In a Holidaze by Christina Lauren

chapter eighteen

Andrew pulls out a chair for me when we get to the table, and I have to do a mental double take, trying to figure out if this is normal behavior. Have we ever reached the table in unison before, and if so, has Andrew pulled out my chair for me? A restrained laugh is still shining in his eyes and I know he wants to give me so much crap for being patently uncool right now, but does he not still feel my mouth on his? I certainly still feel the imprint of his kiss.

Benny catches my eye and slowly raises a single brow. I look away.

Objectively, dinner is terrible. The table is cluttered with plates of unidentifiable food: a mass of red and brown that I suspect is an attempt at meat sauce, a bowl of pasty white noodles all clumped together. Charred garlic bread cut into uneven chunks. Limp, suffering greens drowning under what must be a cup of ranch dressing.

The kitchen looks like a bomb went off, Miles and Theo have broken at least four dishes, and I know I’m going to have to clean the mess up later, but fuck me if it isn’t the best meal I’ve ever had. Andrew said to be continued! I’d happily eat glue right now.

“Seriously,” I sing, “this is delicious.”

Andrew’s elbow makes a gentle nudge to my side.

Ricky takes about a teaspoon of meat sauce and passes the platter on. “What does everyone feel like doing tonight?”

I nearly choke on a bite, and Andrew politely pats my back, answering with a casual “We could play Clue?”

“Ooooh.” Mom likes this idea. “We haven’t played Clue yet.”

“We haven’t been here that long,” I remind her—and myself. Frankly, it feels like it’s already been a month. I quickly do the math: seven days of original holiday, plus another six in the Land of Repeats.

The sauce makes its way around the table. Zachary mimes throwing up when it moves in front of him, and Aaron doesn’t even chastise his son. Instead, he studies the sauce suspiciously before offering a vague “Probably should take a pass since I’m on a diet,” and then hands it to Dad, bypassing Kyle entirely.

I’m sure he’s trying to save his husband from having to eat it, but Kyle chases it with a hand. “Come on now, I have to work for these curves.” Everyone laughs—because Kyle is nothing but muscle and sinew—and Aaron apologizes with a kiss.

The moment is so simple and sweet. I look away in time to catch Mom and Dad exchanging a knowing look. Dad tucks his chin to his chest, his shoulders shaking.

“Okay.” I point between them. “What’s happening here?”

“When I was barely pregnant with you,” Mom explains with suppressed laughter, “I asked your dad if I looked pregnant yet and he said, ‘No, it just looks like you’re letting yourself go a little.’ ”

Dad covers his eyes. “As soon as the words were out, I wanted to drag them back in.”

“You’d think a man who interacts with pregnant women for a living would be smarter,” Ricky teases him, and then immediately shrinks at the wry look from his wife. “Oh no.”

Lisa points an accusing finger at her husband. “Do you remember when I started taking that pottery class at night, over at the U?”

Ricky slides lower in his chair, letting out a giggling and ashamed “Yes.”

She turns to the rest of us. “I told him I felt so old and frumpy around all these young college girls, and he said, ‘That’s okay, honey, I love you anyway.’ ”

Everyone laughs at this, and Theo lets out a groaning “Dad, no.”

Ricky turns to his son. “Are you kidding me? You got a call from a girl the other day and couldn’t remember who she was.”

“I didn—!” Theo starts, but Ricky holds up a hand.

“When we were here over Thanksgiving, what did you have hiding in your closet after Grandma left?”

Both Andrew and I go very, very still.

Theo closes his eyes, pretending to be embarrassed by this. “A woman.”

“A woman,” Ricky repeats. “Just hanging out in your closet waiting for us to finish eating.” Surprised laughter breaks out at the table, but inside, I feel like I’ve dodged the world’s largest bullet. “Theo, you are in no way prepared to give me shit about anything.”

“Earmuffs,” Aaron mutters to the twins, who belatedly clap their hands over their ears.

Miles is the last to get over his laughter about all of this, and Theo turns to him, teasing, “At least I’ve got game, bro.”

To my brother’s credit, he doesn’t look fazed by this in the slightest. “I’m seventeen. Am I supposed to be hiding people in my closet?”

“No,” Mom and Dad say in unison.

“Mae and Andrew are awfully quiet over there . . .” Lisa singsongs.

The entire room goes still, and every gaze swings our way. I look up from where I’m cutting my spaghetti into smaller clumps and realize Andrew is making nearly the same Who, me? expression to my right.

“I’m sorry, what?” Andrew says through a bite of salad.

“Oh, we’re just talking about how above reproach you two are,” Dad says, and Mom looks undeniably proud.

