Just makes things easier on me when inevitably he finds out.
My blood is pumping hard as I scurry down the driveway through the fresh heavy snow toward the headlights waiting. I take one last look up at the house, unsure how I’ll sneak back in, or when, but the thrill of being with Dodge right now outweighs any of the unknowns.
My heart pitter-patters when I see the enormous, looming figure standing beside the passenger door of his rumbling blue Ford pickup as I approach.
“You’re almost late. I was about ready to start tearing down walls.” His low voice is serious, and it only makes me shiver at the force I feel from it.
A little squeak escapes my lips, but I manage to mutter an apology as I get up close.
I slide into the seat, the interior of the truck warm enough to draw a sigh as Dodge holds the door open. He comes around and gets behind the wheel, puts the truck into gear and starts down the dirt road that leads between our properties.
I swallow the golf ball lodged in my throat as we drive in silence, then his hand comes over and grabs mine, bringing it to his lips.
He holds it there, not really kissing it, just keeping it against his mouth, warm breaths tangling between our fingers.
We say nothing on the short drive to his house, the windshield wipers flap, flap, flapping as the snow continues to fall. There are two single tire tracks on the road showing in the bright headlights and the white fluff is banking up about six inches and still coming down.
He pulls up by the front door, gives my hand a squeeze and I look over to see his eyes are closed like he’s praying.
I clear my throat and croak out, “Everything okay? You still want me to be here?”
He turns his head and I notice for the first time his hair actually brushes the roof of the cab. He takes up so much space, Ford needs to create a Dodge-sized model just for him.
“More than anything. You are my one and only Christmas present. The only thing I’ve wanted for a long time.”
He shuts off the truck and slips out his door, coming around to mine, swinging it open.
As I start to step down, his arm sweeps under my rear end and I yelp as he carries me like a doll up the stairs to his simple cabin, through the front door.
Dodge handling me the way he does should ignite my feminist flames, but lo and behold, it’s the exact opposite.
I love how he seems in a way entitled to touch me, handle me the way he does.
“Are you going to carry me around all night?”
“I don’t like not touching you,” he rumbles.
“I like you touching me too,” I reply, shifting against him, the room warm with a blazing fire in a stone fireplace on the far wall of the neat living room.
The space isn’t opulent, but it’s well put together, with a worn, brown leather sofa, an oversized chair and enormous ottoman in the center of the grouping. On the wall there are old sepia-toned photos of what I assume are family.
There’s a small Christmas tree in the corner that reminds me of Charlie Brown’s tree in the Peanuts holiday movie, with colored lights and what look like antique glass ornaments hung here and there. A metal star flickers on the top and a wave of sadness moves through me as I think of Dodge here all alone on Christmas with his little tree.
“I will put you down,” he grunts, and a second later my feet on the floor as he strips off my coat, draping it on the back of a wooden chair next to the front door. “But I will still touch you.”
The weight of one of his hands sweeps down my back and the rumble of his voice, the odd Neanderthal way he speaks, makes my insides flutter. He eases me toward the kitchen where I see a gallon-sized galvanized bucket full of a variety of evergreens and some artfully-positioned birch branches sitting at the center of a four-person knotty wood table that looks well-worn and welcoming.
“All the flower shops in town were closed.” He looks disappointed as we pause by the makeshift arrangement. “I called. All of them. There are sixteen.”
“This is beautiful, Dodge. I love it. I love it more because you made it.”
“You do?” He looks genuinely surprised, glancing at his gift then back to me. “It’s yours.”
He lifts the bucket from the table, handing it my way as I rush to try to take it from him. He’s so tall, I reach out but the bucket is heavier than I expect and instead of taking it from his hands, I lose my grip and nearly dump the entire thing down the front of his shirt.