Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
After straying my eyes to the third-floor apartment on my left, I sling them back to Kelsey, who is well past tipsy. We may have gotten a little eager during happy hour. It becomes more appropriate when you learn the theme of every cocktail is Christmas-based. My favorite was the candy cane cocktail. It was chocolatey, minty, and far better served when sampled out of Kelsey’s mouth instead of a glass.
“Are you sure this is your apartment? It looks empty.”
“That’s me.” Hiccup. “Emp… ty… Maybe we should get another cocktail?” When she slides out of the taxi at the end of her long slur, I toss a handful of the bills I recently replenished to the driver’s half of the cab and then help Kelsey to her feet.
The top two buttons of her stiff blouse were undone before she finished her first cocktail. Her skirt was hiked up her thighs somewhere between beverage three and four. I’m not exactly sure when she let her hair down. I am not even sure if her fingers unraveled the elastic or mine. We’d shared a handful of flirty kisses by then, but I have to put a stop to the antics now.
We’re alone, and as much as I’ve enjoyed her company the past eight hours, the kisses we shared were before her body clicked on to the fact our Christmassy drinks were laced with alcohol.
With every mile we traveled, the drunker she became.
She’s well past tipsy now, so I can’t touch her.
Not sexually, anyway.
“Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”
Kelsey’s eyes adopt the same puppy dog look they held when she realized her firing may not be so bad. She’s been wanting to go out on her own for some time, but her douchebag ex always talked her out of it before she gave it any true thought. “You’ll carry me?”
“If you can’t walk, yes.” I’d carry her even if she could walk; I’m just not known for showing my cards so early—if at all. “But you’ll need to return your skirt’s hem to its original position. We don’t want you flashing your panties to…”—when I scan her street, the only person I spot is a charity Santa near the stop sign at the T-intersection—“Santa?”
My reply sounds like a question since the Santa ringing a golden bell resembles the other two Santas I’ve stumbled upon so far this week.
I’ve heard everyone has a doppelgänger, but this is starting to get creepy.
Kelsey gulps and unrolls her skirt like Casey did every afternoon in high school before she walked through the door of our childhood home. “I don’t want to be on Santa’s naughty list.”
“It’s too late for that,” I reply with a chuckle before pulling her into my arms like a groom would a bride on their wedding night.
“Too many cocktails?”
I twist my lips so they’re not tempted to kiss her pout from her mouth. “That… and even more f-bombs.”
Her eyes pop open. “I didn’t cuss in front of Santa.”
She’s clearly forgotten that she taught me cusswords in Spanish while waiting for our taxi to arrive. Joder was the easiest for me to learn, and Kelsey used it multiple times while berating the security officers keeping company records property of the person who pays their wages.
“Santa travels across the globe in one night, so I’m reasonably sure he knows Spanish.”
I grin like an idiot when she whispers, “Shit.”
“That’s strike number three. There’s no hope for you now.”
I realize her soul is still a little fragile when she whines about my reply instead of taking it as I intended—playfully.
A reason for the darkness of her apartment comes to light when Kelsey slips the key into the lock and pushes open the door. The power has been disconnected.
“You rodent!”
Despite how stumbling her steps were only minutes ago, she races through the room without a single fault in her stride. I don’t know what she’s seeking, but it must be more important than the rest of her stuff that was stolen. Her apartment is almost empty.
“Oh, thank god.” She hugs something close to her chest as if it is valuable before tossing it back into a drawer near the kitchen and slamming the drawer shut. My jaw spasms when she reveals how badly her ex is working her over. “Peter must have disconnected the power from Oregon when he organized my eviction notice. I’ll get candles.”
“There’s no need,” I reply while pulling my phone out of my pocket. “After several homeless people died in a winter blast in 2010, laws were introduced that stopped electricity providers from disconnecting service to a habitual premises.”
I scroll to the Safari app and then ask Kelsey who her provider is.
“Energ—”
She’s interrupted by the hum of the refrigerator kicking back on.
Her eyes are back on me. They’re still glossy but now more in awe than sheened with the effects of alcohol. “After your stamina Friday night, I never thought I’d be commending you on the speed of your performance.”