Page 17 of Holly Jolly July

Ellie

I should be sad I’m not filming today—again. But I’m not, because last night Matt messaged me about seeing him again, this

time for an official date! One side of me thinks he probably just wants to spare his appliances from my horny half-baked forced-proximity

meet-cutes. The other side knows from the way he looked at me, the way he leaned against me during the movie, the way he couldn’t

help but give me a chaste kiss as he left, that he’s just as eager for this date as I am.

Though I bet I require a lot more prep work than he does.

I get up early and exfoliate, then shave every hair off my body from the neck down, exfoliate again, scrub myself clean in

the shower, and lotion every inch of my skin. Despite my best efforts, my unruly hair can’t decide if it’s wavy or curly and

ends up looking like the same mess it always does. And my makeup is so poorly done I consider driving into town and paying

Mariah a visit.

I can’t wait to tell her about this tomorrow—my first official day of filming. I don’t have any lines yet, but hey, at least

I’m on set. I clench my fists and teeth, overcome with excitement at all the possibilities ahead.

A knock on the door startles me. I glance at my phone—eleven thirty. He’s early! If he’s even half as excited as I am then this is going to go very well.

I give myself one more look in the mirror and practise my cute-but-casual smile, then go greet Matt. The door creaks open,

letting in a blast of sunlight and early-morning July warmth.

Matt steps closer, blocking the light, bringing his own radiance with him.

“Are you wearing plaid?!” I gasp, my mouth dropping open.

He eyes himself, then looks up to me, a playful grin lighting his features. “I thought I’d join you for Christmas, if that’s

okay?”

Dear god, the strength it takes to stay standing on my own two legs. I manage a nod while biting my quivering bottom lip,

then step aside so Matt can enter. He’s wearing red plaid PJ bottoms and a tight black V-neck shirt that hugs his upper body

and biceps in a drool-inducing way. His scruff is neatly trimmed, forming a short beard, and his hair is combed back into

a high bun with little golden tendrils escaping the sides.

I close the door, wafting his cologne my way, which must be infused with pheromones because I can feel my nostrils flaring

and my lower half warming at his scent alone.

Matt toes off his sneakers and heads to the kitchen, setting reusable grocery bags on the counter. “I thought we’d have lunch

together. Have you eaten?”

“I’m always down to eat.”

“Good. I hope you’re hungry.” He takes a few Tupperware containers out of the bag and sets them down, the plastic fogged.

I reach out and touch one; it’s still hot. “Did you cook this morning?”

He gives me a shy grin. “Maybe.”

“What is it?”

Matt organizes all the dishes in front of me, then takes off the lids one by one to reveal a full turkey dinner. Baked turkey

breasts fragrant with rosemary and thyme, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed carrots and peas, gravy, stuffing, and even a can

of cranberries. “I bought the buns at the store, though,” he says, removing a plastic bag of bakery-prepared tray buns.

Stunned, I look at all the food, then up to Matt’s face, which is somewhere between giddy and nervous.

“Is this... okay?” he asks. “We can go out to lunch instead if you like. I thought we could have a Christmas dinner, but

I also know this great sushi place—”

“Matt,” I interrupt him, reaching out and taking his hand. My throat is thick with emotion. “This is... beyond perfect. Thank you.”

His shoulders relax and he releases a slow breath, turning his palm up to hold my hand. We stare at each other for a long

moment, a zing of possibilities igniting a fire in my belly.

I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, moving behind him to get plates and cutlery. Matt and I work in silence as

we dish each other up, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, and I know immediately that I can get used to this. I get a flash of us

living days, weeks, years, going through the minutia of everyday life: him making my coffee in the morning, me ensuring he

packs fruit in his lunch, him kissing me on the way out the door for work, me waiting up until he gets home, tangling in the

bedsheets together and making sweet love while the nighttime sounds of crickets chirping and owls hooting floats in through

the open window with the cool evening breeze.

I glance at him. He looks at me. We both smile and look away.

Plates piled high, we settle on the stools on the opposite side of the peninsula and dig in.

My first bite elicits a moan, and I close my eyes to savour the nostalgic flavours.

“Oh no, you hate it,” Matt jokes, nudging me with his elbow.

“It’s so good!” I mumble, mouth full of half-masticated food. I finish chewing and swallow. “Seriously, you cooked this, all

by yourself?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Does that surprise you?”

