Page 59 of Not Home Alone
“Just a lot of sex. While you’re here. While I’m here.”
“While we’re pretending to date, so people won’t think you’re a dickhead anymore and Quinn Whitmore won’t bother you?”
“Can you handle that?”
“So you’re still a dickhead, then?” she says, as if she knows something I don’t… Her hand slides from my chest down to my abs then under my T-shirt. “Can it be the really good kind of just sex like last night?”
“It’s the only kind I have, Tucker.”
She smiles at me. Cupping her face with my hands, I kiss her forehead. I lift her up onto the counter, lean in to kiss her mouth, but she pulls back when her phone rings again. She places her fingers against my mouth. “Hang on.” She looks at her phone. “It’s my dad,” she says, then answers the phone. I stay exactly where I am—horny, happy, frustrated, and impatient. “Hey, Dad!… What?… Really?… No… You’re kidding… No, it was on my list of things to take care of while I’m here, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. That’s amazing! So you can listen to other Christmas songs now?… Wow! I’m so happy.” She locks eyes with me. “Dad, I’ve got something in the oven, so I have to go, but I’ll call you later, okay? Love you, bye.” She hangs up and slides her phone away from her on the counter. “Crazy question—you didn’t hire someone to fix the CD player in my dad’s van, did you?”
“No. I did not.”
She looks confused and disappointed. “Oh. That’s so weird, because everything’s working now. He can eject Michael Bublé, and adjust the volume, and he doesn’t know how it got fixed. I thought maybe I mentioned it to you and—never mind.”
“I didn’t hire anyone to fix it, Tucker. I fixed it. Myself.”
“You fixed it? Yourself?” She laughs. “With your bare hands?”
I hold up my hands. “With these hands. I can use these hands to do all kinds of things.” She blushes adorably, stammers for a few seconds, and then I say, “The van was unlocked. It was an easy fix. I taught myself how to fix stereos and bikes and phones when I was at boarding school. Charged people for it, of course. But this was on the house. I consider it a public service to de-Bubléfy all CD players.”
“Well, Grant Moody,” she says. “That’s mighty thoughtful of you. Thank you. He was so happy.”
“My pleasure.”
She kisses me on the cheek and then curls her legs around my waist when I lean in, finally kissing her on the mouth. “I guess…” she says, between kisses, “I guess I should tell you about one of the fantasies I used to have about you.” I kiss her neck, because I want her mouth to be free to continue what she’s saying. “Since you told me one last night.”
“I’d say I’m all ears, but that’s obviously not true.”
We both glance down at the bulge in my jeans.
And then the timer goes off.
“Oooh, hang on.” She pushes me aside and hops off the counter. After lowering the oven temperature and resetting the timer, she says, “Be right back, I have to grab something from my coat pocket!”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to torment me again or just effortlessly turning my entire body hard and blue, but the scent of cinnamon is filling this kitchen, and I am already more than mildly aroused. I lean against the kitchen island, stroking myself over my jeans, when she comes back in, holding something in the palm of her hand.
“Oh my,” she exclaims.
“I’m dying over here, Tucker.”
She saunters over, stands in front of me, and opens a small tin with something goopy in it. Now I’m smelling cinnamon and peppermint, so that’s not helping. “This is homemade lip balm,” she informs me. “I’m assuming you aren’t allergic to any of the ingredients, since you’ve kissed me while I had it on my lips. I would just like to mention that there is no menthol or camphor in it, so it should cause a tingling, not a stinging sensation.”
“Go on…”
Merrily holds my gaze, and I watch as she applies peppermint lip balm to her lips. Coating them more than necessary to prevent chapped lips. She smacks her lips together and says, “Well, I had this recurring fantasy where we were on stage that night, by ourselves, rehearsing for The Notcracker. You were leaning against the cabinet, much like you’re leaning against the counter here. And I don’t know if this is even a thing, or how I thought of it when I was eighteen, but I was mad at you, so I guess I was hoping it would sting a little.”
Dying.
Dying over here.
She grins and licks her lips and then says, as she undoes my jeans, “But I slathered on all this peppermint lip balm. And then I turned off all the lights on the stage except the footlights.” She slowly lowers herself to her knees, pulling my pants down with her. “And I got on my knees in front of you, and…”
Dead.
TWENTY
GRANT
