Page 12 of Merry Mischief List
“Near downtown Tampa,” he says over the brim of his coffee cup.
“Wonderful. As I was saying, considering you kidnapped me to your swanky townhouse near downtown Tampa, could you give me a ride back to CBU?”
“What happened to the school bus?”
“Turns out the route doesn’t pass by the devil’s house.” I shrug. “Safety precaution.”
“To be fair, I tried to give you a ride home last night, and you passed out in my car.”
“It was a long day.”
“Anyone ever told you that you snore like an F1 race car?”
My mouth falls open. “Never mind, I think I’ll walk. If I leave now, I should make it there by Christmas.”
I spin around, and a deep laugh fills the air seconds before loud steps sound and a warm hand lands on my elbow. “Come on,” he says in a soothing tone I’ve never heard from him before. “Eat breakfast. Then I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie. My stomach actually curses at me when the words leave my mouth.
“It’ll help the hangover,” Porter argues, raising his brows. His thumb brushes lightly over my arm, and I struggle to find another suitable excuse.
“I’ll just eat the cupcake.” I smile sweetly. “It is for emergencies, after all.”
“I already cooked. Don’t make me waste a perfectly good plate of sausage and eggs," he says.Damn, that does sound good.“Save your cupcake for later.”
“Fine,” I concede, brushing past him. “I’ll eat your damn sausage.”
* * *
“So, are you disappointed you can’t get up north?” Porter asks as we partake in a round of small talk on the drive to CBU. My stomach is full, and although I'll never admit it, my hangover isslightlyless intense.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most disappointed, I’d say I’m a hard eleven. A white Christmas is basically all I dream of every year. The cabin is a winter paradise compared to our hellscape.”
“Most people would considerthis”—he waves a hand at the palm trees passing by and the blue sky overhead—“paradise.”
I lean back in the seat and take in our surroundings. “True. It’s just, Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas without snow and the lights and the vibes.”
“The vibes?”
“Yeah, you know. The old red pickup truck carrying a snow-covered tree on a postcard kind of vibes?”
“That’s a very specific description.”
“It’s a very specific vibe,” I counter.
“Well, why can’t you have those here?” he asks, and I wave a hand at the surroundings like he did moments before. “Oh, come on. Sunshine and blue skies don’t ruin the vibes of Christmas.Youmake the vibes, they don’t make you.”
I choke on a laugh. “Wow, how Coachella of you.”
“I’m thirty-one, not a hundred and one. I’m in tune with thevibes…I’ve also been to Coachella.”
“Of course you have. Still”—I hold up a hand—“please stop using the word ‘vibes.’ Say ‘atmosphere’ or ‘ambiance’ or something more… your century.”
He scowls at me, and I glance out the window to resist admiring the way his arm muscles flex each time he readjusts his grip on the steering wheel.
“So…” he says, tapping the dark leather. “You gonna block Olivia?”
My head whips so fast in his direction it makes my neck ache. “I’m sorry, what?”