“It does.”

“Kind of sexist.” He chuckles.

I laugh too. “I never thought about it that way, but I guess it is. It’s just, you’re so... attractive? And you’re a hard

worker. And you’re a kind, genuine person.”

He presses a hand to his chest and lifts his chin. “Go on.”

I elbow him back. “You’re the full package, is all I’m say ing. Add ‘can cook’ to that list and you’re officially out of my league.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His leg rubs against mine and I return the gesture, my toes running up the back of his calf.

“How’d you learn to cook like this?” I ask before forking another mouthful.

“My grandma,” he says. “My parents divorced when I was young, and both were super career-oriented, so I stayed with my grandma

a lot. She didn’t have TV, but she did have a big garden. We spent a lot of time out there, growing our own food, canning

and pickling, making jam. She always had me in the kitchen with her, and I learned a few tricks over the years. When she passed,

I...”

His voice catches, and I pause midbite to turn my full attention to him.

He takes a moment, then continues, his voice normal. “When she passed, nobody else knew the recipes she used to make, or how

to prepare them, since her writing was barely legible chicken-scratch. So family meals fell to me. And it’s like a little

part of her lives on through her cooking. We’re all sitting together at the table, one spot is empty, but the kitchen smells

the same and the food tastes the same and, for a little while, she’s not gone.”

My heart aches as I listen. He has no idea, but he’s checking all of my boxes. He’s exactly the type of person I always imagined

myself with. Capable, emotional, could start a homestead and live out in the countryside with cows and goats and chickens.

And now my fantasy includes a huge garden and a cellar full of pickles. Is it possible I’ve stumbled upon the perfect man?

Matt glances at me, then drops his eyes back to his plate, his shoulders raising in a self-conscious way.

I reach out and take his hand again, giving it a squeeze. “Your grandma would be so proud of you.”

He looks at me, his earnest brown eyes warm and vulnerable. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile as he regards me. He leans in closer, hovering just out of reach. “Just wait until you try my pie.”

I gasp and release my hand from his hold to slap him in the chest. “You made pie?”

Later, when the leftovers are packed and stored away in the fridge, when the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away,

when I’m vibrating from how close I feel with Matt, when I’m pinching myself to wake up from this dream, we settle down on

the couch to watch a movie.

“I have a surprise for you, too.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Oh yeah?” He grins. “What’s that?”

My laptop is set up on the coffee table, primed and ready to go. I press a few buttons and Die Hard starts playing. “Your favourite Christmas movie!”

“You’re so thoughtful. You know that?”

I give him a coy shrug, reaching for his hand. He provides it eagerly, his long fingers enveloping mine. “You really put a

lot of effort into today,” I say, glancing out the window to the bright July sun. “And I really appreciate it. It’s been a

long time since anyone put this much consideration into a date with me.”

He reaches with his free hand and tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear, blazing a trail of fire with his fingertips

along my cheekbone. “You should be with someone who puts this much effort in every day.”

My eyes dance with his, my heart pounds in my ears, and my stomach is somehow up in my throat. Matt tugs me with his hand.

I oblige, inching closer, the pull between us growing more intense until I can barely think, until I can barely do anything

except bridge the last bit of space between us.

When our lips finally connect, his are warm and soft in contrast to his hard body.

I press myself against him. Matt draws me in, pulling me onto his lap.

I straddle him, not thinking about how fast this went from innocent date to provocative dry humping as I grind on his lap, feeling him hard beneath me.

Our lips lock and unlock, tongues tangling with one another as his hands grip my waist and my fingers scratch his beard.

My hands make their way to his man-bun, and I part from him for a moment. “Can I take your hair down?”

He replies with a nod before bringing his mouth to my throat. I pull his hair free of its tie and let his golden-brown waves

down, running my fingers through his locks. “Not fair,” I pout. “Your hair is nicer than mine.”

His chest rumbles with a half laugh. “I love your hair.” He then proceeds to grab a fistful and give it a little tug, tilting

my chin to the ceiling and baring my throat for him, which he licks.

I gasp at the sensation. “Matt?” I manage.

“Yeah?” he replies, hoarse.

“Take me to bed.”

He grinds against me once more. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He manoeuvres me over his lap and picks me up in his arms. I drape one arm around his shoulder, my other hand gripping his