You Can't Ruin Christmas

by Olivia Noble

  “I miss playing hockey more than I thought I could miss anything in my life,” Sven tells me. “It’s hard to even think about it without getting angry and sad and… jealous of Sebastian. I dedicated so much time to it, my whole life. It’s unfair that he gets to play and I don’t.”

  “It is unfair,” I agree.

  “But I also miss my brother,” Sven admits. “Seeing what hockey did to him, seeing how he turned his back on everyone—I am glad that I didn’t get to play.” Anger flashes across his face. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to me—lose sight of what’s important in life, and who’s important.” He looks at me as he says this.

  I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.

  “But it’s been really nice working out with you,” he tells me. “That makes me miss him a little less. He and I used to work out together all the time, you know.”

  My face twitches. Wait. Is he using me to replace his brother? Does he think of me in a sibling-like way? I’ve been feeling guilty this whole time for having way too many dirty fantasies about him, and cautioning myself against not to use Sven as a replacement for the boyfriend I just lost—but has he been guilty of the same thing?

  Oh, no. That means I must have been imagining all that sexual chemistry and tension. He just sees me as a little sister, doesn’t he? And here I am, imagining him making eggs for my future children. You’re an idiot, Mary. Such an idiot.

  “I used to really value all that time we spent together in the gym,” Sven is saying. “I thought it was like our special brother-bonding time. Working toward a common goal. I didn’t realize how little he cared.”

  “I always thought he cared about you a great deal,” I assure Sven. “Maybe this is just temporary, and he’s just overwhelmed with the transition to the major leagues. Maybe you guys will be brothers again someday soon.”

  “Mary, I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” Sven says softly. “He has ruined the holidays for my whole family. I spoke to my mother yesterday, and she said that Sebastian hasn’t called her once since he went to play for Philly. And he won’t return her calls. She’s the one who used to drive us to all our hockey games. Do the laundry and clean our smelly, filthy clothes after playing on the lake all weekend. We owe everything we are to her, but now that he’s a bigshot, he doesn’t have time to call his mother? I can forgive him for a lot of things. I don’t really care about the way he’s treated me. But hurting you, and hurting our mother? I can never forgive him for that.”

  Sven turns away from me to conceal the emotion on his face. But I can see that he has stopped whisking his egg mixture, and his shoulders are trembling with anger.

  I don’t even think as I push myself off the bar stool and walk into the kitchen, putting my arms around Sven and embracing him from behind. His abdomen feels so thick and solid, it’s a little like embracing a tree trunk. A California redwood. But I place my cheek against his back, and let my hands wrap around his muscled abdomen, trying to give him some of the comfort that he offered me the other night.

  It doesn’t matter if he only sees me as a sister. I care about him, and I want to give him this hug. Even if I feel very small next to him, and my strength is so pathetic that he can barely feel the hug. Even if feeling him pressed against my body is igniting all my hormones on fire, I will try to ignore that and keep it platonic. Even if his abs underneath my hands feel so perfect that I’m struggling to resist the urge to slide my hands all over his body, and let my fingers slip under the waistband of his shorts.

  Even if the bare skin of his back against my cheek is begging to be kissed, I will restrain all these inappropriate urges. He is just a friend, who I am trying to comfort and soothe. I am just trying to be nice. Even though my heartbeat is pounding furiously in my ears, and every time I breathe, the scent of him floods my senses.

  I try to hold my breath, but then I realize that my hands have been sliding over his abdomen without my permission, and one is moving up his chest to feel his heartbeat through what must be several inches of pectoral muscles. Is it my imagination, or does his heartbeat also feel fast?

  “Mary,” he says softly, putting down the bowl containing his protein-egg nog mixture, and the whisk.

