked grin. His brown eyes are burnished with gold—molten and warm. “If you’re quiet or loud.”
I swallow hard and squeeze my legs together. I want that. I want that very
much.
“Why?” I ask. His answer is important.
“Because I really fucking want to,” he releases on a breath.
His words settle like snowflakes against warm skin. A single shock of cold and then warm melting heat. A confession. I blink twice but don’t give myself a second to think it through, to agonize over the consequences. I keep
myself in the moment.
“Okay.”
Luka twists his hand until our palms are pressed together, same as that day in the barn. I close my eyes in anticipation and listen to his body move beneath my sheets. He whispers a quiet “Okay” in response and drags his nose along my cheek, bumps it lightly against mine. I tip my chin up into him, the barest brush of lips, when a horn blares from my driveway.
Luka collapses against me with a groan, forehead at my collarbone. I card my fingers through his hair once, tugging lightly until he makes that sound again, a bit more strangled. Whatever awkwardness I should feel in the face of dry humping my best friend is strangely nonexistent. I feel nothing but a
happy lightness fizzing in my chest, popping like champagne every time I feel the flutter of his eyelashes against my skin.
Maybe I’ll settle into an anxiety tailspin later, but right now I’m reveling.
I am floating on a cloud of flushed endorphins. I bet I could run seventeen miles in two minutes.
Another round of honking sounds from the front yard, this time to the general tune of “Jingle Bells.” Luka angles himself up on one arm above me, lifting the corner edge of my curtain to look outside. One of his sweatshirt strings drags along my collarbone and pools in the hollow of my throat. I can feel him hard against my thigh. I swallow.
“Why is Beckett on his tractor with a family of cats draped over him?”
I grind the palms of my hands into my eyes and try to ignore the way Luka’s hips are pinning me to the bed. My hazy morning happy bubble has officially been popped. “I’m supposed to watch them today.” I had forgotten we agreed to that when we left the vet last night.
Luka peers down at me from his balanced position above me, his arms bracketing my head. If I turn my head slightly to the left, I could catch the delicate skin at his wrist with my teeth. His eyes slip from golden amber to rich melted chocolate like he knows what I’m thinking. We stare at each other, considering.
Another round of honking, this time something from the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I didn’t realize someone could be so musical with a compact utility machine.
Luka shakes his head with a rueful grin and looks back out the window. I can see it in his eyes. He wants to rip that horn off Beckett’s tractor and do something creative with it. “Since when do you have cats?”
I don’t. Beckett does. Or maybe it’s a shared custody thing, I don’t know.
The details aren’t very clear.
“They’re raccoons,” I mutter as Luka leverages himself off me, slipping from my bed and trudging down the hallway. He adjusts himself as he moves toward the door, and I flush hot, staring at the back of his sleep-mussed hair.
I wait for the inevitable rise of regret. I hold myself still and close my eyes,
breathe deep through my nose like I learned in those yoga videos Layla is always sending me links to.
But it never comes. There’s simmering arousal, a liquid heat that plucks at my skin. A drumbeat of desire. And a giddy awareness, a tiny flame of hope.
That didn’t feel like faking.
