2. Frankie Bardot

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frankie bardot

I’m a Grinch. I’ve never been one before, but this year? My holiday spirit is in the toilet.

It was enough to hype myself up to face Noah over break, knowing he and my brother would be inseparable. I planned on using my dad as the buffer. He’d shuffle the boys off to the arena to get their morning skating in and maybe some side work, then come back in the afternoon to hang out with me at the North Pole. But just as he always does, Noah Drake came along and screwed it all up—made it about him. As if my life hasn’t already been enough about him.

Even my North Pole looks more like an alleyway right now. This set is only a few years old, but the backdrop is dingy and faded. I guess when the storage area is a metal shed tucked in the corner of our yard, I shouldn’t expect much.

“Do you want to build everything first? Or paint first?” My best friend Mazy raises both fists, one clutching a roller, the other a hammer. My shoulders drop with my sigh, and I reach for the hammer.

“I guess it’s easier to paint standing up, so grab the nails.”

I bend down, grab the cutout toy factory by the roofline, and lift it in place. My high school theater friends and I built this set three years ago using some of the leftover pieces from our winter production that year. It’s not the most professional-looking backdrop, but it makes for some pretty photos when the colors are bright, and the lights are strung. Besides, kids are happy if you put a cheery Santa in the middle of just about anything. Well, except for the ones who are terrified. My dad is always good at easing fears. This season, though? I can’t say I’ll blame any of them for running away from the new Santa. Imposter.

Mazy hands me a few nails that I hold between my lips. She lifts the adjoining wall, and I shift the wooden brace in place while balancing the hammer and reaching toward my mouth for a nail.

“You need a hand?”

Noah’s voice seems to come out of nowhere, and I nearly swallow the remaining nails. I drop the brace, and it slides down the boards and onto the rubber carpet atop the ice. I thought he would still be at the arena with my brother. It’s why I got my ass up this early in the first place.

“Yes, please!” Mazy says, her tone full of relief. As far as best friends go, she’s practically award-winning. But she’s not exactly coordinated. Or strong. Or . . . handy. She’s incredibly nice, though. And usually, that’s enough for me.

“I got it,” Noah says, taking over the weight. His effort makes my side feel lighter too, and the seam between the two pieces is gone now that he’s holding them together. It’s too bad I have to stand up and look him in the eyes. If I could hammer the pieces together from down here, I wouldn’t hate his gesture as much as I’m going to in three, two, one . . .

“That’s Mazy, by the way. I know how easily you forget people.” I utter the words as I rise, and by the time our eyes meet, my mouth is locked into a hard line.

Noah’s nostrils flare with his quiet exhale, and his head tilts slightly.

“I went to Miller Brook, too, Frankie. I know Mazy.” He blinks slowly, then rolls his head to turn his attention to my friend. “Hi, Mazy. It’s nice to see you.”

“Hi, Noah.” Mazy’s mouth pulls into that tight, embarrassed smile that makes her dimples double and turns her cheeks bright pink. When it comes to Noah Drake, Mazy and I have always agreed on one thing—he’s probably the hottest male ever to share our zip code. But where Mazy’s crush stopped at looks, mine went a whole lot deeper. I loved the way Noah’s voice changed over the years. I felt joy when I heard his laugh. When he got injured his freshman year of college and came home for surgery, I promised not to tell my brother when I saw him cry. And maybe that’s why I kept last summer’s kiss to myself. Because hot as he may be and as sweet as I always hoped he secretly was, Noah Drake is, in fact, a dog.

“I know who Mazy is,” he whispers at me from the other side of the set. I can see half his face peeking around the fake chimney, and I narrow my eyes and stare into his left eyeball. I wish I could reach out and poke it.

“I was being glib.” I position a nail against the wood and haul my arm back to give the hammer a swing. I pound it in after three solid smacks.

“Glib. Is that another word for mean?” His voice is low, but not so low that Mazy can’t hear bits and pieces of this conversation.

I step back and heave out a short breath before meeting his gaze.

“Yep. It sure is,” I say before nodding toward the next portion of the set.

Noah grabs one end while Mazy holds the other, and between the three of us, we manage to steady the largest part of the folding backdrop in place so I can hammer in the last few braces.

“You should consider putting hinges on these for next year,” Noah says, tapping his fingertip on the last brace after my final hammer blow.

“That’s such a good idea,” Mazy beams. I roll my eyes and turn my back to them. The chill in the air is pretty biting, but if I don’t get a coat of paint on everything today, it won’t be ready in time for our first afternoon open tomorrow.

