Snowed In with the Quarterback

by Christy Pastore

  Eight inches in my area sounds good. So good.

  Ella’s voice creeps up in my head reminding me to move the chains and sack this Quarterback. Or jump in the sack with him.

  He said he’d like to move this back to his bedroom.

  I didn’t imagine that did I?

  I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, I manage to untwine my body from Spencer’s.

  As I adjust my coat, I snare my bottom lip between my teeth and pretend to straighten the condensed milk, chocolate chips, and pie tins with graham cracker crusts.

  “Amy, don’t overthink what just happened.” Spencer steps towards me and I feel his big frame looming over me.

  “I’m not overthinking anything, I’m just...it’s the baking aisle. My mom always taught me to leave a place better than you found it.”

  He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger tilting my head and forcing me to look up at him. His blue eyes sparkle under the terrible fluorescent lighting as a slow smile breaks across his face.

  “I’m sure that lesson was meant for hotel rooms and other peoples’ homes. Good old-fashioned Midwestern values.”

  “It’s a blessing and a curse,” I admit. “Like, why do we apologize when someone bumps into us?”

  Spencer laughs. “I don’t know, honestly. I still say, ‘ope sorry.’”

  I add a few more things to the cart. “You can take the guy out of the Midwest, but you can’t take away the ope sorry.”

  We continue on with my list and manage to finish without much trouble. I help Spencer pack the groceries into the backseat. He shuts the door and I’m pinned between him and the cool metal.

  He tilts his head over mine. His gorgeous lips are inches from mine in that agonizingly sweet, and torturous way. Spencer brushes a wayward strand of hair away from my face and snakes his other arm around my waist pulling me closer until we’re pressed together.

  And then he kisses me. It’s hot and sweet all at once, warming me, and encompassing every synapse in my body.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Spencer

  “Get a room. There are kids out here for Cripes sake,” a gravelly voice shouts.

  Amy’s lips freeze to mine and her hands grip the hem of my shirt tighter. She pulls back to look up at me and snowflakes land on her long lashes.

  “Guess we better go,” she whispers. “We have a tree to decorate.”

  “Holy shit. And I mean holeeeey shit—it’s Spencer Ward. This guy’s got more sacks than Santa Claus.”

  My eyes close and I let out a deep breath. You know that meme of Ben Affleck taking a puff of a cigarette and the caption says something like: “smoking through the pain of existence.”

  That’s me right now.

  It doesn’t help matters that I played exceptionally terrible on Monday night.

  When I crack my eyes open, I see a man approaching holding a plastic bottle of whiskey sporting twenty pounds of real belly, layered up in red velvet with ivory fur trim, and a white beard that’s hanging off his chin.

  Amy and me kissing is offensive to the children but this faux Santa…Bad Santa impersonator, isn’t?

  “As I live and breathe, Spencer Ward,” he slurs my name. “You fucking suck. You know that?” he says, pointing the half empty bottle at me.

  A guy wearing a red and green plaid sweater and black jeans comes into view and stands next to Bad Santa. “That’s for sure. Coach Carr should bench your loser ass and put in Crosby Quinn.”

  I swallow down my rage. “I’m sorry I let you down on Monday night. I’m working on my timing and reading the D line. Don’t give up on me and the Renegades, yet.”

  Beady black eyes squint at me. “Pfft. You’re the worst QB in the league, Ward.” Bad Santa strokes his fake beard. “Hey honey, why don’t you ditch the loser and take a ride on good ol’ Saint Nick’s lap.”

  Amy scoffs and grips my arm. “Let’s go Spencer.”

  “Are you too good for Santa, honey?”

  Before she can answer I’m in his face. “Hey man, remember the kids. They’re watching.”

  “I don’t give a rip about the kids. And I ain’t taking no lip from no loser jerk like you.”

  Jerk? I’m the jerk.

  Ignore him.

  I turn back towards Amy but don’t make it two steps before Bad Santa continues his assessment of my skills, or lack thereof.

