Page 9 of Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fun. I’ll look at stuff we can do while we’re there.”
“Thanks.”
“Angel?” Chris pokes his head into the room, his eyes widening when he sees me with Jessie. “Lilah, I thought you went with Milo and Finn.”
“No. My only plans tonight involve my couch. Goodnight. Thanks, Jess.”
I flip Evan’s car the bird before sliding into my driver’s seat. Time for a hot bath, a glass of wine, and my favorite Hollie Berry movie,All Snowed Inn. Her Christmas movies are the only reason I keep my subscription going for the Adored Network now that I’m too busy to watch TV.
Too focused onfinallyrelaxing, I don’t notice my car is significantly harder to turn than it should be until I’ve made several turns down Chris’s ridiculous driveway. I lower the radio’s volume, catching the steady thump just as a warning light on my dash illuminates.
“Fuck. Now what?” With a sigh, I pull to the side of the road and step out into the darkness. With a flick of my finger, I activate the light on my phone.
It doesn’t take long to find the culprit. My rear driver’s-side tire sits on a flat line of rubber.
Headlights wash over the area behind me, and Evan’s Jeep rolls to a stop, spotlighting the offending tire. Even in the shadows, his open mouth is clearly visible.
I hold up a hand. “You can just keep your snarky-ass comment to yourself.”
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop the irrational trembling, chalking up the desire to cry to being mentally exhausted after dealing with both my mother and Evan.
He stills, studying me silently until the lines of his face relax. My shoulders mimic the release.
“What happened?”
I shrug. “It was fine when I got here.”
I think.
“Do you have a spare?”
“You’re going to change my tire?” I bite back before thinking better of it.
What can I say? With him, the retorts have become habit.
A muscle tics in his jaw, but he doesn’t fire back.
Guilt pinching at my conscience, I sigh. “Sorry. That was bitchy.”
“Where’s your spare? The back?” He closes the distance to my trunk, and I reluctantly join him.
This close, his cologne is overwhelming intoxication.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I take a second deep breath and release it. He unlatches the trunk, and we stare at smooth, black fabric. No sign of a spare anywhere.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Maybe underneath.”
Without waiting for a response, probably because the words are more for himself than for me, he lowers to a crouch and peers under the car. I try to ignore the way threadbare denim cups his ass like a lover. I do. But overlooking the glorious view in front of me is virtually impossible. The back of his gray shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of tanned, toned skin, and my fingers prickle with the need to touch.
With a strangled sound, I spin away, blinding myself in the headlights of his Jeep.
“What’s the matter?” He jumps up, glancing around.
“What?”
“You sounded like a dying duck.”
“What does a dying duck sound like?” I say, propping my hands on my hips with a glare.
