He joins me and leans against a pole. “No, I can’t. Honestly, I don’t think I’d survive.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Spent my whole life working on throwing a football. That wouldn’t have gotten you anywhere back in the day. Now, you—you, on the other hand, would be able to hold your own on many accounts. Even fencing.” We both chuckle. “I would have to marry you, keep you by my side, be your homemaker while you took care of the dirty work for our household.”
“Is that so?” I ask, the thought of marrying Crew churning my stomach with nerves.
“Yeah, and I’d be one hell of a homemaker. You’d always come home to fresh bread.”
“Do you even know how to make bread?” I challenge him.
“Hell yeah, I’m the baker in my frat. The boys call me . . . uh . . .” He pauses, his nose scrunched up. “Uh, who’s a famous baker?”
My head falls back as I laugh. “Duff Goldman.”
“Who’s that?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Never mind. So, you can make bread?”
“Yeah. And as we both know, I am accomplished at making cookies, thanks to Pops.”
“True. What about dinner?”
He takes a sip of his coffee and says, “Well, I know how to grill. I know, I know—typical frat-guy cooking. But we do a lot of barbeque. I made a chicken noodle casserole once that was pretty good. I also know how to make homemade cornbread, and I can roast veggies.”
“Okay, that’s a pretty good start. Now when I came home after doing all the—as you called it—dirty work, would I find my husband looking pretty, put together, and in an apron?”
“Is that what the wife would require?”
“It is.” I take his coffee from him and sip as well, feeling a little colder now that we’re not walking, but loving this conversation.
“Then, yes, I’d look like a smoke show for you every day when you got home so you’d have no choice but to want to jump in the sack with me.”
“But the food would get cold,” I suggest.
He taps his chin. “Good point, and since we’re in the medieval times, we don’t have access to an oven to keep it warm, just a fire. I’m not proficient with fire cooking to know if the food will stay warm or burn. Hmm . . . oh, how about we eat naked in bed?”
“Naked with you?” I give him a smooth once-over—or at least I attempt a smooth one. “Eh, I think I’ll pass.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Excuse me? You’ve seen what I have to offer.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
A smile creeps over his lips. “You little shit.” He pulls me against his chest and I laugh as he kisses the top of my head, something I’m starting to love.
We were always tactile with each other growing up, but it was more about lighthearted jabs and taunts rather than affectionate touches and kisses. He’s changed. And I like that. Especially since Pops used to kiss my head, too, whenever we shared a story or moment together. Another thing I miss. Thank God for Grandpa Thomas, who still greets me with a hug when I see him.
Who will hug me when he’s gone?
Affection wasn’t something my mother ever doled out to me—there was never anything left for me—yet it’s clear it’s something I love. Need.
And that’s not the best revelation to grasp right now, Allen.
Crap.
The rest of the walk down the stairs is easier. Lighter somehow. We share his coffee, handing it back and forth, and when we reach the entrance of the town, I spot a bakery to the left. “Want to grab something for the road?”
“If you’re asking if I want a pastry, the answer is yes.”
“That was the right answer.”
We walk over to the bakery and Crew opens the door for me like the gentleman he is, and not only are we hit with warmth again, but also with the delicious smell of fried dough. The shop is lined with glass cases full of differently colored fried dough-like balls. Some dipped in chocolate, some white chocolate, some pink, some green, some covered in powdered sugar, some in candy. There almost seems too many to count all at once. To the right is a baker rolling out dough behind a sheet of glass. Next to him is a large fryer, where there are sticks poking out from the hot oil.
“What kind of heaven is this?” Crew asks, his hand pressing against my back as we walk up to a case.
“Schneeballen,” I say, reading a sign. I pull out my phone and look it up quickly. “Fried dough in a ball, basically, and it seems as though they’ve gone wild on the toppings and different flavors.”
Crew rubs his hands together now and says, “This is where I lose the definition in my abs.”
“If you were going to lose definition, I think it would have been with the copious amounts of Lebkuchen you’ve eaten.”
“Nah, that’s all nuts. Healthy.”
I laugh. “Okay, Crew. Pretty sure you’ll never lose definition in your abs.”
He raises a brow in my direction. “And here I thought you were unimpressed with what I have to offer.”
Damn it.
He chuckles, knowing he got me. Taking my hand, he leads me to the register and says, “Hello. We’d love six Schneeballen with accompanying mallet and board to break them open.”
“Of course. What flavors?” the clerk asks.
* * *
“Fuck, that was not fun,” Crew says, letting out a long breath as we make our way down the hall to our hotel room.
After purchasing our Schneeballen—cranberry for Christmas, an original, chocolate-covered pistachio, and a strawberry, we decided to head to our next destination.
Instead of eating the Schneeballen on the trip, I helped Crew navigate to the hotel, the both of us tense the entire time from the snow and the unknown roads. I tried to keep him as calm as possible, but I could tell he was incredibly tense and trying to be careful.
“No, but we’re here now,” I say as he opens the door to our hotel room.