  “You make a lot of money,” he barks out. “Too much to be losing games and tossing passes in the middle of nowhere. Not a receiver in sight.”

  My fingers curl into my palms as I whip around. Blazing pain shoots down my neck and into my arm. I grasp the back of my neck.

  Bad Santa stumbles forward grasping the rope dangling off my Range Rover.

  Crack. Snap. Pop.

  Bad Santa takes a dive into the side of my SUV and then lands in a small pile of dirty wet snow.

  “Be careful, Santa. You’ve got work to do tonight.” Amy points out and offers a hand to Bad Santa.

  He grumbles under his breath and reaches for her hand. My reaction time is too slow. Bad Santa pulls Amy forward and she lands face first in his crotch.

  “Oh gawd,” she coughs and jumps up. The front of her coat is covered in dirt and snow, whiskey dripping from her long hair. “That’s what I get for trying to be nice.”

  Santa’s friend in plaid manages to help him to his feet. Amy’s face scrunches up as she attempts to squeeze the booze from her hair.

  I reach into the back for the blanket I have tucked under the seat. “Here use this to dry off.”

  Amy takes the blanket and wipes off the front of her coat. “Dammit.”

  “It’ll be okay. You can wash it at my place.” I bring up the other end of the blanket and use it to dry Amy’s hair. I attempt to soak up as much whiskey as I can.

  “God this smells rancid.”

  Laughter and garbled words follow a loud thump. My heads snaps upward as I see our Christmas tree fall to the ground.

  Bad Santa and his plaid-clad elf jerk pick up the tree from the ground.

  Those black beady eyes widen. “I got your tree, QB. You don’t need it.”

  “What the hell?” I grind out.

  Elf jerk cackles. “No Christmas for the two of you.”

  “Hey!” Amy shouts. “You can’t steal our tree!”

  “Looks like we just did.” Bad Santa waves a knife in our direction. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Fine.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Take the tree.”

  They back away and then break into a full sprint once they pass the cart corral, pine needles falling with every stride. The dang thing will be bare before they make it across the lot.

  Amy’s mouth hangs open. One side of her head is a tangled mess. She looks like she got run over by Santa’s sleigh.

  I shake my head and pick up the remnants of twine off the ground. The snow begins to fall a little faster.

  “Well, that was fun.” Amy blows out a deep breath and tosses the blanket inside my Range Rover. “Jerks.”

  I give myself a mental shake. “You want to get another tree?”

  Amy shakes her head. “No, we should get back to your place. At least we can bake some yummy treats.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry about the tree.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Well, I guess if you hadn’t sucked on Monday night…”

  “Ouch.” I wince.

  I open the passenger door and Amy settles into the seat. I walk around the front and climb inside. Amy’s fingers fly across the screen of her phone.

  I maneuver into the flow of traffic and turn on the radio.

  Nothing like being robbed at Christmas. And now, the mood’s effectively dampened…soiled. I feel like I’ve just lost my Christmas mojo.

  “I mean who carries a knife on them? And in Hollybend. Holly-freaking-bend. This place is one of the most magical, Christmassy places in the country.”

  “Santa apparently.” I laugh and flip the turn sign
al. “My uncle carried a pocket knife all the time.”

  Ignoring my comment she busies herself with her phone again. She must be texting her sister-in-law, Ella. Can’t say I blame her. Getting our tree jacked by Bad Santa is a good story.

  The town square comes into view, along with the giant sparkling spruce. We stop at a red light and I stare at the snow falling all around as the people mill around the tiny Christmas market.

  Dozens of people skate around the makeshift ice rink. My eyes flick back to the tree. Hundreds of colored lights twinkle merrily bringing so much joy.

  I’ve passed it at least a dozen times, but I’ve never really looked.

  “What do you think those fools did with the tree?” Amy glances at the town square.

  My thumb taps against the steering wheel as I drive through the intersection. “Probably took it home to show off their prize. ‘Hey, we stole Spencer freakin’ Ward’s Christmas tree,’” I say in my worst Jersey accent.

