“You never go to your mom’s house for Christmas?”
I scrunch my nose at his question. “Not really my thing.”
“How old are the twins now?”
“Seven, I think. I don’t really keep track.”
“By choice or…” he stares at me a beat before he moves to the gas range to cook the steaks. It’s way too cold and windy for him to even attempt the grill.
My heart squeezes. That little girl inside me still clings to those old wounds. Still cries for her mother’s love. Just once I wish I came in first place. That someone chose me. “I really don’t want to talk about them.”
“Got it.” He puts a little olive oil in the skillet followed by the steaks.
The lights flicker but we don’t lose power. At least not yet. Maybe this time we’ll get lucky and not need the generators. I catch Death staring at me again. I shouldn’t encourage him, but there’s always been something about him. He’s off limits. The VP of my father’s club. Yet I can’t deny the tiny sparks that crackle between us. His soul calls to mine, and this caged bird longs to be free.
To let down my walls and give into the temptation.
Silence stretches between us only neither of us seem to have the urge to fill it. We work together in tandem, making a great team. I handle the potatoes and bread while he finishes the steaks.
I grab the plates and he gathers the silverware.
“We eating in here or out there?”
“It is Christmas Eve,” I remind him. “Let’s do it by the tree.” My cheeks flush as I realize how my words sound. My mind is in the gutter. Though it’s been longer than I care to admit. I’ve hooked up with one guy since Fisher when I went to the beach with Yara and Whiskey. They mainly took me to be their babysitter, but my sister somehow convinced my brother-in-law to take the kids to play minigolf while we had a girl’s night out and there was this guy. That was this past summer. I’m long overdue for some fun.
After getting our food onto the plates we move from the kitchen to the main bar area of the club. The scene is romantic for a biker bar. Big Christmas tree lit up in front of the window as the snowflakes swirl and dance in the background. The fireplace blazing. Music belting from the radio. Some love song that sounds a bit sad.
“Smells awesome. Thank you.”
“It’s not every day I get to cook for a pretty woman.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Hell, Freya. You know you’re gorgeous.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What makes men cheat?”
“I’m assuming this is about Fisher.”
I nod. “I want to get over it. Him. I want to move on, but I think to do that I need to understand.”
“Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
“You speaking from experience or offering?”
“Jesus, babe. You can’t say shit like that to a man like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m bastard enough to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Eat your food.”