  “Yes?” I respond. It sounds like a warning. It’s hard to figure out what’s going on inside his head. I don’t know. Mary, go away? Mary, get your hands off me? Fearing the worst, I remove my hands from his body and peel myself away from him. It takes a great effort, and I miss his warmth as soon as there is cold air between us. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, tripping over my words with embarrassment. “I just…”

  He turns around, and the look on his face is unmistakable. It’s desire. Hardcore, non-sisterly, intense, ravenous, wanting-to-fuck-my-brains-out fire-hydrant-style desire.

  And it’s so much that I skip right over being happy that he thinks of me that way, to being afraid that I’m not going to be able to handle the ferocity of it. Like… this man could literally break my body in half.

  I find myself taking a step back due to the heat radiating from his face. “I—”

  He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. His hands reach out to slide around my waist, grasping the sides of my ribcage. But his touch is not as fierce as the expression in his eyes. It’s gentle, like I’m a porcelain doll, and if he squeezes too hard, I might shatter. I suddenly remember that I am strong, and I can handle this.

  I can actually handle a lot more than he probably thinks I can. I lift both of my hands to cup the sides of his face. I can’t read the expression he is wearing, and I swallow. “Sven,” I say softly, and it’s somewhere between a question and a plea.

  His hands lift me up against the kitchen countertop in one fluid motion, and his body follows, pinning me there. His lips crash against mine in a hungry, passionate, toe-curling kiss, as my legs wrap around him and draw him even closer against me.

  I feel like I have become an animal, as all my thinking and overthinking abruptly shuts off, and I focus only devouring his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck, and grinding my body against his. He presses me against the countertop harder, until I can feel every inch of how much he wants me, through the stretchy fabric of my workout pants, and his shorts.

  I am pretty sure that my arousal has entirely soaked through the fabric now, and I moan against his mouth as I arch my hips the way he guided me to do in all those workouts, engaging my core as I rub myself desperately against his cock—which is much more fun than any of those workouts were.

  Sven groans as his hand slips under my shirt, kneading and massaging my breast. I gasp out as the pleasure shoots through me, and I almost think I could come from this—being dry humped against the dishwasher. I mean, it’s not that dry.

  The wetness between my thighs could definitely rival the waterworks of the dishwasher—and I’d like to wash Sven’s dishes, if you know what I mean.

  My panties are sliding against the folds of sensitive skin and creating delicious friction. When his fingers pinch my nipple and I cry out, he pulls up my workout bra and takes my other breast into his mouth, suckling greedily. Arching my back for more, I find my hands knotted up in his chocolatey brown hair, and I just can’t take it any longer.

  “Sven,” I whisper. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

  My head is spinning with the dizziness of the lust, and I can’t really think too clearly. I just want to rip the rest of our clothing off and have him fully inside me, stat. I realize I didn’t specify which bedroom, and I don’t really care. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, expecting him to carry me wherever he would like.

  He seems puzzled by the suggestion. I mean… right here is okay too. Heather did say that she was going to wear earplugs.

  Sven turns around to glance at the bowl of egg nog he was making. Seriously? He’s thinking about the damn egg nog right now? The only eggs he should be thinking about are the ones in my damn ovaries! Okay, maybe not exactly the eggs, but everything else in that whole syste
m of lady-things, and lady-juices. I happen to have a very tasty mixture with an egg-white consistency that he could be stirring instead, you-know-where, with his giant stir stick that seems very ready for the job of maximum stirring.

  When he pulls away, I refuse to let him. Like I actually keep my hands locked around his shoulders and my legs locked around his waist so he can’t pull away without taking me with him.

  “Sven?” I say with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  He pulls my sports bra back down to cover me up. “I’m sorry, Mary. I just—I got carried away.”

  “No,” I tell him, clinging. “It’s okay. I want this. I want you. Please.”

  He releases a loud, shuddering breath. Putting both of his hands under my bottom to lift me against him, he carries me over to my bedroom. He opens the door, and carefully detaches my legs from around him before dumping me on my bed. The expression on his face is unreadable, as he takes a step backward. Away from me.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says softly, turning to face the kitchen. “I was—I was out of line. Let me go finish making that protein shake for you.”