  “Yeah. I hope it was worth it to them.” Amy slumps into her seat. “Ugh. That freaking Santa.” She pounds her fist to her thigh. “I shouldn’t have offered to help him up. We should’ve just left. Then we’d still have a tree, and I wouldn’t be covered in Santa’s jingle juice.”

  She sounds like she’s lost her Christmas mojo too.

  “You still believe in Christmas miracles?”

  Amy tilts her head to look at me. “Maybe.”

  I pull into the parking garage. “Well, I guess I’m going to have to do my best to make a little magic happen.”

  Her eyes flicker and oh, she may have taken that the wrong way. Don’t get me wrong, I fully intend to get back the mood from earlier.

  “Magic, huh?”

  I ease into the parking spot and turn off the engine. “Yeah. We’re in desperate need of Christmas spirit.”

  “If you’re referring to alcohol, please, just not whiskey. I’m about to gag from the awful smell in my hair.”

  “There’s definitely going to be alcohol involved.” I slide out of my seat and walk towards the trunk. Amy’s right beside me grabbing an armful of bags.

  I’m going to get Christmas Eve back on track. And I have just the elves to help me do it.

  While Amy showers, I toss her coat into the washing machine. Then I get to work on the food. Since it’s almost four o’clock I don’t bother making lunch. I’ll save the grilled cheese for another time.

  Hopefully, there will be another time with Amy.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  My elves are right on time.

  “Come on in guys,” I say. “Let’s be quick and quiet.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amy

  As I curl the final strand of my hair, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  What was I thinking?

  Helping that drunken Santa asshat…well, trying to help.

  Ugh.

  All I wanted was to give Spencer a hint of joy. Instead we get our joy stolen. So much for the magic of Christmas.

  I avert my eyes to the window above the claw foot tub. The snow is really coming down now. It’s a wall of white. I unplug my curling iron and zip up my makeup bag.

  After the Santa robbery debacle I texted Malone. Malone is my client who lives here in the building. I wanted to see if she had any extra decorations on hand or knew of anyone in the building who did.

  Unfortunately, Malone and her family were out of town.

  Her husband is this big time music producer, and Malone is a graphic artist and illustrator. They’re a fabulously creative duo. I’ve been working with Malone on setting up her own online store. Helping her turn her art into stationary, tech accessories, and more.

  I blow out a deep breath as I open the door.

  The scent of cinnamon and pine drift down the hallway.

  Pine?

  Cinnamon I get. But what concoction is Spencer making that would smell of pine? If he’s making some weird edible Christmas tree thing, that is totally unnecessary.

  Honestly, I’m over the loss of our tree.

  Am I?

  As I walk down the hallway towards the kitchen, I didn’t expect to see a Christmas tree taking up prime space in the living room.

  Nor did I expect to see greenery atop the fireplace mantle with two gorgeous blue stockings. But here they are. Red ribbons adorn the Boxwood wreaths that hang from the cabinets in the kitchen. Five ivory candles flicker in an arrangement on top of his dining room table.

  “Ohmygod. What the heck?”

  “Oh hey,” Spencer appears with two cocktail tumblers.

  “What happened while I was in the bathroom?”

  “I called in a few favors.” He hands me a glass.

  “Your elves?”

  “Something like that.”

  My gaze sweeps back to the Christmas tree. I know that tree. I’ve seen that tree.

  “That’s one of Ann and Sheila’s trees!”

  He nods. “Yep. It’s on loan through the new year.”

  “That’s hilarious. I sent a text to Malone, my client who lives in the building, to see if I could borrow some of her decorations. She’s out of town, though. But wow. It’s like you and I have one mind.”

  “Speaking of things on my mind, how about we eat some food.” Spencer gestures towards the kitchen. “I went with the homemade Sicilian pizza instead of the risotto since we were short on time.”

  “Short on time because Bad Santa jacked our tree and doused me with jingle juice.”

  Spencer laughs and raises his glass. “Yeah. Fuck Bad Santa.”