Instead of walking in, he pauses at the door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just really small. I think it’s the smallest room we’ve had since we started our trip.” He walks in and I follow behind him. The ceiling is slanted on one side to go along with the triangle shape of the roof. There are two twin beds mashed together under the slanted ceiling. On the other side is a dresser/ desk combination and a mounted TV. There’s about four feet of space, if that, between the beds and the dresser/desk, and I’m pretty sure Crew’s legs might fall off the end of the bed.
“Those aren’t regulation-sized twin beds,” Crew says, setting his suitcase to the side and then taking mine from me. I have the Schneeballen in my other hand and set that down on the desk.
“Looks as though we’ll be nice and cozy for Christmas Eve.”
“Yeah, seems that way.” He sets his backpack down just as there’s a knock at the door.
I answer it, and it’s Anja from the front desk. “Here is the package that was sent for you.” She looks past me and into the room. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“It’s great,” Crew says from behind me.
The hotel is quite small. It’s better known as a restaurant with some rooms on the upper floors, and the owners seem quite nice, especially to house people on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
“Let us know if you need anything. We will have the dinner you ordered sent up soon, and tomorrow morning you said you woud like your Christmas brunch at nine in the morning?”
“Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”
Anja gives me a curt nod and disappears as quickly as she showed up. Package in hand, I take it to Crew and hand it to him.
He stares at Pops’s handwriting that reads “Open Christmas Eve.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. You? This isn’t just about me, you know.”
“I know, but I never spent Christmas with Pops. This seems
more important to you.”
“Well, now you get to spend Christmas with him.” He sets the package down and says, “Let’s get settled and then we can open it. How does that sound?”
“If that’s what you want.” I’m trying to be extra sensitive, as I know Crew has been nervous about this package, so I’ll follow his lead.
Silently, we move around the hotel room, almost like clockwork now. We set up our suitcases, I pull out a few toiletries, placing them in the tight-fitting bathroom. Then I gather my pajamas, quickly change, and wash my face. When Crew is in the bathroom, I plug my phone in on the right side of the bed, the side I’ve been sleeping on since the start of the trip, and check my messages. I have a few from Mia that I quickly answer. I send her a few pictures, tell her I got her something, and that I can’t wait to see her to tell her all the details.
When Crew emerges from the bathroom, he almost looks somber as he moves around the room and then finally takes a seat on the bed, where the package waits for the both of us.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and picks at the tape. It takes him a few seconds, but he tears the tape off and opens the box. At the very top is a piece of construction paper in bright green. It says, “Play Christmas music.”
On my phone, I pull up my music app and search for Christmas music. “Do you want instrumental or traditional? Pop Christmas? Country Christmas?”
“Crooner Christmas,” Crew says. “That’s what Pops always used to play. That and Mannheim Steamroller. God, he loved that music so much.”
“Should we play Mannheim Steamroller, then?”
Crew gives it some thought. “Yeah, actually, I think that’s what we should play.”
“You got it.” I look up their most recent Christmas album, select random play, and the warm sound of the xylophone fills the room as “Carol of the Bells” floats into the room. Perfect.
Looking a little less sorrowful, Crew lifts up a handful of shredded newspaper to find an envelope. I scoot closer so my shoulder is now pressing against his and I can hold his hand if need be.
He opens the envelope and reads out loud. “‘Hey kiddos. If you’re reading this, you made it to Nördlingen. The hotel is quite small, but I chose this hotel for its more intimate atmosphere. The staff was very accommodating when I spoke to them on the phone, and said you’d be taken care of when you arrived. Being away from home for Christmas I know is going to be different, especially for you, Crew, but I figured I’d try to bring a little bit of Christmas to you. Lift up the tissue paper. I’ll wait.’”
Crew reaches into the box and lifts up the tissue paper, revealing two sets of matching plaid Christmas pajamas with tiny reindeer printed in the fabric. Immediately Crew laughs out loud as he pulls them out.
“Oh my God, matching PJs,” I say, unravelling one that seems to be a long-sleeved thermal nightgown. “This must be mine.” I unravel the other, and it’s just a pair of pants. “Unless you think you can fit into the nightgown.”
Crew snags the pants. “Over my dead body.” He goes back to the letter. “‘Can you imagine there aren’t a lot of options for Christmas PJs in the summer? So, hope you guys like them. Lift up the tissue paper.’” Crew removes more tissue paper, revealing two wrapped boxes. “‘These are for Christmas, so don’t open them just yet. Just something small. And the pop-up tree is so you have a place to put them.’”
I take out the crepe-paper decoration and expand it, forming a small paper tree, and secure it back to itself. “This is perfect,” I say, placing it on the dresser near the window, where we can see the snow falling. Our very own little Christmas. When I move back to the bed, Crew stops me, sits me on his leg, and wraps his arm firmly around my waist. Knowing he needs this comfort, I don’t protest; instead, I loop my arm around his shoulder.
