Page 4 of Holiday Hostilities
“Beer, please.”
He looks at the bartender. “Two Dos Equis.”
I frown, momentarily losing my train of thought. “Since when do you drink Mexican beer?”
As far as I was aware, Jake’s beer of choice was always Miller.
“Since always,” Jake answers, almost defensively.
I drop the subject—my brother is one of those people who clams up the more you pry. As I accept my beer from the bartender, there’s a tug on my arm and I find Triple J at my side, smiling eagerly. “Everyone went to dance. I ran back to check if you wanted to come, too?”
Jake scowls. “I don’t dance.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Duh, I know. Which is why I didn’t askyou.” He turns to me with the most sincere expression, like he can’t imagine having fun without me. I met the guy about eight minutes ago and he’s already talking to me like we’re BFFs. “I thoughtyoumight want to join us. You look more like the dancing type than your big bro.”
I laugh, because he’s right. Unlike my brother, I love to dance—it’s the perfect way to let off a little steam and de-stress. But right now, I’m trying to tell Jake something important.
“It’s a compliment,” Jimmy adds gravely.
“Well, thank you. I do love to dance, but I, um, think I’ll hang out with my brother for a bit.” I look over at Jake, who’s pulling his phone out of his pocket. “We don’t get to see each other much.”
“Nah, go ahead and have fun for a bit,” Jake says as he peers at his phone screen. “I need to send a text, anyhow.”
“If you’re sure.” Then I tilt my head. And it might be because things have clearly changed and there’s a lot I don’t know aboutmy brother’s life these days, but I have to ask, “Is it anyone special?”
My nosy question is met with resounding silence, Jake’s lips locked shut on any possible juicy detail.
Guess some thingsdon’tchange then.
“Come onnnn,” Jimmy cuts in, and I get a sudden, vivid mental image of a fluffy golden retriever wagging its tail.
Jake nods at me, eyes still glued to his phone. “Go for it.”
Triple J doesn’t need to be told twice. I giggle as I let myself get tugged towards the dance floor, taking a few sips of my Dos Equis along the way for liquid courage. Just in case a certain annoyingly handsome hockey player happens to glance my way while I’m out there doing my thing.
Not because I care what he thinks of me, but because the last thing I need is to make a total fool of myself in front of him. Again.
I tip my beer to my lips, taking a huge glug as I’m blindly led into the crowd. But Jimmy loses his grip on my arm as we get into the throng. In the span of a millisecond, not looking where I’m going, I manage to trip over what is most likely my own feet—I’ve never been the best multitasker—and lose my balance.
I stumble forward, arms flailing wildly, as I teeter dangerously on my heels.
“Oof!” I let out a grunt, which, unfortunately, results in my mouthful of beer exiting my lips in a veritable fountain of spray.
Which, rather fortunately, ends up all over none other than Aaron Marino.
Because not only has he witnessed my unbelievably graceful entrance, but he appears to be the owner of the strong set of arms that just saved me from plummeting face-first onto the sticky dance floor.
Fabulous.
He looks down at me, his hands still on my arms, warm and sure, and then he smiles.
And he looks so handsome, so sincere, that I do the unthinkable and smile back at him.
“If you wanted to get my attention, you could have just said hi.” The deep, rich timbre of his voice is unsettlingly familiar, yet completely foreign at the same time.
It punctures my fragile balloon of temporary insanity, and the smile falls off my face. I make absolutely sure that I have my balance before stepping out of his arms, hurriedly wiping away my foam mustache with the back of my hand and shaking off the tingling feeling of his calloused palms on my bare skin.
“Oh, Aaron!” I exclaim sweetly, like I’m suddenly noticing he’s here for the first time. “I can’t believe it’s you! I barely recognized you without your ‘I MILFs’ t-shirt.”