Page 12 of Make You Mine This Christmas (Holly Ridge #2)

Austin

Fucking Cole and his tendency to be right all the fucking time.

I wipe tears from under my eyes, hiding in my room.

Hearing Brody describe me, the way he sees me.

Or at least saw me. No one’s ever framed me in such a positive light.

I’m not the guy who can’t decide what he wants to do or can’t hold a job.

Instead, to him, I’m the one who will do whatever the next need is. Go wherever someone needs me.

I think back to the first time I met Brody.

He came to Winterberry Glen in the first place to work as a paralegal at Johnsons and Sons.

They ordered lunch from the deli I worked at back then.

His piercing blue eyes. His shy smile and tendency to blush.

Holding himself with confidence among his coworkers, but kind in his interactions at the same time.

Pretty sure he was into men but not wanting to out him as the new guy in town, I hinted, but let him take the lead.

Suddenly, I ran into Brody everywhere. At the gym before work, at the town hall for Bingo Night with Mrs. Krazinski, who he rented a room from, in the grocery store.

The checkout aisle is where he finally took me up on my weeks of hinting and asked me out, flushing red the whole time.

Johnsons and Sons specializes in Mergers and Acquisitions and flew under the radar despite its strong reputation having its roots in a small town like Winterberry Glen.

Brody tried to explain it to me on our first date.

Even though I worked hard to get him to ask me out, I was nervous to be on a date with someone as hot and smart as he was.

Realizing he had forgotten I’d lived in this town my entire life and gave him the opening for his explanation by asking if he was particularly interested in M&A, it endeared me to him right away knowing he was nervous too.

Shaking myself free from memory lane, I realize I’ve been away for a while, and it’s time to be a grownup and go face my ex.

I busy myself finding clothes for Brody to change in to.

I’m taller than he is, so even though our body shapes differ, I’m able to find a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt that should fit him without a problem.

My movements stop after I open my drawer of boxer briefs and realize this area might not work for us to share.

I snag a Christmas-themed pair, deciding I’ll let him make that call and carry the stack of clothes across the hall to his room.

Except Brody’s not in his room. The bed is the rest of the way made—great job hosting, Austin. I set the clothes on the bed and hurry back toward the living area. Surely I would have heard the front door open if he had left.

When I round the corner to the kitchen, I find him with the fridge door open, wearing the look of someone who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Sorry, I didn’t plan to actually touch anything. I thought I might see what you had in the way of making dinner.”

“You can cook?” I ask. “Sorry,” I wince. “I didn’t mean to sound quite so surprised. When you were here before, you lived on—”

“Protein shakes and chicken and rice. I know.” He straightens up and looks me right in the eye. “I have a lot more time to myself to cook now and”—he pats his stomach—“a better and healthier relationship with food, too. So, yes. I can cook.”

Wanting to ask why he’s not a lawyer, knowing his career change is why he has so much more time chokes me. It wants to come right out of my mouth. Brody smiles a knowing smile and holds up his hand.

“I know. You want to know why I have more time to cook. I want to tell you. I need to tell you. But maybe only one life-altering story per night?”

In all my focus on getting him some clothes and panic when I didn’t see him in his room, the bomb he dropped barely fifteen minutes ago faded away. It pulses back now, but I’m able to ignore it in the name of food.

“What did you find in the way of dinner?” I ask, walking across the kitchen and opening a cabinet drawer preemptively, knowing what he’ll say.

“A whole lot of nothing. Half a jar of pasta sauce, maybe?” he says, but his voice is without judgment. I set another jar of pasta sauce and a box of pasta on the counter.

“Sounds like pasta for dinner then.” I smile, and Brody matches it.

I know we need to talk about what he revealed, but we can do that with full stomachs.

“There’re some meatballs in the freezer.

I’ll get them going too. I put some clothes on your bed if you want.

I can throw anything you might need to wear again tomorrow in the wash.

We can place a pickup order to grab on the way home tomorrow night for anything you might need in the interim. ”

I see Brody’s eyes widen when I refer to my place as home.