I crouch down and pop open the lid on the can of bright white before pouring half the gallon into one of the paint pans.

“Hey, Frankie. Since Noah is here now, would you mind if I took off so I can try to get a few more hours of sleep before the concert tonight?”

My eyes dart to Mazy’s face, and she gives me a wry grin as she lifts a shoulder. I dragged her out of bed at seven over winter break, and because she’s a good friend, she joined me without griping. And we are going to be out late at the concert tonight.

“Yeah, sure. It’s just paint, so I can do it alone if I need to.”

I flit my gaze to Noah for a beat. I’m giving him an out, too. I don’t need him soothing his guilt by joining me for handiwork.

“Thanks,” Mazy breathes out. She leans down to give me a hug, nearly dipping the ends of her blonde braids into the pan of paint. I scoop them up before they run into trouble, and she stares at me with wide eyes and a thankful expression.

“Nice to see you, Noah.” Her cheeks flash a bright red, and I swear she’s putting extra sway in her hips as she passes him. He holds up a palm and smiles through tightly closed lips.

“Careful. I think she likes you,” I say when my friend is far enough away for me to let my snark fly.

“At least one of you does,” he grumbles. Our eyes tangle for a second, and eventually, I stand up tall and huff out a short laugh.

“I liked you, too, once.” I hold the paint pan out for him to take, along with the brush. His thumb grazes the top of my hand as he takes the brush, and it literally feels like he dragged a magic wand laced with morphine over my skin.

“Only that once, huh?” He quirks a brow, and I look away before I feel that pull he’s so good at using to draw me in.

“Yeah, just once. And look what that got me. Kiss ’em and forget ’em! Add me to your ledger, I guess.” I cringe at my own words, so I keep my back to him as I unwrap a second brush and hook my finger through the handle on the paint can. I’ve been holding my hurt in for months. Some petty shit is bound to come out the longer he’s around me. I don’t like the way it looks on me, though. I’m better than that. Than this.

His silence is a good sign that I caught him off guard with my words and maybe cut him a little too. His flirtatious smirk seems to have faded, and his gaze is lost in the smooth surface of the paint in his hands.

“It goes on the wood. Like in that movie, The Karate Kid . Paint the fence?” His eyes blink at me, and I mimic the famous movie scene, drawing my brush up and down in the air. Noah’s lip curls, and my stomach rushes with butterflies. That’s the dangerous feeling that will get me in trouble, so I cut it short, move to the opposite end of the winter set, and start to paint.

For several minutes, we work in silence, and it’s almost nice. The tingles on my skin—the ones I get simply from being near Noah—linger, though. And every time I catch him glancing in my direction, my chest grows warm. I need to remember that this feeling, it’s a trick.

He steps back to admire the section he painted, and I do the same. I think when we add in more of the red and black paint, it will look almost new again.

Noah swaps his white pan for the gallon of red. I get a little stuck watching his forearm muscles as he pries open the lid. Those arms used to be scrawny sticks. Now he’s a man.

“Do you have something to cover this with?”

I look away before he turns his attention to me. The last thing I need is him catching me admiring anything and thinking I’m open to messing around.

“No, but it should be fine sitting out for the night. Besides, everyone knows what this place is. You’d have to be a real dick to steal Santa’s workshop.”

“I meant to protect it from the snow,” he explains.

I squint at his words and shift my gaze to him, my mouth contorted to match my skepticism.

“We aren’t getting snow for at least two weeks, Noah.” It’s literally been the lead story on the local news for the last two days. It’s rare for us not to have a white Christmas, but according to the forecasters, this holiday is shaping up to be bone dry.

“I don’t know,” he muses, glancing up at the puffy clouds. He squints from their reflection as he makes a quarter turn, his expression serious. “I feel snow in the next few days.”

I study him as he stares up at the blue sky, the sun kissing his golden lashes, and the curled ends of his hair blowing around the hem of his beanie. He’s still wearing his gray sweatpants and the blue and gold Tiff University practice jersey, which he fills out a lot more than he did even a year ago. My dad was so proud when Noah and my brother were recruited together. A part of me has always wondered if Noah made the school take Anthony, too, as a condition. My brother is good, but he’s not Tiff good. I don’t think he’s left the bench more than a handful of times over the last two and a half years.

I spare a quick glance at his face one last time, the cut of his jaw, and slight stubble. His beard will grow in over the next two weeks. Of course, he’ll be wearing a long, white, fake one most of the time we’re together.

