Page 176 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
“What the hell is he doing?” I mutter as I shiver all the way down to my bones.
Just then the door unlocks and opens. I don’t give him a second to say a thing. I’m in the house and in front of the fire before he can even welcome me inside.
“Jesus, man, it’s freezing out there.”
He chuckles and shuts the door. “Sorry, I was making you somehot chocolate.” He lifts a cup from the coffee table and hands it to me. I quickly wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, letting it heat me.
“Thank you, this smells amazing.”
He guides me back to the couch, and before I can protest at being pulled away from the fire, he places a blanket over my lap and then slides in next to me, where he drapes his arm over my shoulders and pulls my back up against his chest, offering me some body heat.
“This okay?” he asks. “Are you comfortable?”
“Very,” I say as I snuggle into him. “Thank you.” I take a sip of the hot chocolate after blowing on it a few times and let the warm liquid flow down my throat, warming me from the inside out.
When I lower the mug, he nudges my head to turn toward him, and when I do, he lightly presses his lips to mine, sweetly taking the kiss he so rightfully deserved when I snuck into his house a few seconds ago.
When he releases, he sighs with a goofy grin. “That will never get old.”
I lean into him again and take another sip of my drink. “It won’t.”
He loops his free arm around my waist, his hand resting on my stomach as we stare at the tree we decorated together.
“I know I said it a million times in text messages, but your tribute to your parents was so heartwarming, Cole. I get emotional every time I think about it. How did you hold it together?”
“Barely,” he says. “Any time we practiced, I was fine, but something about what we wore and having my parents projected behind us got to me. Originally, it was supposed to be just a picture frame, but at the last minute Max remembered they had a projector and made it happen. We went last because he was trying to figure it all out with the café.”
“I think the projected picture made it that much better. Seriously, it was amazing. How do you feel afterward?”
“Good. Relieved that it’s over. But also proud. My mom always lovedlistening to me sing when we were in the car together. She would turn the music down subtly so she could hear me better.”
“I don’t blame her. You have such a rich voice. Very sexy.”
“Sexy, huh?” he asks, his hand splaying across my stomach. “Should I sing for you some more?”
“You know, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. Do you know who you sound like?”
“Who?”
“Hayes Farrow. The same rich voice, deep and sultry. I swear you two could do a duet and sound like the same person.”
“Are you a Hayes Farrow fan?”
“Yes,” I gush. “I love him so much. And he just came out with a Christmas album this year. I’ve been listening to it a lot.”
“Yeah?” he asks. “Let me pull it up.”
He leans forward, shifting us as he reaches for his phone, then settles us back on the couch. He connects his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the living room and searches for Hayes Farrow’s Christmas album. He stares at the cover art for a second and then leans forward to look at me.
“You know, I never knew what he looked like. Is this why you like him?”
“I mean, I like him for his music, but his face doesn’t hurt to look at.”
Cole chuckles and presses play on the first song, a slow, melodic rendition of “Let it Snow.”
“The entire album is acoustic, so it’s a very chill sort of Christmas, none of the bells and whistles that go into a big production of Christmas albums. Probably why I think you sound so much like him.”
“Yeah, I can hear it,” he says as we listen to the song together. “He has a much better voice than me, though. More controlled.”
