In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,48
in there.
The light is on, too, which is another clue. Kyle is a notorious energy saver, but Andrew wouldn’t want the twins to have to search a dark room.
I walk over, hovering outside for a deep, steadying breath. A hundred times we’ve played this game and not once have we ever managed to huddle alone together, hiding.
I crack open the closet door.
Andrew cups his hands over his eyes, blinking into the bright light. “That didn’t take you long.”
“It wasn’t exactly a stretch of the imagination.” I step in beside him, and the small closet shrinks to the size of a shoebox when our situation hits me.
“Where did the twins go?” he asks.
“Downstairs. Dining room.”
He doesn’t say anything in response, but I feel him shift beside me. I am immediately drowning in the deep, aching tension of proximity.
“So . . . is it hard for you to give up this room over Christmas?” I finally ask.
I can barely see him because the only light we have to work with is a tiny sliver illuminating us from below, valiantly stretching up from underneath the door. But I can still see him shake his head. “I’m not here much anymore. Besides, I can sleep anywhere.”
I know this to be true. When we were kids, Andrew was famous for falling asleep at the table after a big meal. “Then why go out to the Boathouse?”
“Because there’s just something so infantilizing about sleeping on a bunk bed in the basement,” he says. “I know it seems crazy, but I just could not do it another year.”
“I see it more as a summer camp vibe, but I get that this is your red button.”
“It is.”
I think about the cold, dark, empty space of the Boathouse, and it makes me shiver. “Don’t you get creeped out, sleeping by yourself out there?”
Andrew laughs and leans a little into me. “What’s going to hurt me out there, Maisie? A ghost? The wolf-man?”
“I was thinking more like a deranged serial killer roaming the area.” He laughs at this. “What scares you, then?” I ask. “Anything?”
“I fell in love with audio work by watching Halloween and The Shining and Return of the Living Dead,” he says, and I can hear his sweetly proud smile. “I watch movies like that to unwind.”
What a paradox he is, this bowl-of-sugar man who loves horror.
“What’s your favorite scary movie?”
He laughs, all deep and hoarse. “That’s the killer’s signature line in Scream.”
“It is?”
“Literally everyone knows that, Maisie.”
I laugh now, too. “I’m telling you I can’t watch anything scary, even funny-scary.” I elbow him gently in the dark. “But really, what’s your favorite?”
“For sound?” he says, and I shrug.
“Sure.”
“Probably A Quiet Place. But my all-time favorite is Silence of the Lambs.”
Thrill glitters across my skin. “We saw that together, remember?”
“I remember you wouldn’t let me move more than a foot away from you on the couch, and I even had to check under your bunk in the basement later.”
“Listen,” I say, laughing, “I’m a wuss. I’ll always take kissing over killing.”
I can sense how he leans his head back against the wall at this, exhaling like he’s got a lot on his mind. I do my best to not imagine running my tongue over his Adam’s apple.
“You okay?” I nudge his shoulder with mine.
I feel him turn to look at me. “I’m okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Overthinking, probably.”
A storm erupts in my blood, and I deflect nerves with humor: “About how I’ll forever think you’re just a fine kisser?” I joke.
His laugh this time is half-hearted. Even in the darkness, there’s a sizzle-snap in the air. I blink away to the shadowed view of his jaw, but that doesn’t help because he’s so angular and edible. I look down at his neck, which is similarly problematic. Finally, my gaze drops to his forearms, exposed in the slice of light. He’s rolled up his flannel shirt, and they’re muscular, lightly dusted with hair, and even more amazing than his neck. I want to sink my teeth into them.
“This year has been so odd,” he says quietly. “Theo’s building a house. Mom and Dad are talking about retiring. Everyone seems to know where they’re going and—” He breaks off. “I love my job, but I have this restless sense there’s more out there. More life, more adventure. More than just a few dates a month.”
My heart squeezes. “I know that feeling.”
“I meet people,” he says, “but one date bleeds into another. I haven’t really dated someone, like, long term, in a long