Ugly Sweater Weather

I mean, I threw out comments here and there about him because, well, he was stupidly perfect, but he seemed to understand that I wasn't a huge fan of being judged by my outside. Which meant he almost never did it.

So doing so twice in one night just felt new. And strange. Yet not altogether unpleasant. If anything, there was an odd little flipping in my belly.

And that was something I was going to go right ahead and not think about.

"So, what is on the schedule for tomorrow?" Crosby asked a while later, lounging next to me on the couch, another hot toddy—which he called disgustingly delicious—resting in his hand, sitting on his stomach.

I was sure it was the odd placement of the cup that had my gaze focused in that general region, that made me almost acutely aware of the fact that his sweater had slipped up when he'd stretched a moment ago, leaving a sliver of taut skin between its hem and the waistband of his pants, showing just the tiniest bit of his Adonis belt and happy trail.

Which were things I should not have been noticing about my best friend.

I mean, yes, I'd seen the guy without his shirt on before. And, yes, it was a sight to behold. Raised by two doctors, he believed in living a healthy lifestyle. So while he did indulge in junk with me, he typically ate a healthy diet, took long walks with Lillybean, and hit the gym on the regular.

It showed.

And I'd noticed.

In a detached sort of way. It all just fit in with the perfect puzzle that was Crosby Dean. The man who could have skated by on his looks, but busted his ass to make something of himself. Who managed to be incredibly kind and grounded, despite having a lot of privilege, a lot of head starts in life.

But this felt like a different kind of noticing.

"Deavienne," he called. Was it just me, or did his tone sound almost, I don't know, silky? It seemed silky. He also almost never used my full name like that. It slid off his tongue way too pleasantly.

Or maybe that was the booze telling my brain that.

That was the most rational explanation.

I was buzzed.

He was a nearby male, when my system had been starved of those for a long while now.

That was all it was.

"Yep?" I asked, my gaze jerking away so fast that the room seemed to spin for a moment.

This was the point where I would usually say something flip, something silly, some rib at him about his stupidly good body, about how it wasn't fair that his Christmas cookie addiction wasn't showing up on his body like it was mine.

Being caught looking at him was always funny.

But now, it almost felt embarrassing.

What the hell was going on with me?

"You alright?" he asked, brows pinching when I slow-blinked at the Christmas tree.

"I, ah, yeah. I think the toddies have gone to my head."

"Always were a lightweight," he agreed, and that silkiness I'd detected earlier was gone, leaving me to think it had never been there at all, that I had simply imagined it.

"Yeah. Anyway. What was the question?"

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" he asked.

"Oh, right. Tomorrow. I know this is kind of lame..."

"Nothing about Christmas is lame," he insisted.

"Okay well. I thought... hot chocolate and taking a stroll down Fifth Avenue to see all the amazing window displays. I planned for it to just be my mom and me, but now that you're coming, we can bring the dogs. Which will make it even better."

"Sounds like a date," he agreed, tossing back the last of his drink, giving me a small smile, then moving to stand.

He might have been better at hiding it, but he was getting a little drunk too. It was in the wobble in his step when he finally got to his feet, in the flush up his neck.

"You should Uber," I told him, watching as he walked over to grab Lillybean's jacket and harness.

"We usually do a good walk before bed," he insisted, strapping her in. "It will be good for us."

"It's a really long walk."

"We can hail a cab if we get tired," he insisted, giving me a warm smile, his eyes bright. "Don't worry about us."

"Text me when you get home. I won't be able to sleep until you do." And he knew that. We had always been the "text me when you get home" type of friends. It was a relatively safe city, but you could never be too careful.

"Always," he agreed, looking over at the tree one last time. "It's a good tree, Dea," he told me, giving me a serious tone and a firm nod.

"That is possibly the highest praise of all coming from you," I said, grinning.

"See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," I agreed, watching him leave, noticing the quick final glance he gave me while closing the door.