That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Sara

The first time I check on Three, I find him lying on his side, head pressed into a soft down pillow. I click the nightstand lamp on, then jostle his shoulder—gently to begin with—then a bit more forcefully when he doesn’t show signs of stirring.

“Three. Time to wake up.” Even through the cotton of his T-shirt, his body feels warm. And I’m not intentionally gawking at the swell of his biceps, but the lamplight’s illuminating his muscles, and it’s awfully hard not to peek.

He’s got one leg thrown free from the quilt, hooked around the top of it, so it’s a good thing he’s wearing fitted joggers. I remember Three’s calves when he was just barely nineteen. I can only imagine his bare full-on man-calves now.

When a low hum sounds in the back of his throat, my pulse picks up, and I start to wonder what he’s dreaming about. I, myself, spent the last two hours reliving past memories while cleaning up present smoke damage. For all I know, Three could be doing the exact same thing .

Dreaming about our past, I mean, not cleaning up smoky walls.

Stop it, Sara. This is not a romantic moment. This is a medical situation you caused .

“Come on, Three.” I shake him again. His face looks so sweet and peaceful, I really hate to wake him. Then again, the man did cause me plenty of pain at one point in my life. Maybe I don’t have to be quite so gentle with him now.

When I give him one more jiggle, he drags his leg back under the quilt and lets out a long groan. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. The words are rusty with sleep, and I glance around the room, as if there might be someone else in here for him to be apologizing too.

He couldn’t possibly have read my mind, could he?

“What did you say?”

“So sorry,” he moans again.

I swallow hard, pushing aside the twinge in my stomach. Honestly, I would’ve given anything for this kind of apology from Three a decade ago. But the last thing I want is for him to think I’m still hurting over our breakup now.

“Three!” I whisper-hiss.

“Don’t tell her,” he mutters.

“Tell who what?” More jostling from me.

“Soooo tired,” he grumbles, squeezing his lids shut even more tightly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I protest. “You’re not allowed to fall back to sleep yet. This is a cognitive test, and you haven’t answered any questions.”

“Candy canes,” he murmurs. “Cruise ship. Carols. Christmas.”

“Yes. It’s almost Christmas,” I say. “But do you know where you are?”

He blows out a long breath, eyes still squeezed shut. “Home alone.”

“You’re not alone, Three.” I glance around the room. “Or home. Do you remember where you are?”

“Hmmm.” He groans. “Lake house. With … with … Sara.”

“That’s right.” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Good.”

“Yes, she does. She smells so good.”

Gah!

Did he just say that? My already-pounding heart kicks into overdrive, until I remind myself the man is clearly under the influence of pain meds. And half of what’s coming out of his mouth sounds delirious. Which is exactly why I’m supposed to be doing a cognitive check in the first place. But I’m still not even sure he’s conscious. So I have to push the issue. Literally.

“Three!” I shove his arm until his lids finally crack open just a sliver.

“Oh. Hey. Hi,” he croaks.

“Hi. Can you open your eyes all the way and look at me? Please?”

Three moans, but he does as I tell him, propping himself up on an elbow. Of course my gaze automatically drifts to his straining biceps again. It’s like my pupils are magnets and his arms are made of steel. But I’m supposed to be nursing Three back to health, not ogling him.

No matter how good he thinks I smell.

“Do you know your name?” I ask, dragging my focus to the planes of his face. That was one of the questions on Mary’s checklist. If Three gets the answers right, I can get out of this room.

The sooner the better.

“Hmmm,” he hums again, and I avoid looking at the press of his lips. “Yes.”

Technically, that’s an answer. But is it a conscious one? I have to clarify. “What is your name?” I ask again.

“Bradford.” He blinks. “Bradford Fuller. From the Original Fuller House.”

I sigh with relief. “Yes. You got it.” He sinks back onto the pillows, slowly shutting his eyes again. “Get some more rest now.” I click off the lamp, and rise from the bed, preparing to slip out of the room. “I’ll be back to check on you again in another couple hours.”

Three mutters, “No, don’t.”

I freeze. “No don’t, what?”

“Don’t. Stay.”

“Right.” I squint at him in the dark. Is he serious? “I just said I’m going.”

“No. Please. Don’t go. Stay.”

Oh no . This is a problem. What I need to do is get far away from Three and his mumbled apologies, not to mention his claims that I smell good. This is what my common sense is telling me. Then again, Three asked me to stay.

He wants you, Sara.

And the bottom line is I’m the one who did this to him. The least I could do is honor his request not to be left alone. So as much as I don’t want to, I grab a spare blanket from the closet and curl up in the armchair across the room. Then I stare at him in the darkness, waiting for my pulse to return to its normal pace.

