Page 21 of Merry Pucking Christmas
“Will you tell me about her?” I venture, a hint of worry creeping in as I think he might shut down. But I want to know more about the person who shaped him.
He sucks in a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to share something significant. “I’ve never opened up to anyone about my mother,” he admits, and my heart sinks a little, knowing how difficult it can be to talk about such personal things.
I nod in understanding, giving him the space to share. I want him to know he can trust me. “She was a great mother, but she had depression. Among other things,” he continues, his eyes growing distant as if he’s wandering back through memories, some bittersweet and others maybe painful.
The weight of his words hangs in the air between us, and I can see the vulnerability in his expression. I wish I could reach out, to comfort him in some way, but I remain still, offering my silent support as we stand together in the middle of this bustling holiday scene.
“She’d have good days and then she’d have some really bad days,” he whispers, his gaze fixed on the cone in his hand as if it holds all the answers. He abandons it, letting it droop in his grip, the chocolate ice cream slowly dripping down the side. “We didn’t know how to help her, and my father tried to pretend everything was fine.”
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, my heart aching at the thought of the struggles he and his family faced. “I’m sorry,” I offer softly, wanting to ease the weight of his memories, even just a little.
“My father pushed me to play hockey, and my younger sister to play the piano,” he continues, his voice low and heavy withunspoken emotions. I vaguely remember hearing about his younger sister, how she plays for an orchestra in New York City.
“That must have been hard on you all,” I say gently, trying to validate the struggles they faced.
York nods, his expression a mix of sadness and resignation. “Yeah, it was.” His words hang in the air, a poignant reminder of the sacrifices and pressures they endured.
My heartbeat quickens as I sense the depth of his pain. “What happened to her?” I ask, my curiosity piqued but laced with caution, aware that I’m treading on sensitive ground.
York wipes at his eyes, his tears glistening in the cold air. “This is all a bit much for ice cream talk, isn’t it?” he says, attempting to lighten the mood even as the emotion lingers in his voice. With a sigh, he tosses his cone into the nearby trash, and I follow suit, suddenly losing my appetite for the sweet treat that felt so innocent just moments ago.
York turns toward me, his gaze penetrating to the very depths of my soul. I want to live in this moment with him, and he raises a hand to my cheek to brush a stray strand of hair that he tucks behind my ear. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers, and I feel an intake of air rush out of me.
I hold my breath, caught in the tension of the moment, waiting for something—anything—to happen. But just as the air thickens with unspoken words, the sharp sound of a camera shutter snaps me out of my reverie.
York bows his head, the heat of our earlier conversation evaporating under the harsh glare of a flash, and a surge of rage bubbles up within me. We just shared this beautiful moment, a glimpse into each other’s lives that felt so raw and genuine, andit’s been ruined by the ever-watchful eyes of the paparazzi. I see red, my emotions flaring as I stomp off in the direction of the man wielding the camera.
“Hey!” I shout, my voice laced with indignation. “Have you ever heard of a little thing called privacy?”
York rushes after me, a look of alarm mixed with concern etched on his face. “Noelle, it’s okay,” he says, his tone trying to soothe me, but I’m not having any of it.
I turn to face him, frustration radiating from me. “It isn’t okay! Maybe not everyone wants every single minute of their life recorded for prosperity.”
York smirks at my passionate outburst, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You mean posterity?”
“Yeah, you know, for the record books,” I retort, spinning around again to direct my anger at the man with the camera.
The photographer glances over my shoulder at York, a silent plea for help flickering in his gaze. I follow his line of sight, feeling a rush of defiance, and snap back at him, “He’s not going to help you.”
York chuckles, stepping up beside me with an easy confidence. He crosses his arms, his stance casual but protective. “I’d run if I were you,” he advises the cameraman, a playful glint in his eyes that clashes with the tension of the moment.
The man stumbles backward a step, clearly taken aback, and I can’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction at having York by my side.
“That’s right. You better run!” I yell after the fleeing photographer, my voice echoing in the chilly air. “And I betternot see any of those pictures online later, either, or I will seek you out—”
York cuts in, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Noelle, he’s gone.” He laughs, the sound warm and infectious.
In that moment, my anger vanishes like a puff of smoke, replaced by something electric in the air. The way York smiles at me draws me in, and I can feel my heart fluttering wildly in my chest. It’s as if the world around us fades away, leaving just the two of us standing there in the midst of chaos.
Before I can fully process what’s happening, York leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my cheek. He captures my lips with his, and everything else falls away. The kiss is soft at first, a tentative exploration that sends shivers down my spine. His lips mold perfectly against mine, a sweet, tender pressure that ignites something deep inside me.
As the kiss deepens, it transforms into a dance of passion. I feel his hand find the small of my back, pulling me closer, and I instinctively lean into him, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. There’s a thrilling urgency in the way he kisses me, as if he’s pouring every unspoken word and emotion into that single moment.
Time stretches, and I’m lost in the sensation of him—the taste of chocolate on his lips mingling with the sweetness of the moment. When we finally pull away, breathless and wide-eyed, I can see a flicker of surprise mirrored in his gaze.
“Wow,” I whisper, my heart racing. The kiss feels like a promise, one that suggests this fake relationship might lead to something so much more real.
Chapter 15