Never Sleigh Never, page 7
Sitting up, I slide open the nightstand drawer and pull out a picture of Brooke. I run my fingers over the smooth glass covering her bright, warm smile. I took the picture four years ago, right after Josie’s seventh birthday party. We finished cleaning up, and Josie went to a friend’s house for a sleepover, so we had the night to ourselves. I started a fire in the fire pit on the patio just as the sun dipped below the horizon. She had a glass of red wine in her hand. The reflection of the firelight across her face was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It made her glow, so I snapped a picture. Something I did often. I joked that she never looked at me the way she does at a glass of wine. She said the wine is a quick burst of happiness, but I was her forever.
Moisture burns my eyes. Now, they’re only memories. There’ll never be a new picture. Not after that late summer day when meningococcal meningitis took her away from us. She fought hard, though. Just like everything she did, she gave two hundred percent.
“Daddy!”
I flinch and catch the picture frame before it crashes to the floor. Quickly, I shove it in the nightstand drawer and slam it closed.
“Yeah.” I rub away the moisture in my eyes.
Josie hovers in the doorway, pink tablet clutched to her chest. “Grandma says I can come over and watch movies.” She turns her tablet around, and my mom’s face fills the screen.
“Yeah, okay.” A night to myself will give me time alone to wallow in self-pity. “Pack a bag and I’ll drop you off.”
Josie turns the tablet around. “Yay! I’ll be over soon, Grandma.”
“Okay sweetheart. See you soon.” My mom’s voice sounds through the speakers.
She runs over to me, tosses her tablet on my bed, and wraps her arms around me. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Peanut.”
Josie pushes off me and scampers down the hallway. With my elbows on my knees, I scrub my palms over my face, trying to stitch my thoughts together. A big reason we moved to Mount Holly was so my parents could help me raise Josie. I tried to do it on my own for three years. Mostly because I was stubborn and didn’t want the help or to burden anyone else. I thought I had something to prove. That I could do this on my own. Needing help doesn’t make me a terrible father. In fact, asking for help was the best thing for Josie. She was grieving just as much as I was, so the support was not only for me, but for her as well. Plus, Brooke always dreamed of creating a big Christmas carnival. It wasn’t my thing, but she loved it. And I loved her. It never fully developed because she got sick. So I want to do it for her. To make her dream come true.
I thought I was doing better at letting go of Brooke. Even my therapist said I was making great strides. I don’t have to forget her, but I need to move on. I did that for a while, mostly because I had hockey to occupy my time. But retiring and moving back to Mount Holly to put this carnival together is opening old wounds. I just need a night. I’ll be back to my normal self tomorrow.
A few minutes later, Josie barrels into my bedroom with a backpack slung over her shoulder. “I’m ready!”
“I think you’re the fastest packer I know.”
She latches onto my hand and tugs. “Hurry. I want to watch as many movies as I can before bedtime.”
“Alright. I’m coming.”
After dropping Josie off at my mom and John’s, I drive back toward my house. But two blocks down the road, I think better of it and turn around in the next driveway to head in the opposite direction toward the Crooked Reindeer. Maybe it’s best I’m around other people for a bit. It has to be better than sitting alone in misery.
Inside, the bar’s relatively quiet. A few regulars all wave and say hello to me. At the far end of the bar, I claim a seat on an empty stool, hoping to have a little time to myself. Simon gives me a chin nod as he finishes with a customer.
A few seconds later, he greets me. “Hey, man. Want a spiked eggnog or Tom and Jerry?”
I grimace at my options.
He laughs. “Too festive for you? How about a beer?”
I eye the taps but know they won’t cut it. “Give me a scotch on the rocks.” Simon’s brows raise. “Make it a double.”
“Well, that’s not a casual drink for six o’clock at night.”
“It’s been a day. And it’s still not over.”
Simon plants his hands on the bar and leans in. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not especially.”
“Alright. Well just know I’m here if you need anything.”
