Page 44 of Go Back to December

More games. The thought makes my skin heat, because I want to play.

“Forfeit a truth,” he says. “Tell me about the shitty Christmases.”

“Why would you ever want to hear about that?”

“It’s been bothering me all day.”

A mystery he’s intrigued by, more likely, and I was stupid to mention it. If we start down this transparency trail, it’s going to bite me in the ass.

Part of me wishes I could. On some level, I feel I owe Baz an explanation about why I never showed up to meet him after that night at the Jungle House.

But I’ve been chasing the phantom of a moment that barely happened almost a decade ago. If I’m going to move beyond it, to Paris, I have to let this go. “Take the medicine first.”

He sighs. In a drawn-out motion, he swallows the other half of the pill with the rest of the water. “Your turn.”

I keep my focus on a safe patch of gray-painted wall. “Christmas is weird for my family too. My parents got divorced when I was in high school. My mom and stepdad usually travel over the holiday, and my brother never works his leave in time. I can’t remember the last time we celebrated together.”

“What do you usually do on Christmas?” he asks.

“Try to keep busy with other things.”

“Why?”

This part is trickier. It edges close to the history between us that neither of us has acknowledged, and to the screaming rawness inside me, when my mind turns back to the horrible time.

Stick to the truth. As few details as possible.

“When I was in college, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. He was in the hospital over Christmas.”

“That must have been rough,” he says. “How is he now?”

I shake my head. I won’t get those words out without crying.

“I’m so sorry.”

The same words Peter gave me. Like his father, Baz’s voice is as soothing and steady as his gaze. He doesn’t press for details. He gives me the quiet space I need as badly as my next breath.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

Baz leans back on the pillows, and it takes all my willpower not to ogle the attractive cut of his jaw. As he finally succumbs to the effects of the medicine, his eyelids droop, lines ease from his forehead.

“Your forfeit is paid. Strap me back in and pretend like you don’t enjoy it.”

He places his feet in the boots, and I fasten the outside leg. The inside leg strap gets stuck on the Velcro tabs and to undo it, I have to crawl across the bed, my feet angled toward his torso. When the tie finally catches, my elbow slips and I fall forward onto the mattress.

A light touch flutters on my calf.

“I’m okay.” I say it more to myself than to him, as I scramble up.

The faint light from the lamp hits my bare leg. My fair skin is nearly indistinguishable from the white cotton ankle sock.

Baz’s hand hovers over it. Then, with one finger, he slowly traces the thin skin where the sock meets my ankle.

A line of fire flares straight to my groin.

His thumb follows the fiery trail his finger left, and I stifle a gasp. He can't possibly fathom what his touch is doing to me.

“I didn’t know you were going to be at that Finance Committee meeting,” he murmurs. “You wore that green dress at breakfast, and the only thing I could think about all morning was the way you looked in it. And then I had to walk into that conference room, and you were sitting there, this impossible splash of brightness and color against so much starkness.”