Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

20. Teddy

Chapter 20

Teddy

Mood

T eddy clocked a ten-mile run on the treadmill, followed by several dozen reps of upper-body resistance routines on various pulley machines, while dreamily—losing track of time—recalling the past few days with Nichol.

He knows the rekindled childhood infatuation is silly, but he can’t help indulging in long-ago but not-forgotten fantasies. Nichol Anderson has been in his bed, twice. He’s kissed those soft lips, felt that tall lanky body against his, and nearly experienced the fleshy reality of every youthful wank session his teenage mind had mustered during those intense developmental years.

Coming home to the dark bakery feels a little more lonely tonight. Wiping his boots on the “ have a butterful day” mat, he trudges through the shop, around the counter, and finally opens the aluminum gate.

GiGi’s sweet squeaks and excited waddle greets him, as he latches it shut again behind him.

“Hey girl.” Teddy beams, setting his duffle bag next to the locker and squatting on sore legs to pet her tiny head.

She nuzzles into his fingers, soaking up every bit of attention he’s had focused elsewhere this week.

“It’s just me tonight,’’ he mumbles, pouting, and scooping her up into his arms as he perches on the edge of the futon. “Let’s grab a snack.”

GiGi chirps agreeably.

He carries her out to the kitchen, cradled in the bend of his arm, and swings the fridge open. Single-handedly gathering a jug of milk, a box of cookies, and a carrot from the produce bin, then sets everything on the workbench. He places a towel down and puts the furry little pig on it, before chopping up the carrot, into long slices, and setting them in front of GiGi.

Teddy flips the lid of the cookie box open, and twists the cap off the milk jug, stretching to reach for a glass above the sink, and pouring himself half a glass.

GiGi munches gleefully, gazing up at him with hollow beaded eyes.

He dips a chocolate chip cookie into the milk and bites off the soaked edge, humming with delight at his own crafty work.

“How was your day?” Teddy chuckles.

GiGi pauses chewing, to tilt her head and wiggle her nose at him.

“Don’t worry.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Nichol won’t be around too long. He’ll head back to the city soon.” Too soon. Teddy dips another quarter of the cookie, then stuffs all of it into his mouth with the feeling of dread washing over the evening.

His eyes float over to the upturned whiskey tumblers in the drying rack and empty beer bottles poking out of the recycling bin, next to the sink.

The realization that Nichol Anderson’s interest in him, these past few days, was purely influenced by too much alcohol and a convenient close proximity to a willing participant in this small town, makes him feel ridiculous.

His own reflection in the dark mirrored window panes causes him to wince shamefully. Wiry auburn hair and a matching beard he hasn’t bothered to prune in months hangs over his bulbous chest and full belly, pulling the worn t-shirt with drooping salt stains from his sweaty workout at the gym, taut. What the fuck had he even been thinking.

No wonder Nichol had been cold and distant today. He’d gotten a good look at the beast without the whiskey and rum goggles blurring his vision. Nichol is a princely specimen of a man. Tall, lean, and blond, with a smile that charms the world.

He’s just lucky that sober Nichol was still trying to be kind, ignoring Teddy’s pathetic flirtations.

“I’ve had a crush on you since I was thirteen.” Teddy softly mimics his own boozy confession with disdain. Jeezus fucking Christ. A fiery blush rises through his neck to his forehead.

He stares at the last bite of the cookie in his hand. The sight of the crumbling sweet. dribbling milk into the glass, turns his stomach, and he tosses it into the trash. Closing the box lid, he paces it back into the fridge, before he gathers GiGi off the workbench and carries her into the office.

“There you go babe.” He gently sets her on the floor, near her hut, and drops onto the futon with a huff. “Goodnight,” he says, before rolling over and curling into the blanket that still holds a lingering scent of Nichol’s zesty musk.