“Just make sure my glass isn’t empty.”
“Got it.” He raps his knuckles against the bar as he pushes off and pours my drink. Once he’s finished, he slides the lowball of scotch in front of me.
The first sip burns clean—like it might cauterize whatever’s fraying inside. This carnival was a dumb idea. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. If I didn’t have a crew of guys to help me get everything set up, I’d still be sitting in an empty field. This was Brooke’s passion. Not mine. God, I miss her. Her smile. The way she wouldn’t let me get away with anything. I wish I could have done something. I wish I had tried harder to convince her to go to the doctor sooner. Maybe she’d still be here. I just never expected it to happen so fast. In the blink of an eye, she was gone.
True to his word, Simon keeps the refills coming. Two rounds in, my glass never hits empty. I roll the glass on the round base, staring as the amber liquid swirls around. I came to Mount Holly for a change. Maybe I’ll do something about it.
“Screw it,” I say, rolling the glass between my palms. “Buy the bar a round on me. We’re celebrating.” I throw back the last drop of my drink and swallow it down.
The bar erupts in cheers.
Simon chuckles. “Celebrating what?”
“New beginnings.” I push my empty glass toward him.
He pours three fingers of scotch into my glass before pouring himself water. He holds up his glass. “To new beginnings.”
We tap our drinks on the bar top before I take a sip. Over the next hour, people send drinks back my way in thanks—beer here, a shot there. Now I’m anchored to the stool with my elbows propped on the bar, pretending it’s the floor swaying and not me.
Her sweet laughter fills the bar before I see her. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder. With one eye closed, the silhouettes of Brie, Willa, and Sloane manifest as they stroll through the door. I track them as they land at a high-top table on the opposite side of the bar. As she sits, her gaze lifts in my direction. Our eyes meet. A tingle races through me. She looks away first—not away, but just past me, and the corner of her lips lift into a smile.
“If you crane your neck any farther, you’re going to fall off that stool,”
Busted. So much for being discreet. I spin around, and Simon lifts his brows, a wide grin on his face.
Wait? Was she checking out Simon? No, that’s not possible. Well, it is possible, but she’s not his type. At least, not the type he liked in high school. He was more into leggy redheads, much like Sloane. I shove the thought of Simon and Brie together out of my head.
“You know what surprises me the most?” I take a sip of my scotch.
“What’s that?”
“When did Brie become such a firecracker?” She’s someone you can’t forget, but somehow, I forgot her.
“You left,” he says, chuckling. “She didn’t. But she always had a little sass.”
“Yeah, she certainly does like to sass me.”
“The older we get, the less we care what other people think of us. We just do our thing.”
“Was I a jerk to her in high school?”
He shrugs. “Shit. I don’t know. Maybe a little. You mostly ignored her. Does it matter now? If you really want an answer, you could always ask her.”
“She’s better at giving me death glares than dialogue. I’m pretty sure she’s hoping I spontaneously combust or something.”
“She’d be first in line with marshmallows, passing out roasting sticks.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She hated me first, so it was only natural for me to hate her back. Then why do we always find ourselves running into each other? Sure, Mount Holly is small, but the next town isn’t too far away. She could go to the bar there. The bar run-ins aside, the real question is why does my dick twitch every time she’s near? And why do I want to feel her soft, pillowy lips against mine? Does she taste as sweet as she smells? Why can’t I stop picturing what she looks like wearing that red lace underwear? Most importantly, why do I want to rip them off her body with my teeth? Some things are just unexplainable. Like Bigfoot. Damn. I hope she’s not hairy like Bigfoot. I spare a glance her way again. Nah. Her skin looks silky smooth. No excess hair in sight. Her lips curve into a smile as she laughs at something Willa says. Images of her pink lips wrapped around the head of my dick flash before me. Fuck. I peel my gaze away. If I can’t stop thinking about her on my own, I’ll drink her out of my system. Said no one ever.