“These two certainly aren’t sneaking around, hiding booty calls in their bedrooms,” Ricky chides Theo.

While I struggle to swallow down a bite of gluey noodles, Andrew nonchalantly spears a piece of lettuce, saying, “That is technically correct.”

“Mae would have to date for that to happen,” Miles says, and I glare at him.

“Your sister is not interested in ‘booty calls,’ ” Dad says, bringing a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth before reconsidering.

My brother drops his fork in disgust. “Can everyone stop saying ‘booty call’?”

I feel Andrew’s foot come over mine under the table and am suddenly very, very interested in the composition of the meat sauce, blurting, “This is so unique, Theo, how did you make it?”

Flattered, he waxes happily about frying the meat, dumping in canned tomatoes, finding some dried herbs in the pantry. The conversation moves on, and I’m able to mostly tune it out . . . which is good because it’s taking nearly all of my energy to not be completely focused on Andrew’s every movement next to me. I would not be good for any conversation right now.

I think he’s intentionally brushing elbows with me, but it’s hard to know, because he’s left-handed and I’m right-handed. But then I’m thinking about hands, and fingers, and the way he gripped my leg, pulling it over his hip before rocking against me.

I’m thinking about those hands sliding under my shirt, up over my ribs. I’m thinking about those fingers pulling the button on my jeans free, teasingly tugging down my zipper. I’m thinking about that mouth moving breathlessly down my body, over my—

“Mae?” Mom’s voice rises over the noise.

“Mm?” I look up, realizing again that everyone is watching me. Apparently, I’ve missed a direct question.

Her brows furrow. “Are you okay, honey?”

With horror, I realize my entire face and neck are flushed. “Yeah, sorry, was just chowing on my dinner.”

Theo leans on his elbows. “I called Professor Plum, and you didn’t even blink.”

“Oh.” I wave my fork. “I’ll be whoever’s left.”

I can feel the ripples of shock make their way around the table. I am laid-back about few things, it’s true, and none of those things are Professor Plum. Like any self-respecting woman of twenty-six, I take my Clue very seriously.

And yet.

“What’s the big deal, guys?” I ask. “Sometimes a little change is good.”

• • •

I’ll have you know that Colonel Mustard won Clue tonight, and Professor Plum is already off to bed, pouting that not only did I take the good luck juju with me to a new character, but Professor Plum himself was the murderer, in the conservatory, with the rope. I don’t think Theo enjoys my victory dance, but Andrew sure seems to.

He and I pack up the game pieces in the living room while everyone else wanders off to their corners—bedrooms for the grown-ups, basement for the kid-ups, and then it’s just us, standing together with the fire crackling down to embers and the sexual tension roaring, wondering what comes next.

At least, that’s what I’m wondering. I’m not remotely tired and therefore I’m not remotely interested in going down to the basement. I definitely have some more making out in me tonight.

With a tiny tilt of his head, Andrew leads me to the kitchen—where I think we both plan to escape outside and to the Boathouse, but instead we find that there is still a sink full of dishes to do.

“Oh, right.” Dreams of imminently ripping the flannel shirt from his upper body die a sad, quiet death. “I said we’d do these.”

Andrew rolls up his sleeves and gives me a playfully annoyed look. “‘Let’s help out more,’ she said. ‘We need to be grown-ups,’ she said.”

Laughing, I put my mostly full glass of cider near him on the counter and turn to collect stray dishes from the table. “Sorry.”

“You really are a terrible drinker,” he observes, dumping the contents of the glass down the sink and slotting it into the dishwasher.

“I know.” I watch him close the dishwasher and then wash his hands at the sink. “But so are you.”

Andrew grins over his shoulder at me. “I make impulsive decisions when I’m drunk. Like, I’m probably only ever one to two drinks away from getting a bad music quote tattoo.”

This makes me laugh and I clap a hand over my mouth to keep the sound from echoing past where we stand in the quiet kitchen. The last thing I want is Miles or Theo coming back upstairs to join us. “You mean you wouldn’t get a parrot?”

A full-body shiver worms through him, and he plugs one side of the sink to fill it with soapy, warm water. “The thing I can’t get past is why a parrot?”

I shrug, biting my lips. “Why not a parrot?”

“A cool parrot on your arm or back? Maybe.” He points finger guns down at his crotch. “But a parrot—here? Right next to your dick? Why?”

I’d respond, but this has fried the part of my brain that makes words. As soon as Andrew looks up at me, he can see it all over my face. “Did I fluster the lady?”

“A bit.” I reach for a dish towel, intent on drying the dishes I assume he’s going to start washing, but he takes two steps closer, cupping my face.