“So, this concert?—”

He drops his chin, and his gaze lands on me before I have a chance to mask what I fear is one of those ooey, gooey, admiring expressions with doe eyes and parted lips. I call it Noah Drake Face. I’ve worked so hard to shed it. Like riding a bike, I guess. Slipped right back into practice. And judging by the smirk playing on his lips, Noah caught me.

“You aren’t invited,” I blurt out. A bit of an overreaction to a question he hasn’t even asked, but he caught me ogling.

“Wow, I mean. Okay, then.” He holds up his brush in one hand, the can of paint dangling from the other, and slowly backs away from me.

In an attempt to double the space between us, I rush to the other side of the set, brushing my hip along the fresh paint. The denim snags on the particle board as I pass, and I silently pray it’s not as bad as it felt, but the white blotch that stretches from the side pocket on my overalls to the edge of the back pocket quashes any hope.

“Damn it!” I set down my can and twist my hips to get a better look at the scope of the damage.

“If you wash it right now, it will come right out. Here,” Noah says, setting his paint and brush down and gesturing for me to follow him toward the arena.

I don’t want to follow him anywhere, but I also don’t want to ruin my favorite piece of clothing.

“Ugh,” I grumble, balling my fisted hands to my sides as I follow Noah’s lead.

As we near the building, the smacks from sticks slapping at pucks perforate the air, and the scraping sound of skates on ice broken up by periodic whistles fills my ears as soon as Noah swings open the entry door.

“Follow me. Nobody’s in the locker room, and I have extra sweats in my bag.” Noah keeps walking along the glass, but I pause for a second, not sure I need to be heading into a closed space with him, putting on his clothes.

My brother’s voice hits my ears, and I glance toward the ice where he’s standing in the middle of the rink, coaching whistle perched on his bottom lip. Anthony looks so much like our dad out there, from his posture to the way he pulls his beanie down low to cover his ears. He’s running the winter camp, the same one he and Noah used to participate in when they were young.

“Thirty seconds to catch your breath, then we go again!” He skates along the line of exhausted twelve-year-olds, eying them for strengths and weaknesses. He wants to be a coach when he finishes at Tiff, and though he didn’t quite have what it takes to start in college, I think he’ll be incredible, leading young players through the ropes.

“Frankie, come on!” Noah whisper-shouts from between the sets of stands. My feet instinctually rush forward, though I haven’t quite decided whether to follow him into the locker room.

Noah’s gaze bounces between me and my brother, raising his hand after a few seconds and urging me to hurry. By the time I reach him, he’s bouncing on his toes like one of the kids waiting in line to see Santa at the photo station.

“Calm down. I’m hurrying,” I huff. His hand flattens on my back as I pass him, and he urges me forward, guiding me around a corner and through the locker room door. I spin around the second I’m inside and shove my palms into his chest.

“What the hell, Noah!”

His eyes flash wide, like a mouse trapped in a corner, and he flattens his back against the door.

“Just because nobody’s in here doesn’t mean you should be in here. Can we hurry up?” His eyes somehow widen more through his words, and I glance around the space to see the discarded towels from the men’s groups who were in here earlier this morning. The steam from their showers still hangs in the air.

“Point taken,” I relent, and his shoulders drop.

“Second row, third locker in. Grab the blue sweats and toss me your pants.”

I count my way to his space and chuckle lightly at the unlatched lock dangling from his locker.

“You know the point of a lock is to keep your shit safe,” I utter, unhooking the metal from the latch and opening the door. His body wash and a comb sit on the upper shelf, a tan towel dangles from the hook on the back, and a pair of sweats sits neatly folded on the bottom. I pick them up and hold them near my nose to see if there’s any hint of his body wash or cologne on the fabric. I feel a little drunk on the scent and once again debate which is more important—my favorite overalls or my resolve.

“You know, I can buy my own ticket, right?”

My brow pulls in and I lean around the corner to glance at him.

“Huh?”

“The concert. It’s not like an invite-only thing. I could just buy my own ticket and go.” He drops his hands in his pockets and leans his head to the side, his mouth curved a hint. He’s challenging me.

I shrug.

“It’s country. And I know you hate country. But sure. If you want to spend your money on going to a concert by yourself, have at it.” I form a fist and mouth, “Yeah,” as I pump it, mocking him.

“I don’t hate country.”

I chuckle and step back to the hidden space in front of his locker.

“Yeah, okay. Like I said. Have at it.” I unhook my overalls and slip the denim down my hips, wrangling my shoes through the legs so I don’t have to untie them. My skin beads up from the cold as I stand in my red bikini underwear and a long-sleeved gray shirt.

