Ugly Sweater Weather

A fluttery sensation moved through my belly as I stared up at him, wondering if he could read the look that was surely on my face. A mix of confusion and uncertainty and heat and need.

It seemed pointless, trying to deny it anymore.

Something somehow somewhere along the lines had made me feel more than friendly about Crosby. I could try to blame inconsequential influences, like the fact that I hadn't been with a man in a long time, or the holiday season making everything more romantic, convincing us single girls that our own personal Hallmark movie was right around the next snow-covered corner. But none of those factors changed the underlying truth.

I was developing feelings for Crosby.

The heated kind of them, since I'd always had the affection, the appreciation, the respect, the interest in him as a person.

But this interest in him as a man was new and strange and a little scary, if I were being completely honest.

I mean, even if he did, miraculously, have the same feelings for me—which seemed unlikely given that Crosby was the kind of man who could have any woman in the world with his good looks, good job, and amazing personality—and I could get over the fear of screwing up a really important friendship, I couldn't help but worry there would be a weird factor.

Like if we started getting hot and heavy and layers began peeling off, would there be a moment of blinding clarity that this was a bad idea, that being naked together was just about the most awkward thing imaginable, or that we didn't jive physically like we did mentally and emotionally.

"I told you that you could trust me," Crosby said, that voice doing that velvet thing I was sure had only started a week or two before. I'd tried to rack my brain for other times I'd heard it, but I kept coming up blank.

"My hero," I said, trying for levity, but my voice came out too tight, too breathless, too, well, needy.

"You're flushed," he told me, reaching out, touching my cheek with feather-light fingers, and I swear that sensation moved through my chest as well, up my spine, and somewhere else entirely.

"I, ah, it's..." I wanted to claim it was cold. I wasn't cold. I was overheated, if anything. And not just from my ill-advised layers of clothing. No, this was a different kind of heat, the kind that came from the inside.

Crosby's fingertips grazed down my cheek, my jaw, his thumb moving over my chin, the very tip brushing the edge of my lower lip, turning my body molten.

And then a realization hit me.

He was going to kiss me.

My heartbeat tripped. My breathing felt trapped. My lips parted ever so slightly in a clear invitation.

"Get a room!" some teen yelled, getting a chorus of laughs from his friends as his shoulder rammed Crosby slightly as he skated past.

And just like that, the moment felt tainted. My thoughts managed to fight through the haze of new desire, allowing all the fears and uncertainties to creep back in, leaving me pushing against Crosby's chest, sliding away from him, holding onto the wall as I started to try to skate away.

The rest of the day felt oddly forced, awkward, like we'd lost our mojo somehow. It was so obvious that when I suggested both of us heading home without even getting something to eat, despite hearing his stomach growling, he'd immediately agreed.

And I went home and overanalyzed the whole thing until I felt listless and anxious about our planned cookie-baking the following day. Especially in my cramped little space.

So what did my cowardly butt do?

Text and ask if we could do it at his place, so we had more space.

There'd been a half an hour pause before he answered, saying "Sure," but reminding me that Noel was in town and staying the night with him before she hopped over to Clarence's house then, finally, her parents.

I felt two distinct reactions at once.

Relief, because there would be a buffer.

And disappointment, because despite all my doubts, a large—and growing—part of me wanted to be alone with him, to see if things might progress with us.

But the decision was out of my hands now.CHAPTER EIGHTCrosby"I think it's sweet," Noel decided, helping me unpack some bags of baking things I'd had dropped off from the grocery store. Dea would bring most of it, but with an extra set of hands, I figured I needed to contribute a bit to the whole thing as well.

"I'm starting to think it was a stupid idea," I admitted, lining up the different sprinkles I'd bought.

"Why?" Noel asked, making me turn to face her.

She had the family traits of medium-dark hair which she kept long. Most of the time, she had it pulled up in a bun, so it didn't get in the way at med school, but she had it down now, falling in loose waves halfway down her back, framing a face that was much more delicate than mine and Clarence's, with a nose that was dusted with faint freckles that made her appear younger than she was.