“You’re making this expression like you’re not sure this is really happening.”

“That is a frighteningly accurate assessment.”

He rests his lips on mine, smiling.

“We have dishes to do,” I mumble against his mouth.

“We’ll do them in the morning,” he mumbles back.

“We aren’t going to want to do them in the morning.”

Nipping at my bottom lip, he growls and turns away. “Fine. Be logical.”

He moves over to Ricky’s old cassette-playing radio on the counter and snaps a tape into place, hitting play with a clunky click. Sam Cooke filters from the small speakers, quiet enough that I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make its way down- or upstairs, and even if it does, it’s Sam Cooke, not Ozzy Osbourne; we’re probably safe to assume we’ll be left alone.

Don’t know much about history . . .

Andrew sings quietly, washing the dishes, and the first couple of times he hands me something to dry he gives me a flirty smile, but then we get into a quiet rhythm after a few minutes; we settle into the best combination of lifelong friends and new lovers.

He rinses his favorite unicorn mug and hands it to me to dry. “You want to hear a story about this?” I ask.

“Hell yes I do.”

“When I painted it, I wrote ‘Mae plus Andrew’ in white and then painted over the whole thing in pink.”

He gapes at me, taking it back and immediately flipping it over. “You did not.”

“I did.”

He holds it to the light, squinting. “Oh my God, there it is!”

We lean together and he points, outlining the letters with his index finger. He’s right. The raised shapes of the letters in thick paint are barely visible.

“I knew it was my favorite mug for a good reason.”

I laugh. “So dorky.”

“Uh, no, Mae, it’s awesome.” He leans over, kissing my cheek. “So I guess you weren’t kidding,” he says, “about your crush.”

“Of course I wasn’t kidding.” When I turn to look at him, he leans in again, brushing his mouth over mine.

And if this one could be with you . . .

We fall back into a rhythm with the dishes, and I don’t realize we’ve shifted so that we’re touching until his arm slides down mine as he reaches into the sink to wash the final platter, but we make eye contact afterward. I’m infatuated with him beyond distraction. This is everything I’ve always wanted: to be here, exactly like this with him—and maybe we aren’t “together” in a defined sense of the word, but we’re already undeniably more.

A second thought sinks into me like a weight dropping in a warm lake: I am happy. I have never been this happy in my entire life. Maybe Benny was right and I’m finally being me.

I lean over and kiss his neck. “Let that dish dry in the rack, I’m going to put away the spices and stuff.”

I grab the jars of oregano, parsley, and some mix called Pasta Sprinkle and tuck a few unused cans of tomatoes under my arms, ducking into the walk-in pantry. Behind me, the water shuts off, and I turn just as Andrew comes in after me, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“What are you doing?”

“Being sneaky.” When he closes the door behind him, his smile is swallowed by the shadows and still somehow the brightest thing in this small space.

“Do the Hollis men have some sort of closet fetish I should know about?”

“Isn’t this what the holidays are all about?” he asks. “Kisses under the mistletoe? Making out in a pantry?”

“Nosy relatives.”

His mouth is only inches away when he laughs and slides his lips over mine. Like a dry-erase board swept with a cloth, I am wiped free of any other thought. There’s just the feel of his kiss and his arms coming around my waist, my own hands sliding up his chest and around his neck.

I want to ask him, the words are at the tip of my tongue—Does this kiss feel like the best kiss ever?—because to me it does. And it isn’t just because it’s Andrew, it feels clearly like the perfect kind of melting together; his mouth just seems to fit against mine. We kiss the same.

He moves from my mouth to my jaw, and lower, pressing these perfect sucking kisses to the sensitive skin just over my pulse, moaning against me. The sound puts me in a rocket ship and launches me to Jupiter. In a flash, I imagine the sight of his head between my legs.

The idea of watching him do that makes me both shy and ravenous; my libido has turned into a fanged monster. Andrew doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest by how I pull him closer and kiss him deeper, by my sounds and the intensity of my grip. Here in the dark pantry, I can pretend we’re alone, that there aren’t eleven other people in this house. I send my hands up under his shirt, seeking the soft, warm skin there, skating over his ribs with my fingertips.

“You feeling me up?”

He’s teasing, but the way his words have gone all raspy tells me he approves. “Yes. You’re yummy under here.”

“My turn.” His fingers play with the hem of my T-shirt and then his hand is on my stomach, my ribs, and his kisses don’t slow or lessen. I want to eat this sensation, to swallow it down and gorge myself on it.

“Do you think everyone would freak out if they knew what was happening in here?” he asks.

