Ugly Sweater Weather

But the air felt oddly charged when I got my head out of the neck hole. Curious, my gaze went to Crosby whose gaze was doing something I wasn't sure I'd ever seen it do before. A once-over. And not in a "You have a stain on your shirt" kind of once-over. No, this was a legitimate up-and-down over my legging-clad lower half and complete with a short pause at my chest.

I should have been annoyed. Or frustrated. Or, I don't know, something other than what I felt right then. Which was a little breathless at the way his eyes seemed a little heavy-lidded when they landed on my face again, at the strange tightness to his jaw.

"You've got a great ass," Clarence's voice interrupted the heated moment, making my head turn to find his gaze directed on said backside.

"I, ah, thanks?" I said, feeling more flustered than I should have. "I'm sure all the cookie-binging I am doing is going right to it," I added with a strange, choked little laugh. "Here," I said, snatching the sweater out of Crosby's hands, yanking it down over my head, and hastily pulling it into place, covering up most of my body. "It's perfect," I added, turning to grab my jacket off the couch, wanting to cover up myself a little more.

Crosby teased me about my jacket, claiming it was like the one Claudia had to wear in Home for the Holidays when she lost her stylish one at the airport, and her mom loaned her one of own.

Mine was a black bubble-style coat with a fleece lining that had absolutely no shape at all, and landed somewhere around my calf. It even had a snorkel-style hood that made it nearly impossible for any wind or snow or rain to get inside.

I just wanted to cover up more.

I wasn't sure I could handle Crosby's gaze on my butt like he'd been looking at my chest.

"So, you're feeding me, right?" I asked as I leaned over to pull the zipper all the way up my body, hiding any shape beneath its bulky warmth.

"That I am," Crosby agreed, snapping out of his thoughts, making his face carefree and open again as he walked toward the door to grab his own coat—an old leather one worn soft as silk after being handed down two generations, one that he'd taken to get a lining sewn into because he said while he liked the look, it was like he hadn't bothered to put a jacket on at all. I could see a flash of the ridiculous paw-printed lining before he wrapped himself in it, and did up the zipper. "Ready?"

"Yep," I agreed, excitement chasing away any of the other weird, lingering feelings. "Where are we eating?"

See, Crosby knew me.

And when I said that, I meant he knew me well.

So while I might claim that my favorite food was sushi or soup, he knew that what I really enjoyed more than anything was stuffing my face with a smorgasbord of various favorites.

Which was why he brought me to a spot we only went to a few times a year because we both knew we would walk away feeling bloated and regretting half of the choices we made inside the walls.

Joe's Everything You Can Eat Buffet was a low-brow place in a high-brow neighborhood, boasting mismatching tables and chairs covered in red and white check vinyl picnic liners. The music was old Jersey beach music, even though everywhere else in the city was catering to carols. And the buffets themselves lined two whole walls, then there were also two rows of three separate heated buffets.

And let's not forget the help-yourself soft-serve ice cream machine.

"Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man," I declared, feeling excitement bubble up as Crosby led me inside, and we saved a table with our jackets as we went to stack our giant plates with food.

One hour and four plates later, I was glad I'd opted for leggings because the waistband of my jeans would have been digging in as we moved out onto the street.

"Thank God we have some walking ahead of us," I said as I pulled on gloves and a hat while we made our way to the right subway, prepared for a cool walk across the bridge to get into Brooklyn.

"I'm not sure I have room for alcohol," I told him as we stepped in front of the bar a while later.

"Oh, you're drinking," Crosby told me, shrugging out of his jacket, reaching to take mine as I did the same.

So, yeah, then we drank as we walked around looking at the different theme trees, taking our turns at the karaoke machine, getting—in our minds—better with each passing song, and drink.

About three hours later, we were both buzzing as we stumbled back into the cold, me drunkenly bumping into various things until Crosby linked our arms to keep me close as we started our walk toward Dyker Heights.