Christmas Carol
“Maybe. Where are you from?”
“Oregon, although I’ve lived in Texas for the last few years playing baseball.”
“Baseball?”
“Yeah,” he replies studying me. “You don’t like the sport?”
“Not really. It’s really kind of boring and well…”
“Well?” he prompts, and I sigh because he sounds grouchy again. Obviously, I’m upsetting him. I really don’t want him to get hateful again.
“We have a local team here and I’ve watched a few games, but honestly… you just hit a ball and run and...”
“And?”
“Spit. It’s gross. Why do all baseball players chew tobacco and spit? It’s really really…”
“Gross,” he adds, and I nod.
“So, I take it if I tell you that I chew you’re never going to kiss me,” he says, and I try to ignore how that makes my heart beat faster. I also fail.
“Do you?” I ask.
“Do I chew?”
“Yeah,” I respond, feeling as if I’m playing a dangerous game that I don’t understand—but I also don’t care.
“No, but if I did and it was deal breaker on getting to kiss you, I’d quit on the spot, Bebé,” he promises.
I smile, I can’t stop myself. “Good to know,” I whisper.
“How about you, are you from Christmas, Montana?”
“It’s Mistletoe, Montana,” I correct him. “And no. I moved here to be close to my sister.”
“Where did you live?”
“Most of my life I lived in Monkey Eyebrow, Kentucky.”
“You’re shitting me,” he laughs, his eyes widening, and it’s clear to tell he thinks I’m pulling his leg.
“Nope. I’m a proud resident of Monkey Eyebrow, Kentucky, population one hundred and eighty-seven people—or at least that’s what it was when I left a couple of years ago,” I giggle.
“You are full of secrets, but your biggest one is the one I’m going to demand you tell me,” he says a minute or so later.
“What’s that?” I ask, thinking that listening to him and having him smile at me the way he is right now, might be the best thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.
“What’s your name, Bebé?”
“Carol,” I murmur. I’ve always hated my name. I always felt it was just plain.
“Carol,” he repeats, and it sounds like he’s savoring the word. Maybe that is my imagination, but I like it just the same.
“What’s your name?” I ask
“Cyrus,” he responds.
We share a smile, and we stare at each other for a long moment.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cyrus.”
“You too, Carol,” he says and then takes a bite of my pie. He groans and the sound seems to vibrate between my legs.
“You like it?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably, feeling wetness against the inside of my thighs.
“I believe you have the best pie I’ve ever tasted, Carol. I just might become addicted to it,” he says, all trace of humor gone, his blue eyes intense and causing goosebumps to rise on my skin.
I think my new neighbor might just be trouble…
Big trouble.CyrusI’m actually fucking whistling as I go outside. Mistletoe might not be so bad, as long as I have my sexy little neighbor to warm the cold nights.
And I will.
It’s not going to take a lot of work to get that sweet little morsel in my bed, screaming my name and writhing underneath me. I’m probably asking for trouble. Maybe I should walk away, but that’s the last thing I want to do. I want a taste of her. So, I’m just going to say fuck it. If, after we both put out this fire that’s rising up between us, she gets clingy, I’ll deal with it then.
My whistling stops when I take in the Christmas decorations all over my yard. Suddenly the lighting glare last night through the windows makes sense. Standing right in front of me is a five-foot Santa, with his hand up like he’s waving. His smile annoys the shit out of me, almost as much as those fake-ass rosy cheeks. I bring my leg back and kick the fake St. Nick in the balls. It hurls backwards flipflopping in the air and then lands a few feet back with his ass stuck up in the air like he’s waiting for aliens to fly out of the sky and give him a Merry ole’ probe. The thought makes me laugh.
Now there’s a Christmas story.
“Oh no! What happened to my antique Santa?” Carol gasps, coming across her yard to stand beside of me.
“I just—” I stop trying to confess that I drop kicked Santa when what she said registers. “Hold up these are your decorations puked out all over the yard?”
“Well, that’s a weird way of putting it, but yes, they’re mine. I always do my best to make sure mine and Chelle’s yards are the best decorated in the town. Well, except for the town park of course.”
“Of course,” I mutter.
“I wonder what happened? I had him staked in the ground pretty good I thought.”
Carol squats down to inspect the ground and she can see the huge clumps of dirt—where I kicked it violently from the ground. Maybe I should have been a football player….