  “No thanks. My face landed in his crotch, remember? It reeked of beets and a few other scents I haven’t identified yet but will surely haunt my nightmares.”

  His face sours. “I’m going to do my best to scrub that memory from your brain tonight.”

  God. I hope so.

  Three slices of pizza and a bottle of wine later, I’m sitting in the hot tub with Spencer.

  My breath clouds in the air. Heavy snow falls all around us. It’s pristine and perfect.

  Under the dim glow from the hot tub lights, I finally get a good look at Spencer’s well defined thighs. His gray swim trunks frame a really nice outline of his bulge.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless. He’s ripped. We’re talking eight pack ripped. I admire the contours of his body again—broad shoulders, sculpted chest. It’s all very, very nice.

  And don’t get me started on his “deep V” lines. I want to lick them.

  Maybe I’ll get the chance.

  He notices my ogling and smirks. “So, how am I doing on restoring your Christmas spirit?”

  I smile and take a gulp of wine. “Getting closer to your goal by the minute.”

  He slides closer to me. “How can I get across the goal line?”

  A football pun. How adorable.

  “Hmm. I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re Spencer Ward after all. Timing is everything.”

  His gaze drops to my lips.

  Nerves creep up like the bubbles in the hot tub. Instead of letting my nerves get the better of me, I let my arms unwind and lean back.

  I toss back the rest of my wine, pleasantly relaxed and happy. It’s more than the booze. It’s being here with him. This night. The air surrounding us gleams, weighted with the years of longing.

  My eyes meet his sparkling blues. “Kiss me. You know you want to.”

  A moan rattles his throat. He reaches for me. His hands cup my jaw, and he presses his lips to mine.

  “God you taste so good,” he hisses.

  I hiccup. “Oops. I’m not drunk I swear. I swallowed some air.”

  He laughs. “Happens to the best of us.”

  “Even you? The talented Spencer Ward gets hiccups?”

  “Well according to Bad Santa, I’m not so talented, remember?” He waggles his brows.

  “Pfft. Fuck Bad Santa, remember?”

  He takes a long drink and then refills his glass and
mine. “So you said that you help companies and brands improve their business and increase profits?”

  “Yeah,” I drawl out.

  “Help me.” He cocks his head.

  “What? I’m so not qualified to help you. I don’t really know anything about being a quarterback.”

  I hear him draw in a deep breath. “You watch the games, right? You’ve seen me play. Give me your best assessment.”

  I ignore my heart racing faster and faster. “Spencer. I…I think you and I both know that it’s your injury that’s hurting your game. And while you have the love for the game—the chronic pain and cycle of surgery and rehab is taking its toll.”

  He nods. “It’s stealing my joy of the game.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what that must be like for you.”

  He tips the glass to his lips. “It sucks. I’m thirty-two and I’m staring down at a losing season. No chance of a Super Bowl, maybe not even the playoffs. Retirement is my reality.”

  My heart cracks and a deep ache hits the pit of my stomach. The pain in his voice, it’s raw and deep. He must be admitting the realization out loud to someone other than himself for the first time.

  “How’d you know about my injury?”

  “You had the same reaction when you were boiling the water the other night as you did today. It was just a hunch.” My fingers skate over the bubbling water. “So I guess you didn’t just tweak it, huh?”

  Spencer blows out a deep breath. “No, I’ve had two surgeries. The Doc says I can have another if I want. But I don’t think it will do much good.”

  A chilly breeze blew in making me shiver. “What do you want to do, Spencer?”

  “Kiss you.”

  Well that isn’t what I expected. But yes, please do.

  Spencer leans closer, his lips at my ear. “You’re beautiful.”

  The pulse in my neck thrums.

  His forehead presses to mine, and his hands move urgently, holding my face. “I want to do a lot more than just kiss you,” he whispers over my mouth.

  Spencer dives in, taking my lips in a reckless kiss. The good kind of reckless making it sting so sweetly when he bites my bottom lip like he’s starving.