“Not everyone,” I say, “but certainly some of the more influential ones . . .”

His thumb sweeps under my bra, back and forth. “I think they’d be happy for us.”

The thought of this existing out there for everyone to see makes it both wonderfully and terribly real. Keeping it a secret from our families feels like keeping it a secret in general, and I can pretend that the universe isn’t watching, either. Yes, I’m happy, and I find myself believing that is the goal here, but what I don’t know is why, or how to hold on to it. Nobody can be happy all the time. What happens when I’m not?

His thumb slides beneath the underwire, pushing the fabric up over the curve of my breast. “This okay?”

I don’t care how desperate I sound when I tell him yes. I want his entire body touching me right there, each electron of his energy focusing on my skin.

His palm comes over my breast beneath my shirt, and we both let out these ridiculous moans in unison into each other’s mouth, and then pull away, bending in silent laughter. We are the same kind of idiot.

With an unfocused glaze in his eyes, he feels the shape of me, teasing, gently pinching.

“You’re perfect,” he tells me. “You’re so soft.”

I send a thousand thank-yous to the sky because, pressed against me, Andrew feels anything but soft.

This is the best kiss, my brain screams again when he puts his mouth over mine again, sweetly distracted by his hand.

A harsh white light lances across my field of vision and instinct whips us both away so that we’re facing the shelves. Andrew’s front is pressed all along my back, and my heart launches itself into my windpipe.

Holy crap, we need to find another place to make out; closets are not working well for us.

“Uh, up there!” I shout to cover, praying Benny was the one who opened the pantry door.

“Why was the door closed? Why are you in here?”

Oh God. My brother.

I grapple to pull my bra back down. “I was grabbing, um—”

“This.” Andrew stretches behind me, reaching over my shoulder for something on the top shelf. I have no idea what he’s getting, and frankly, who cares. His hips press against my backside and I feel him. I mean—wow. He is very, very hard. My brain melts.

Miles must be focused on what Andrew’s reaching for, and thank God because I am entirely focused on the feeling of Andrew pressed against my butt. I did that.

I want that.

He pulls the object down and hands it to Miles, somehow managing to turn me in the process so I’m facing Miles and still standing in front of Andrew. Covering him. I remember he’s wearing sweatpants, and from the feel of things down there, his status would be difficult to hide.

Miles studies the object in his hands. “You were getting this . . . ceramic sombrero?”

At my brother’s words, I actually look at what Andrew’s handed him. The chips-and-salsa dish is ancient. It is absolutely covered in dust. I haven’t seen this thing in at least a decade.

“Yeah, Mae was feeling snacky.”

Andrew gently pinches my waist when I don’t immediately play along. “I was!”

“You can’t eat some chips and salsa from a regular bowl?”

Miles, just let this go!

“I was feeling festive?” I try.

He blinks, and grimaces. “You’re all red.”

“I am?”

“She is?” Andrew asks with restrained laughter as he turns back to the shelves. “I’ll grab the chips, Maisie.”

We’re so busted. Oh God, poor Miles. First the ketchup-mouthed boyfriend, and now this.

When I emerge from the pantry, Miles pulls me to the side. “Were you two kissing in there?”

“Of course not!” Seriously, this is mortifying. Why won’t my brother just read the room and leave? “We were doing dishes, and I got the munchies. Just—go back to bed.”

With a final skeptical glance into the pantry, Miles grabs a cup of water and shuffles back down to the basement.

Once I’m sure he’s gone, I look over to Andrew, who’s adjusting his sweats and grinning at me. “Well, that was awkward.”

“The most awkward that has ever existed.”

There’s something in his expression: like a curtain has been drawn open, revealing the next phase of our night of adventures.

“Oh.” I point at him and grin. “I sense a transition.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “I was thinking—”

“A very dangerous thing to do.”

“—that instead of hanging out in the kitchen and getting busted by our siblings, perhaps the lady would like to return with me to the Boathouse for a nightcap.”

“By ‘nightcap,’” I whisper back, “do you mean kissing with shirts off?”

He nods with playful gravitas. “Correct. And in the interest of transparency, I should tell you I don’t actually have any interesting nightcap options out there.”

I pretend to think this over, but inside I am doing a thousand backflips. “I want to go out there, on one condition.”

Immediately his expression shifts. “We don’t have to do anything you don—”

“You walk me back here afterward,” I interrupt, voice low. “There’s no way we would survive our mothers’ inquisition if I got busted sleeping out there, but I don’t want to walk back alone.”

A knowing gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Silence of the Lambs flashbacks?”

“One hundred percent.”