Secret Triplets(17)

 

He put in some logs and lit them with a lighter he got out of his pocket.

 

I flopped my shivering self on the couch, staring at the fire, at the fiery tongues flickering laughter at me.

 

“I’m sorry, Alexa,” he said, sitting beside me.

 

“It’s okay,” I said, not looking at him.

 

“No,” he said. “No, it’s not.”

 

He stood up.

 

“I’m going to make some more hot chocolate.”

 

I stared at the flames, wishing I could pick them up, take them in my hands, and take them outside, through the snow and down the path so that they could show me my way home. Why did I always have to go falling for the wrong guy?

 

The kettle rumbled to life, and then Brock said, “I’m adding Baileys to mine...you?”

 

I stared at the flames. As the “no” I should have said flickered along with them, a “sure” escaped my lips. Brock came over with two steaming cups a few minutes later and handed me one. At the sight of mine topped with more marshmallows than even I had put on last time, I couldn’t help but smile.

 

“It’s okay?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” I said, taking a small sip. “Yeah. It’s better than okay, thank you.”

 

And it was. All of it, the warm, soothing fireplace, the comfy, mahogany couch that I’d sunk into, the delicious hot chocolate and alcohol something, it was good. It was great, even.

 

“I’ll sleep down here tonight,” Brock said, sitting beside me. “You can have the loft.”

 

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Really, I can take the couch. Or...we could both fit in the loft?”

 

Brock shook his head.

 

“No way am I having you sleep on the couch. As for the loft…I don’t know. Want to have a look and see what you think?”

 

Putting my drink down, I climbed partway up the ladder, pretended to check the loft, and then climbed back down.

 

“It’s nice. Looks like enough room.”

 

With a nod, he reached into the bakery bag and extracted two cookies, one of which he handed to me.

 

“I’ve got an idea.”

 

Then, in one swift motion, he dipped his cookie into his drink and took a big bite.

 

Closing his eyes, he nodded slowly, said, “Knew it was a good idea.”

 

I did the same and found myself smiling as the chocolatey goodness seeped into my mouth.

 

“We’ve had a lot of good ideas today.”

 

He opened his eyes, caught my glance, and looked away.

 

“Yeah,” he murmured, and something told me he wasn’t just thinking of the cookies and hot chocolate.

 

And so we sat there, sipping our hot chocolate, dipping our cookies, and sneaking glances at each other out of the corner of our eyes, sinking further and further into the couch and each other. The fireplace was so warm and Brock was so warm and I was so warm, so very warm and happy. I closed my eyes and enjoyed it all: the rich hot chocolate and sugary marshmallow taste, Brock’s cedar smell, the warm buzzing feeling the alcohol was filling me with.

 

When I opened my eyes, Brock was inches away from me, his eyes on mine.

 

“I’m going to bed now,” he said.

 

“I’ll go too,” I said.

 

He didn’t move. I didn’t move.

 

Then, slowly, Brock inched toward me.

 

He took the same stray strand of hair between his fingers, tugged it with a half smile, and then tucked it behind my ear once more.

 

“Good night, Alexa.”

 

“Good night, Brock.”

 

Then he rose and offered me his hand. I accepted it and stopped inches from his face.

 

“Need help getting up there?”

 

I shook my head, stumbled to the ladder, and then gave him a rueful smile.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Here,” he said, his hands on my waist, his lips by my ear. “Just take it one step at a time.”

 

And as I clambered my way up, his hands supported my waist, then thighs, then lower legs, it occurred to me that this wasn’t such bad advice for life in general.

 

At the top, I collapsed onto the sheets and rolled over to make room for Brock, who was on the bed a few seconds later.

 

The two of us tossed and turned as we made ourselves comfortable. Then there was a stillness, although my heart was anything but still. It was shaking with anticipation, with a silent, painful longing. I lay there for who knew how long in a tortured purgatory of half-wakefulness. Too tired to be awake but too anxious to sleep, as chunks of thoughts clattered through my head.

 

Was he still awake too? What if I turned around and kissed him and felt his cedar scent on my skin and his warm fingers in mine and let what was bottled up inside me break free? What if I climbed down the ladder and ran away, ran outside and drove into the snow, into the snow storm that was nothing compared to what was raging in my head?