“Simon?” I tap the bar lightly. “Give me another.”
Nine
Snowflake
Brie
Willa called for a girls’ night, so we met at the Deer. After my embarrassing encounter with Logan, I could use a drink. Or two. Or five.
As we step inside, I’m giving Sloane the highlight reel—how I accidentally tackled a row of pines and now my house smells like a car freshener. From the corner of my eye, I immediately spot Logan. The Santa hat is traded for a chiseled jawline. My gaze lingers longer than what’s considered appropriate. At our table, I shrug out of my coat and hang it over the back of my chair. I spare another glance at the bar, and Logan’s still watching me. His eyes are gentle. This time I can’t turn away. I don’t know what he does to me, but it’s so easy to get lost in his hazel irises. Then I noticed Simon next to him, staring at me. I twist, pulling out my chair, and when Simon’s gaze doesn’t waver, I know he’s not staring at me. His focus is firmly on Sloane. Happiness blooms in my stomach and a grin covers my face. I think someone has a crush.
“Maybe you should get the first round of drinks tonight,” I say to Sloane as I take a seat.
“Or Willa can,” Sloane replies.
“Su—” I kick Willa’s shin under the table. She yelps before she shoots daggers at me. “Ouch! What was—”
I bore my gaze at her while winking and gently jerking my head toward the bar.
“What’s with all the blinking? I don’t understand Morse code?” she mutters, then glances up. Recognition dawns. “Right. Yes. Sloane, your turn. I’ll take a beer.”
“Same,” I add.
“Ugh, fine.” Her chair screeches across the floor as she pushes away from the table. She avoids Simon and goes to the opposite end of the bar. But naturally, he materializes right where she stops.
“There was a time they were friends, right?” Willa props her chin on her hand.
“There was, but then… something happened. They just stopped talking. Every time I asked Sloane, she always claimed that some friendships aren’t meant to be. Then she wanted me to drop it.”
“Yeah, I always got the same response, but she never argues about coming here.”
Both of us turn to stare at Sloane as she gives Simon the cold shoulder while he pours her three beers. On her way back, she weaves between tables with the occasional not-so-discreet glance over her shoulder to Simon, who has been watching her intently. She sets the beers on the table and slides one toward Willa and one to me. Before taking a sip, she brushes her hair off her neck and over her shoulder. At the bar, Simon’s mouth forms a half-smile before he turns to another customer. If hate flirting is a thing, these two have it in spades.
“It’s been fun, but it’s time for me to go home.” I set my beer on the table.
“Stay for one more. We never get to chill out and have girls’ night anymore,” Willa whines.
“We did this like five nights ago.”
“But it felt like forever.” Willa pouts.
“If I stay any longer, I’ll faceplant into the table, and I don’t think Simon would appreciate that very much.” I rise from my stool and throw my jacket over my shoulders.
“I should get going too,” Sloane says. “I have bread that needs baking in the morning.”
“Fine. If everyone is leaving, I’m not hanging out by myself.” Willa rises from her stool.
“Bar tab is on me. We’ll chat later,” I say, hugging them. They head for the door, and I weave to the bar, flagging down Simon. When he’s done serving a customer, he stops in front of me. “Can I get my tab?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, then drops his voice. “Or… do me a favor? Can you take Logan home?
At the end of the bar, a lump of a man is draped over the wood ledge. He’s seconds away from using a coaster as a pillow while he swirls mostly water in the glass.
I shake my head. “One of his friends can take him home.”
“But you’re leaving now, and he needs to leave now.”
“My car’s full.”
“Strap him to the roof.”
“Seriously?”
“Please, just take him home?” he pleads. “I’ll cover your tab.”
“How much has he had to drink, anyway?”
“After his second scotch, I gave him mostly water. Whatever mission he was on tonight, I don’t want him to regret anything tomorrow.”