  Then he leaves. And shuts the door behind him.

  I am left gaping after him in shock.

  I want to scream.

  Actually, I do turn over onto my stomach, and grab a pillow, and shove my face into it, letting out an exasperated, muffled yell. I don’t think I have ever been more sexually frustrated in my life.

  What just happened? Why did he stop? What did I do or say to upset him? Was it thinking about the stuff with his brother? Was he afraid to violate some unwritten bro-code?

  “I wanted a different kind of protein shake!” I whisper as I move the pillow to rest between my legs, and squeeze it with my thighs, trying to ease some of the tension that has been built up there. But it’s pointless. My whole body is throbbing with need, and I find myself writhing and groaning like a cat in heat.

  Who does that? Dry fucks you against a dishwasher, and leaves you with blue lady-balls when you’re begging him to finish the job? Why does Sven have to be so tortured and brooding, complicated and sensitive, with a conscience and morals?

  My hand slides down to touch myself, without really even thinking about it. But I know I’m not going to be able to finish the job, because I wasn’t just looking for release. I wanted to be with Sven. He’s gotten under my skin, and I have a massive crush on my ex-boyfriend’s brother.

  But it doesn’t seem like he wants me.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s eerily quiet in the recording studio before I start turning on all my equipment. This one small room of the loft has been soundproofed just for this reason, and it’s crazy how silent the silence can actually be. My own heart beating is deafening. My breathing, too. Most of all, I can hear my own thoughts, and hear how my mind is neurotically stressing over everything. I always try to take a moment to use the stillness to calm down and meditate before starting work.

  When my phone buzzes, I look down to see a text message from Sven.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday. Are we cool?”

  I kind of roll my eyes and ignore the message. I locked my door this morning so that I couldn’t be awoken by his drill-sergeant whistle. I heard him knocking on my door around the time we would normally work out, but I just pretended to be asleep. I mean, I’m not exactly mad at him—but I am really embarrassed.

  I just don’t think he should be coming into my bedroom whenever he wants if we aren’t really bedroom-friends, you know? It’s fine if we had a weird moment, and he doesn’t really think of me that way, and it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment. Maybe I misinterpreted some signs, or maybe I was just hellbent on moving on and getting a rebound.

  But somehow, I don’t think this was a rebound.

  Because I’m more upset about losing Sven than I am about losing Sebastian, and I never even really had Sven. I guess the idea of what we could have had was really enticing for a moment. But I’ve already experienced enough of a broken heart lately, and there’s no way I’m going to take a chance on trusting Sven and getting close to him if he can’t make up his mind.

  “Yeah, we’re cool,” I type back to him.

  “Are we going to the gym today? I have a surprise for you.”

  I roll my eyes again. Unless the surprise is that he’s going to stuff my stockings properly, I have work to do. Like a grown up.

  “Maybe later,” I text back, before turning on my microphone.

  The sound of my voice fills the small room, crisp and clear. I only pause to take a few sips of water as my throat becomes dry. I am enjoying the job, and enjoying the story when my phone rings, abruptly jerking me out of the zone. And ruining the sentence I was in the middle of recording.

  Groaning, I am hoping it’s not Sven as I pick up the cell. But it’s my sister.

  I scratch my cheek nervously as I stare at the display.

  It’s the other sister.

  Eve.

  She is kind of a major loner, and has no concept of how to perform basic human interactions. I don’t think she has called me once in the last five years. Plenty of text messages and emails—she is a writer, and she enjoys writing—but the situation must be life or death for her to actually use the antiquated medium known as the phone call.

  There are a million worries flooding my mind as I answer. “Eve?”

  “Hey, Mary. There’s a bit of a problem, and I need you to fly home earlier than planned.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What’s going on? Are Mom and Dad okay?”

