Thomas & January (Sleepless 2)

“Oh, really, that’s fascinating. Your parents named you, did they? What a conversationalist!”

“Shut up, rude ass. My parents named each of us after the months of the year.”

“Starting with you, then.”

“Yes, and it goes all the way down to October. My mom lost her eleventh and couldn’t have them anymore. So, we’re stuck at ten kids.” I smiled.

“Ten kids! My God, that is - that is a lot of kids.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never had so much fun as you’ve had with my family. They are the craziest, funniest, most amazing people in this world. The way you feel about your friends is the way I feel about my family.”

“Then you must love them very much,” he said softly, eyes trained on a few grave markers.

“I do. My sister July is my best friend. She is so rockin’ cool, Tom. She’s got this crazy long, jet-black hair and is, like, six feet tall. She’s bigger than life!” I smiled at a memory of her. “All of us are pretty tall. I’m the shortest actually.”

“You’re the shortest?” he asked in disbelief, his eyes roaming down then up my body and heating me up from the inside without so much as a graze of his hand.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat.

“I imagine your family must be an imposing force.”

“That they are, but not because of their height. We’re just big and loud and lots of fun. I miss them already.”

“It’ll be alright,” he offered. “You’re going to have a lot of fun at this job, trust me.”

I eyed him carefully, taking in his tall frame, stopping on the hand that rubbed my arm not two hours before. I have a feeling you’re right, Thomas Eriksson.

“So you know how lucky I am in my heritage but what about you? Where does Eriksson come from?”

“My mom is Swedish and my pop is American but from German descent.”

“Ah, that explains the light features,” I said, popping another chip in my mouth and contorting my face from the vinegar.

“Yeah, blond hair, blue eyes. Boring.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say boring,” I said, my face and neck heating to an impossible color. Irritating problem!

Tom’s tongued his upper teeth as he avoided a laugh and that proceeded to drive me up the bloody wall.

“Sorry,” I said, hiding my face behind my hands.

“Don’t,” he said, pulling at one of my wrists. “It’s nice, January.”

Nice? Nice? What does that mean?

“Come on,” he said, crumpling the coned newspaper that carried our chips and tossing it in the nearest bin. “We’ve got quite a trek ahead of us.”

Chapter Six

El Scorcho

January

Our tiny car proved advantageous for "Operation Disarm Tom." He kept glancing my way, his arm bumping mine, his shoulder grazing mine, his fingers brushing mine. Problem? Uh, it was slightly backfiring! I kept fantasizing he’d veer off the road and onto the shoulder and kiss the tar out of me.

“Tom,” I said, gulping down the tension permeating throughout the car.

“Mmm, hmm,” he said, his knuckles white.