The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(35)

With affection.

With tenderness.

“Being here,” he answers. “I don’t think I’ve laughed like I have since being here in a long time. There’s this lightness in my shoulders, like I’m not carrying the weight of the world on them. I feel free.”

“You don’t think it’s all the Lebkuchen that’s making you feel that way?”

He chuckles. “Maybe. Since I’m on such a strict diet during the season, all the sugar might be sending me into a high.” Nodding slightly, he says, “What about you, Haze? Are you content?”

“Right now, I believe that I am.”

“So that means you plan on drinking with me tonight?”

“I mean, it’s required, isn’t it? According to Pops, we have to let loose?”

“I believe so.” He reaches out and rests his hand on my hip, his palm warming the left side of my body with just one touch. “But I think I need one of those bratwursts wrapped in a pretzel before I drink anything.”

“You saw that stall, too?” I ask, excited. “When we were walking to the bakery, I made a mental note to make sure I read that correctly. Pretzel-wrapped bratwurst.”

“Yup.” He nods. “I need it.”

“Then let’s get going.” I sit up and so does Crew. When he stands, he takes me by the hand and pulls me up off the bed into a hug. “What’s this for?” I ask, my cheek resting against his chest.

“Just catching up on lost time.” He lets go and then pushes me back on the bed so I’m flat against the mattress again. “Let’s go, Twigs.”

“Ugh, you’re such an ass,” I say while standing up.

He laughs, throwing his new scarf around his neck and then zipping up his jacket. I join him, punching my arms through the sleeves of my jacket, and when I’m set, he reaches out and takes me by the hand. “Off to the market.”

Hand in hand, we head out of our hotel room and into the cold, Christmas-filled air.

“Oh wow,” I whisper in awe. This place is incredible. The intricate detail on the ancient buildings, the square lit with bright, twinkly lights that illuminate the sweet red-and-white candy-cane-striped roofs of every stall in the market. It’s magical. The Church of Our Lady serves as the backdrop of the charming town, while string bulbs travel from tall stake to tall stake, creating an ethereal border along the edge of the Markplatz. At the front desk we were told that Nuremburg is known as Christmas Town, and I can see why now.

It’s an enchanting ambiance where you can practically taste the joy in the air.

“I just got a huge smile on my face,” I say in a whisper.

“Me, too.” Still holding my hand, Crew weaves me through a small crowd gathering near a beer stall and straight to the bratwurst stall, where he orders us each a bratwurst pretzel. Instead of talking while we wait for our food to be ready, we take in this remarkable city. The sound of Christmas melodies being played by a live band in the background, the laughter of children as they needle their way through the crowd of adults, and the comradery coming from those who have dipped their wallets into several cups of wine.

When our brats are done, Crew takes both of them and nods toward a mulled wine booth. “Want to get a souvenir cup?”

I look over at the stall and see that there’s a ceramic mug, designed especially for the Christkindlesmarkt. A combination of a beer stein and a coffee mug, it sports a wonderfully illustrated depiction of the market in all its Christmas glory, and all I can think of is if I don’t have one of those, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

“I need one of those mugs in order to live.”

Crew laughs out loud and hands me the brats. “I’ll grab us each one. Head toward the Ferris wheel and get in line.”

“You want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

“Can you think of a better way to enjoy our brats and wine?”

“I guess not.”

He walks toward the stall, and I weave my way to the Ferris wheel, where there’s a decent line but nothing too long. I count out the people and the chairs on the Ferris wheel, and from the looks of it, we’ll be able to ride the next round.

The Ferris wheel is adorable—tiny, white with Christmas-themed seats. It almost feels as though it belongs in one of those ceramic Christmas villages that grandparents display on their credenzas.

In a matter of minutes, Crew walks up to me and hands me a mug of wine while taking back his brat.

“Oh, this is so freaking cute. I think I might be in love with a souvenir mug.”

“To each their own.” He chuckles and takes a sip of the wine. His eyes widen as he smacks his lips together. “Oh, shit, this is dangerous.”

“Good?” I ask.

He nods. “Really fucking good.”

I lift the mug and take a sip. A wave of cinnamon, citrus, and cloves hits my tongue as the smooth, warm liquid trickles down my throat. “Oh, wow. That’s dangerously good.” I laugh. “Uh-oh. If we’re not careful, I think this could be the death of us tonight.” This is especially potent, given I’m still feeling jetlagged.

He clinks his brat with mine and says, “Then we better eat up.”

Just then the line moves, and we’re the last ones to hop into a red chair. The attendant locks the safety bar in place and steps aside, and we slowly start rotating toward the midnight sky. The ride isn’t very fast—actually almost at a snail’s pace—which gives us enough time to take in the sights while we eat our brats.