“Maybe I will,” Noah says, his voice sounding closer than before. I clutch his sweatpants in my hands and hold my breath. My gaze drops to my discarded pants, and my pulse throbs in my ears. My eyes flutter shut, and I hover in the land of possibility for a few reckless seconds.

“You got those overalls ready?”

He’s right there. Two steps, and I could hand them to him myself, let him get a good look at the body he missed out on. Maybe feel the glow that comes with Noah Drake’s attention one last time before I swear it off for good.

I am wet from the thought, and swallow hard.

“Yeah, one second,” I say, bending down and snagging my overalls in my free hand.

“Here,” I practically croak, tossing them out into the open area and turning my back to the temptation to follow.

I shake out his sweats and gather up one leg at a time, slipping my feet, shoes and all, through the cuffed bottoms. I wriggle them up my hips and roll the top twice at my waist before turning around to find Noah standing at the end of the row, watching me. My pussy gets wetter, and now my nipples are hard. I wish I wasn’t wearing this bra so he’d be forced to see them.

“You like the view?” I say in a wry tone. I was right. It feels good to let him look. Too good.

“Always have,” he says, his words coming quick and easy. His gaze lingers on my hips, and the tip of his tongue slips out between his lips. I hold on to the moment until his eyes lift to meet mine, and when my chest fills with so much chaos it becomes hard to breathe, I end it.

“If you’re not going to wash those, give them to me. You can go. I’ll see myself out.” I hold out my open palm, and Noah’s gaze sticks to mine. His mouth curls a hint more, that curled dimple, the backward C, creasing his cheek. I thrust my fingers out wide a few times, urging him to quit playing games. I’m done playing mine, and he finally drops my pants in my hand.

“There’s some laundry stuff by the equipment closet in the back. I’ll finish up the paint and give you a ride home.”

“It’s fine. You can leave the rest for me. And I’ll just walk,” I say, flippantly.

“Frankie, don’t be like that. Let me give you a ride home,” he says through an exasperated sigh.

I glance at him over my shoulder and smile as I reach the equipment room’s closed door.

“I’m not being like anything, Noah. Except myself. Because that’s all there is here. There’s me, and then there’s you. Two separate things. Not together in any way. Ever.”

I twist the knob to open the door and pull the string for the light so I can scan the shelves for soap. I find detergent and grab it before shutting the light off again and closing my heart to any crazy ideas. All the heat from before is gone, and when I turn back around and meet with Noah’s soft eyes and drawn-in lips, I am impervious.

“At least let me drive you home.”

I pause when I’m parallel with him, turning so our toes nearly meet, and my closed-lip smile widens.

“You worried that magical snowstorm you’re predicting will bury me on my way?” I tease.

He blinks slowly and takes away the few remaining inches between us, his nose close enough to graze against mine.

I feel nothing.

I feel nothing.

“I’m not worried, Frankie.” He leans in, his chin over my shoulder and his breath hot against my ear. “I am obsessed.”

I take in a sharp breath as his chin tickles against the side of my neck. His mouth comes dangerously close to mine, but my eyes remain open—aware. I refuse to blink. Even when his gaze dips to my mouth. And when he presses his tongue to the pad of his thumb. And when . . .

“You got a little paint here,” he hums, running his wet thumb from the edge of my bottom lip, down my chin, then slowly along my throat and over my collarbone. His touch grows slower and lighter, but he continues to paint a faint, invisible line down the center of my chest, between my breasts, all the way below my navel until his finger hooks in the front of his sweatpants.

He pauses there, tugging lightly before letting his hand slip away. I refuse to swallow. But I want to.

“You watch, Frankie. It’s going to snow this week. I just know it.”

I shift my gaze until our eyes are deadlocked. My breathing is measured, but my heart is racing. Is this what it’s like being a Noah Drake girl? Constant seduction. Random brushes with heat. Always feeling on the verge of having him feel something back. Always being left wanting more.

He backs away, and I take the reins of breathing my own air again.

“Too bad Santa’s got you on the naughty list. Boys like you don’t get everything they want, Noah Drake.” I purse my lips and hold on to the bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the only thing I’ve got to fend off the waves of desire crashing over me in his wake.

“You forget, Frankie Bardot”—he chuckles lightly and winks as he reaches the door—“I am Santa.”

And just like good ole St. Nick, he disappears in a flash, and I’m left no longer wanting to kiss this boy but to instead somehow repel him.