The Mistletoe Motive(23)

Jonathan’s gaze dances over me. “Like what you saw?”

I roll my eyes. “You know your performance was impressive.”

His eyebrows lift. A blush blooms on his already flushed cheeks. “Wow.”

“Don’t—” I point a finger at him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He lifts both hands innocently. “I just said ‘wow.’”

“I’m so glad you came,” Luke tells Eli.

“Me too.” Eli smiles up at him. “You were amazing.”

“Not as amazing as this guy,” Luke says, shoving Jonathan’s shoulder playfully. Jonathan doesn’t budge. “He stepped it up tonight. Putting on a show for someone, big guy?”

For the first time, I see someone else earn that arctic glare. “I played like I always play.”

“Uh-huh.” Turning my way, Luke offers me a fist to pound. “Gabby. Thanks for coming.”

I glance away from Jonathan and smile up at Luke, who is absurdly good looking. Dark skin, amber eyes, the kind of bone structure that June covets and recreates with her daily contouring makeup routine. “You did good, kid,” I tell him.

Luke flashes me a wide, bright smile. “Well, coming from you, that’s something.”

“What’s that mean?” Jonathan says, glancing between us.

“Nothing.” I give Luke a look. I don’t throw around who my dad is. People are fanatical about him. It’s a big part of why I go by my mom’s maiden name. Sokolov is a fairly common Russian last name, but in the States, and especially this hockey-obsessed town where Dad spent the last five years of his career before retiring, people immediately associate “Sokolov” with him.

Luke mouths sorry, then turns to Jonathan. “I forgot to make introductions. My bad! Gabby, this is my good friend, Jonny. Jonny, this is Gabby. She’s—”

“I know Gabriella,” Jonathan says, and there’s an odd edge to his voice. “What I didn’t know was that Eli, your boyfriend, is Elijah, her roommate.”

“Or that Luke’s friend, Jonny,” Eli says, “is Jonathan, her coworker.” The four of us glance between each other.

“Wow,” Luke says. “This is weird. So, wait—oh shit.” His eyes widen as he looks from me to Jonathan. “So she’s—”

Luke doesn’t get to finish that sentence because Jonathan drops his gear bag, hockey stick and all, right on Luke’s foot, making him swear foully just as a group of kids walks by.

“Come on, man,” a player from their team calls, hands over both sides of his kid’s head. “Little ears.”

“Sorry,” Luke mutters their way, hopping on one foot before he says to Jonathan, “What the hell?”

Jonathan bends over, hikes up his gear bag again, then says without any remorse, “Oops.”

Luke glares at Jonathan. Jonathan glares at Luke. Another neurotypical eye conversation flies right over my head.

“Well,” Eli says, smiling brightly at everyone. “What a small world!”

Glancing away from Jonathan, Luke says to us, “Ready to grab some food?”

I deflate. It’s ten at night, and even with my day off yesterday, after a week of shit sleep, I’m deliriously tired. I don’t want to go out to eat. I want to go to bed. But I know Eli’s dying to be with Luke. They’re both busy professionals and don’t see each other nearly as much as they’d like. He’s been counting on this time.

“I’m wiped,” I admit. “Maybe you could drop me off at home on your way?”

Eli bites his lip. “Luke wanted to hit the diner right down the road here.”

“They have the best grilled cheese,” Luke says. “Oh, and milkshakes. Just the thing for your sweet tooth.”

“Gabriella doesn’t like milkshakes,” Jonathan tells him, eyes on me. “Just peppermint chocolate milk.”

“Peppermint hot cocoa,” I remind him.

“Semantics,” Jonathan says, coming damn close to a proper smile. “It’s definitely not milkshakes.”

It’s familiar territory, going back and forth like this, except there’s none of the usual bite in our words. It feels lived in, almost…friendly.

“I hate to say it,” I tell Luke and Eli, though my eyes oddly refuse to leave Jonathan. “He’s right. I don’t like milkshakes. The texture is not my thing. But I can still hang in there and come—”

“I’ll take you home,” Jonathan says.

Luke hesitates then asks, “You sure?”

Eli glances between us. “We don’t want to inconvenience anyone—”

“It’s fine,” I announce, my eyes locked with Jonathan’s.

This is fine. It’s no big deal. In fact, it’s an excellent opportunity to prove that this raging libido nonsense is just that—nonsense. I’m going to ride in Jonathan Frost’s car for thirty minutes back to the city, not melt into a horny puddle, and show us both how cool as a cucumber I can be.

“There you have it,” Jonathan tells them. He sets a hand low on my back, guiding me in front of him. I suck in a breath because, holy shit, does that feel good—the heat of his touch seeping through my coat. I lean into it just a little, like a cat curling up to an affectionate hand. This is not boding well for the cool-as-a-cucumber plan.