  She pauses. “Well, Mom is fine. But you know how she confides in me, a little more than you guys, right?”

  “Yes,” I respond slowly. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t freak out and spill her secrets and cause a major panic in the whole family.”

  “Well, this time I’m freaking out and spilling her secrets,” Eve admits. “I just hope you can keep a lid on this and keep Clara from panicking. I know she’s under a lot of stress at the ballet company, and I am worried that if we tell her, she won’t be able to complete the rest of her performances.”

  “Eve, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  “Dad is just having some memory issues. He just got confused and wandered out in the snow a few times, in the middle of the night. Barefoot. Mom barely caught him in time.”

  My pulse quickens, and I stand up in my recording studio, knocking my chair backwards. “Memory issues? Like… Alzheimer’s or dementia?”

  “I don’t know, but I need you to go home and find out. Maybe slap a GPS tracker on our father. She thinks he was going out to fix up the Christmas lights—you know he’s obsessed with improving the display every year. But he somehow got confused. I would go home myself, but I’m just… dealing with a situation at the moment. Kind of a crazy situation. So I can’t leave Alaska until I’ve sorted that all out.”

  “What kind of situation?” I ask her. “What could be more important than Dad?”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Santa’s sleigh crashed in my backyard.”

  I lift both of my eyebrows sky-high. “Really, Eve?”

  “Yes. A few nights ago, I just looked out my window, and it was coming down in a blazing glory. I had to put on my boots and coat and run out to the scene of the crash.”

  “Of… Santa’s sleigh?” I ask incredulously.

  “Yes—but I pulled him out of the wreckage and he’s okay. A little injured, but I’m nursing him back to health.”

  “You’re nursing… Santa back to health?” I ask.

  “Stop joking around. You’re not taking this seriously, Mary.”

  “Sorry,” I say with confusion. “How did the sleigh crash, exactly? Was he under the influence? Did he have too many milk and cookies?”

  “Mary! No. He wasn’t drinking—there was a storm.”

  “Sorry. Uh. Did any, uh, presents get damaged in the sleigh crash?”

  “Oh. I guess I’m not explaining mysel
f properly. So, Santa’s Sleigh is the name of the small bush plane that crashed on my property. I mean, it’s not actually a sleigh.”

  “Right, because of course Santa would upgrade the technology of his present-delivery service to the twenty-first century. Who uses an actual sleigh anymore? Other than our parents, I guess.” Our parents own a few acres of Christmas tree forest in Snowflake Creek. Around the main house, they have set up miles and miles of spectacular lights over the trees, and complicated Christmas lighting displays. For a small fee, they offer horse-drawn sleigh rides to all the locals and tourists who come from miles around to see the lights, after sunset.

  After sunset meaning like 4 pm in Northern Minnesota, of course. My parents retired years ago, but the Christmas sleigh-ride through their property was a holiday tradition that they have taken great pride in expanding each year. Many locals consider it the most romantic way to receive a marriage proposal, on a magical sleigh ride through the sparkling trees. They usually warm up afterward in the house by the fireplace, with cider and hot cocoa, while munching on my mom’s delicious baked goods.

  It breaks my heart to think my parents might be getting too old to continue.

  I sit back down in my chair and use my computer to start searching for flights home.

  Eve is sighing loudly. “I’m serious, Mary. This guy could be dangerous. I think I could get murdered.”

  Well, that sounds like something Eve would say. As the middle sister, Eve is always herself getting into pickles, and then calling it story research. When she was younger, she somehow got it into her head that writers need to live dramatically exciting and dangerous lives so that they would have lots of things to write about.

  But at some point, she suddenly grew up and decided she’d had enough adventures, and was going to move to the middle of bumfuck-nowhere Alaska, and basically go off the grid and live like a hermit so she could “focus on her career.” Hey, it’s working for her. She writes a lot of books, because there is absolutely nothing to do, and no one to hang out with.