Guess what?

My stupid pulse doesn’t comply.

He looks so sweet and innocent. Not like the guy who once crushed my heart. Maybe he’s changed … Maybe he’s—No. That’s risky thinking. What I need is a reminder of why I can never let myself soften toward Three again. So I slip out my phone knowing just who can harden me up, so to speak.

My best friend, Bristol.

We lived together all through college, then afterward she moved to the Bay Area for an art apprenticeship. She’s a serial dater and social butterfly. Basically, everything I’m not. But she loves me anyway, and she’s had my back since day one in the dorms.

Me

If you’re around and you get this, I need to tell you something, but I also need you to promise you won’t say I told you so …

It may be the middle of the night here, but she’s in California, so I’d bet my future salary at Hathaway Cooke that Bristol Kane is awake. Within two minutes, I have my answer.

Bristol

I would never say I told you so. Well. Okay, maybe I would, but I won’t on this occasion.

See. I knew my girl would be up.

Me

You can’t tell my mom either. This is absolutely Top-Secret Intel.

Bristol

I don’t exactly make a habit of texting your mother.

But this is me opening up the vault. Everything you share will remain TSI. What’s going on?

Me

Well, I tried my best, for a few hours at least, but then I sort of ran into Three in Abieville. And by “ran into” I mean I knocked him out with a fire extinguisher.

Bristol

????

Me

I was at the house by myself, and I thought some intruder was breaking in, so I hit him with a fire extinguisher. The intruder turned out to be Three. Now he’s got stitches plus a concussion, and he’s my responsibility for the next few days.

Bristol

Not gonna lie, my friend. This sounds like the plot of a romcom. Did you get into the eggnog early or something?

I snap a picture of Three and send it to Bristol, cringing as the flash goes off. Luckily he doesn’t stir, but the light illuminates his slumbering face not to mention his bare biceps and forearms. Yes, I’m sending a shot of him without his permission, but a picture is worth a thousand texts. Not to mention he still owes me for the heartbreak on Main Street.

The text bubbles ripple as Bristol composes a response. Then they disappear. Then they ripple again. So I jump in to acknowledge I realize how insane this situation is.

Me

I know. It’s bad.

Bristol

Do you, Sara? Do you really know? Or are you forgetting how you spent freshman year holed up in the dorms like some kind of mole-person? You practically made not-dating-in-college an Olympic event. I almost requested a new roommate, remember?

I gulp.

Me

Maybe?

Fabulous, Sara .

Talk about a vague reply.

Bristol

I told you not to go back to Abieville. But you said you’d be able to steer clear of Three. And now the man is half naked, sleeping ten feet away from you.

Me

He’s fully clothed.

Bristol

That is so not the point. I don’t want my best friend becoming one of those zombies on The Walking Dead again. You need to pawn Three and his bandaged head off on someone else immediately.

Me

Everyone’s either out of town for the holidays or busy with their own families. And this is all my fault, so I’m pretty much on the hook.

Bristol

If you ask me, he deserves to be knocked out. I never even met the guy, but I saw what he did to my best friend. Who is awesome. Who is you. So I kind of wish I was there to rip him a new one.

Me

To be fair, that was ten years ago. He’s a teacher now. Seems to maybe have grown up a little.

Bristol

DUDE. Don’t let his hotness sway you. Do you remember how he spent four summers making you fall for him, acting like the perfect guy, and then once he had you drooling in the palm of his hands, he said he didn’t feel like that about you? HE IS THAT GUY.

Me

You think he’s hot?

Bristol

Ugh. I think he’s the worst. STOP.

Me

Thank you. This is exactly the kick in the butt I needed. So can you do me a favor, and check in to remind me of all this over the next few days? Please? Just an occasional text to boost my immunity, kind of like a Three Fuller vaccination.

Bristol

You bet I will. Consider yourself FRESHLY INOCULATED. Now quit staring at that human virus and go to sleep.

Me

Thank you, Doctor Kane. You’re the best.

Two hours later, when I wake Three for another check, he sits up without any extra jostling or prodding. Then he answers all my questions, more clearly than he did the first time.

“You’re doing great,” I say softly, but I’m talking more to myself than to him.

“I’d be doing better, if you stopped quizzing me,” he mumbles.

Now that sounds like the old Three.

This is a good sign that his concussion isn’t getting any worse, which is the best-case scenario. Because the sooner Three is better, the sooner the doctor will clear him to be alone, and the sooner I can move on from this momentary blip on my radar.

For now, though, I return to the armchair, and dream about a cruise ship being sunk by an army of giant candy canes.