“‘I wish you had cookies of mine to eat tonight, but I doubt they would have been good after such a long wait. Instead, I asked the hotel to provide you with the best cookie platter they have. Finally, lift up the last bit of paper.’” Crew lifts the paper and I hear him suck in a sharp breath. His hand releases the letter and he reaches into the box, pulling out a small recorder and a tattered version of The Night Before Christmas. “No fucking way,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No . . . fucking way.”
“Is that the book Pops read to you every Christmas Eve?”
Crew strokes the cover almost reverently and nods. “Yeah. It was the one he read from when my mom was young, too. I can’t believe he sent this.” Crew sucks in a deep breath. “Fuck.” And then I catch him wipe under his eye.
“Hey.” I tilt his head up toward mine and catch the tears in his eyes. “Want me to read the rest of the letter?” He nods. I pick it up and find where he left off. “‘One of the greatest treasures of spending the holidays with you was passing down the traditions I shared with your mom and uncle Paul to you. I can only hope you’ll do the same. But for this last Christmas, let me . . .’” My voice trails off as I suck in the tears as well. “‘Let me read to you one last time.’”
Crew covers his eyes, and I quickly hug him as tears fall down my cheeks. He grips me tightly, his body shaking. He presses his face against my shoulder, and I can feel the tears as they soak through my top. Together, we hold each other, not saying a thing, just letting the moment hang over us.
After a few minutes, Crew pulls away and takes a deep breath. “Should we get changed?”
I nod. “Yeah.” I take the nightgown into the bathroom and quickly change into it, realizing just how skintight it is, and it’s shorter than I thought, hitting me mid-thigh. It’s comfortable but revealing. I contemplate changing, but knowing Pops planned for us to wear matching PJs, I suck it up and step into the room, where Crew’s wearing his low-slung pajama pants and his chest is bare.
Jesus.
I know he always goes to bed shirtless, but for some reason, seeing the waistband of his boxer briefs peek past his pants has my nipples hardening, which doesn’t bode well for me since I’m braless and this shirt clings to me like skin.
Crew spin towards me, taking me in, and I watch as his eyes travel up my body, pausing at my breasts. His hand goes to the back of his head and he looks away.
“Uh, want to listen to the book?” he says, still looking away.
“You want to do that now?”
He nods. “I’d rather get all my crying out before dinner and then enjoy the rest of the night.”
I chuckle. “Okay.” I move to the bed, and Crew joins me. We lean against the headboard with the book and the recorder. The nightgown barely covers my legs as I take a seat, and I can feel Crew’s eyes on me.
“That nightgown is something else.” He laughs.
“Yeah, pretty sure he got the size wrong. Or forgot the pants.”
“You can change if you’re uncomfortable.”
I shake my head. “No, these are our Christmas PJs and I will wear them.”
“Fair enough.” He opens the book and says, “Okay, press play.”
Taking a deep breath, I press play, and it takes a few seconds, but Pops’s deep, burly voice sounds through the recorder. “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas . . .”
And let the tears begin.
Chapter Twelve
CREW
“These cookies are really good,” Hazel says. She’s lounging across the bed and eating a cookie. Her face free of all makeup, hair cascading around her shoulders, wearing that goddamn nightgown as if it’s not showing off every curve of her body, she’s stunning. Her nipples have been hard for the past two hours, and I know this because I can’t stop myself from looking.
Shameful, man.
But, hell, look at her. She’s fucking gorgeous, and I don’t even think she knows it. She has no clue the effect she has on me. She has no idea what it meant to me that she allowed me cry into her shoulder freely. I felt no judgment. Sharing in the moment of listening to Pops read to us was the best thing Pops could
have given me. And she has no idea what it means to me to have her here, holding me, letting me hold her, reminiscing about Pops and sharing this Christmas together.
I’m itching to hold her again, to touch her, to . . . fuck, I want to kiss her. I’ve wanted to kiss her all goddamn day, especially when she was making fun of me for how cold I was. I loved the smile on her face, how she couldn’t believe this strong, muscular man could be such a wuss in the cold weather. I loved everything about it.
And now that we’re in this tiny hotel room, the snow falling outside, covering every rooftop and window in a blanket of Christmas, my restraint is starting to dissolve.
“They are good,” I say, peeling my eyes away from her tits once again.
“The almond thing is my favorite.” She examines the cookie, completely clueless of my leering.
I’m emotionally exhausted. I don’t think I could take one more surprise from Pops at this point. I’m mentally drained as I attempt to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life, on top of navigating these strong, unforeseen feelings I have for Hazel . . . while trying not to scare them away. And I’m physically tapped. There’s only so much I can do to keep myself from not touching her, but I still end up touching her anyway. I love the feel of her soft hand in mine. I love having her lined up against my side as she holds me around the waist. And I love that she understands. She’s living through the pain with me.
“Yeah,” I say mindlessly.
Her foot nudges my leg. “You’re not being all Christmas-y.”
“I know. Sorry.” I blow out a hard breath and push my hand through my hair. I catch her eyes rake over my chest. That’s not the first time that’s happened. No, while I’ve been catching glimpses here and there of her, she’s been doing the same thing, but after every glimpse she takes, her tongue peeks out and wets her luscious lips.
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