I exhale. I’ve been the person who needed a ride after too many drinks, but it’s Logan in close quarters. “My tab and the rest of my tabs this year.” I raise an eyebrow.
He doesn’t blink. “Deal. He’s at forty-six Yuletide.”
Of course he lives in the house with my dream wraparound porch. I always pictured myself sitting on the porch swing, reading a book during the summer or decorating the railing with garland and lights for Christmas. Fine. Universe, I see your irony.
“Hey, Logan!” Simon calls. “Brie’s your ride.”
Logan squints my way. “My favorite person,” he slurs.
“I’ll need duct tape for his mouth,” I mutter.
“Thanks, Brie. I appreciate it.”
I roll my eyes and amble toward Logan as he rises on wobbly legs. “Alright, let’s get you home. Less talking, the better.”
“You don’t enjoy talking to me?”
“It’s not my favorite pastime.” He sloppily throws his arm around my shoulder, and his fingers tangle in my hair. I wince.
“We’d have a better time if you hated me less.”
“That’s the entire backbone of our relationship.” I flash him a tight-lipped smile. “Let’s go. The sooner I get you home, the sooner I can be away from you.”
We make it two steps before he comes to a screeching halt. “Are you getting frisky with me?” He closes one eye. I’m not sure if it’s a lazy wink or to reduce double vision.
“No! I’m taking you home.”
“No. No.” He enunciates each vowel. “You just touched my ass. You can just ask. I’ll say yes.”
“I did not touch your ass.”
“Yes, you did. Your fingers grazed my right cheek.”
“I assure you, they didn’t.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Oh, it was the stool.”
“Want to ask if the stool wants to take you home?”
“Nah. It only wanted to cop a feel.”
I shake my head but can’t fight the smile that takes over. With his arm draped over my shoulder, the weight of a two-hundred pound retired hockey legend has me nearly doubled over as we exit. On our way through the parking lot, he rambles about Christmas ornaments and wanting to be a good dad. Most of my concentration is on not toppling over. When we reach my SUV, I shove him inside with moderate help from him. I really hope he’s like a baby and the car ride lulls him to sleep, so I don’t have to listen to him. Once I’m seated, I drop my keys into the cupholder and press the ignition button on the dashboard.
“Yuletide Drive. Forty-six,” Logan mumbles.
“I know.”
“Stalking me?”
“Nah. I only stalk people who can form complete sentences.” He says nothing else. Wish come true? He passed out. As I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road, he remains silent. Glad I didn’t need that duct tape after all, but that leaves my next challenge. How will I get him inside?
“Why do you hate me?”
So much for silence. I glance at the passenger seat as the passing streetlight briefly lights up the interior. The back of his head is against the headrest. His eyes are closed, and his chin is tilted toward the roof. “You’re drunk. Do you really want to get into this?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. You did. I have a feeling if I tell you, you won’t remember it tomorrow anyway. And I really don’t want to repeat myself.”
His head rolls toward me, though his eyes land on my cup holder. “I only hated you because you hated me.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”
“It is. You hated me so much.” The tires hum over packed snow. For a moment, I think he finally passed out, but then he speaks. “Why are you giving me a ride home?”
“Because Simon asked, and I like him more than you.”
His chin lifts as he faces the windshield. “I think you secretly like me.”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “If I liked you, I could also grow a unicorn horn out of my forehead.”
“Really? You can do that?”
“Yeah.” I lift my hand to my forehead and stick out my middle finger.
He barks out a laugh. “You’ve always been sassy, but I swear you hoard the extra sass for me.”
“Only when it’s warranted.”
“So you didn’t answer my question. Why do you hate me?” A silent pause passes between us. Before I can respond, he asks, “Is it because of my rugged good looks, and you don’t know how to handle your intense attraction to me?”
A laugh shoots out of me. “Oh, that’s the furthest thing from the truth.” From the corner of my eye, he rolls his head toward me, his hazel eyes glossy under the streetlights. If I had to guess, he sees three of me right now.
