In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,59

his groan, a flash of his throat arched back in pleasure snaps my thoughts clean of anything else.

“Too cold out there in the Boathouse?” Ricky turns to smile at me, too, like he’s really got Andrew where he wants him now.

“Actually, I was toasty as a bear in a den,” Andrew says, poking at his cereal. “Just stayed up too late and then couldn’t shut off my brain.”

“Something worrying you? Work stuff?” Ricky pulls down three mugs as the coffee starts to slowly dribble into the carafe.

“Work was the last thing on my mind, actually.” Andrew gives his dad an easy shrug and takes another bite of cereal. “Just wide awake and buzzing.”

I look down at the linoleum, faking a yawn to smother my delirious grin.

“Well, you’ll be tired after today,” Ricky says, sitting at the table, “that’s for sure.”

Today: December 23. Scavenger Hunt Day. We pair up in teams pulled out of a hat and disperse around Park City to collect photo evidence of a long list of random things Ricky and Lisa dream up for us—a silver ornament, a giant candy cane, a dog wearing a sweater, things like that. Occasionally video evidence is needed, like last year when we had to get video of a group of people doing the cancan. Permission is required, and asking strangers to do weird things can be mortifying, but mostly it’s a blast.

The hunt also gives us the chance to do any last-minute Christmas shopping we might need—Theo and Miles never have their shopping done beforehand—and is usually a much-needed break from the confines of the cabin. Mom, Kyle, and Aaron usually stay back to start cooking tomorrow’s feast. They prepare the same, beloved menu every Christmas Eve: ham, scalloped potatoes, roasted vegetables, macaroni and cheese, homemade bread, and about ten different pies we all look forward to every year.

The rest of us are unleashed and turn ruthlessly competitive. One year, Dad even bought a woman a new shirt so no one else would have the chance to cross off the “someone wearing a Broncos jersey” item on their list.

My feet finally unlocked, I walk across to the table, pull out a seat, and sit shoulder to shoulder with Ricky.

“What about you, Mae?” he says, nudging me. “You sleep okay?”

I should probably lie, but I’m too tired to be coy. “Not really.”

Andrew puts on a mask of dramatic concern. “Oh no. You too?”

Ricky bolts up as soon as the coffeemaker beeps that it’s done brewing, and I use the opportunity to give Andrew a warning expression that I can’t seem to hold; it immediately cracks into a smile that feels like sunlight on my face. In my head, Julie Andrews sings and spins on an Austrian mountainside. Confetti bursts from a glittery cannon. A flock of birds take glorious flight from the top of an enormous tree. I am silvery, glimmering happiness.

Ricky slides a mug in front of me and lets out a tiny sound from the back of his throat. “You don’t look tired, Maelyn.”

“You actually look a little flushed.” Andrew innocently slides another bite of cereal into his mouth, chews thoughtfully, and swallows, adding, “If you need a nap in the Boathouse later, it’s quiet and really warm in the sleeping bags.”

Well, now I’m sure my cheeks are hot and my eyes are gleaming. I lean over my mug, inhaling the warm, nutty scent. “I think I’m good.”

“In any case, we’ll get you to bed extra super early tonight,” Andrew says, and catches my eye over the lip of his own mug. “Scout’s honor.”

• • •

A half hour later, he catches me in the hallway with my shower bag, preparing to climb the long staircase to the upstairs bathroom with the best water pressure. Andrew tugs me into the dark, secluded dining room and hides us behind one of the thick velvet curtains, burying his face in my neck.

“Hi.” He pulls in a deep inhale. “Don’t shower yet.” His mouth opens, teeth press into the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. “You smell like the Boathouse.”

“Your flirting was very subtle back there,” I tease.

Laughing silently, he pulls me right up tight against him, a stand-up cuddle. “Kiss me.”

So I do.

“You want to know why I couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

I laugh. “Why?”

“Because I kept thinking about all your little sounds last night.”

“My sounds.”

His mouth comes up my neck. “Yeah. Right in my ear.” His voice goes quiet. “‘Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.’ ”

I honestly have few recollections of anything that