An honest slip of the tongue. But even though he decided our future without me ten years ago, I can’t deny there’s something about having him in my space, getting the chance to know this new and different Brody.

It doesn’t mean I have to give him my heart.

But it might mean I can gain back a friend.

“I’ll go get changed then,” he says, heading back down the hall. I busy myself with putting water on to boil and preheating the oven. I move the load of towels I left in the dryer two days ago to the waiting hamper, so glad I didn’t forget a load in the washer that needs to be rewashed.

Brody shuffles back out into the kitchen, the jeans and sweater he wore all day in hand.

I catch a flash of white for his undershirt and black for his boxer briefs in the mix.

My eyes flash toward his crotch all on their own.

Is he free-balling it in my sweatpants right now?

Why does the idea he is do something to me?

He’s still standing there, clothes in hand. I jolt into action.

“Oh, right. Washer’s over here.” I walk the five steps across the room to where the stainless-steel stacked unit gleams. Right, I’m sure he spotted it. I open the door, and he tosses his clothes in.

“Did you want to put anything in too, so we’re not running a load for six pieces of clothing?” My brain tries to figure out what the other two pieces are while Brody keeps talking. “And if I could bother you for a pair of socks too, that would be great. Floor’s a little cold.”

His toes lift and fall in order against the linoleum that requires me to keep my feet in slippers even in the heat of summer.

“Oh shit, of course. I’ll be right back.” I, once again, hurry away from Brody. Finding my back-up slippers in my closet, I grab those, a pair of socks, and the top few things from my hamper. When I make it back to the kitchen, Brody’s pouring pasta into the boiling water.

“Here you go.” I try to hand him only the slippers and socks, but everything else falls out of my hands too. And there, on the floor, are a pair of Jack-o’-lantern briefs, lying right next to my Turkey Day briefs.

I duck down to grab them. “Swear I’ve done laundry since Halloween. Since Thanksgiving too, honestly. Sometimes I just grab whatever’s on top.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Brody’s smile says plenty with the same twinkle in his eye that looks so in place when he’s wearing his Santa suit.

He leans against the counter and pulls on the wool socks I brought him before stuffing his shoes into the slippers.

I busy myself with throwing the rest of my laundry—and shame—into the washer and starting the load.

“So, you have more than one pair of slippers?” Brody asks.

“Yeah,” I say, heading to the oven to check on the meatballs.

“My mom gets me a pair every year for Christmas, and I usually keep last year’s pair in reserve in case I have someone over.

” How that sounds registers once it’s out of my mouth, but it’s too late now.

Might as well lean into it. “You know what they say—we bisexuals can’t keep it in our pants. ”

“Stop it.” The fierceness in Brody’s voice makes me turn around to face him. “Stop putting yourself in the slutty bisexual box. Society does it enough for you. You can sleep with whoever you want—it doesn’t matter that they may not all share the same parts.”

“I . . . I know. I was kidding,” I say, my chest warming at the vigor with which Brody defended me.

“Good,” he says, nodding once. “Besides, I remember how upset biphobia gets you.”

My grin widens, remembering the rant Brody’s referring to.

Some social media post or another set me off, and I spent a good five minutes ranting about society discounting bisexuals, especially bisexual men.

He nodded and listened the whole time. When I finally ran out of steam, he showed me just how much he appreciated my bisexuality by getting on his knees and—

Briiiing.

The oven timer interrupts the sexy memory. One glance at Brody’s face, catching the way his eyes dart back up from my crotch, tells me his mind went to the exact same place. Not dangerous at all.

“Time to eat!” I say, my voice too loud. Brody strains the pasta and guesses the cupboard with the bowls right on the first try while I take the meatballs out and warm up some sauce. We’re both settled on the couch eating in silence before Brody speaks again.

“You mentioned your mom buys you slippers. How is she doing?”

Brody’s time in town came right after Mom’s got the “no evidence of disease” news from her doctors.

She wanted—no, needed—to get back to some semblance of normal, but I struggled with doing the same.

Brody served as a great distraction, but never complained about me having dinner with her a few times a week.