I stare at him, confused, as if a veil’s been lifted, revealing a person I barely recognize but who’s also strangely familiar, like looking at a face and knowing I’ve seen it before, nagging at the back of my brain.
“So—” he clears his throat. “What was with the weird moment with Luke? When you told him he’d played well? And he said that’s high praise, coming from you. Do you play hockey or something?”
“Oh…” My instinct is severely to guard this part of my life, but I suppose if Jonathan’s capable of an apology, I can be capable of a smidge of trust. “My dad’s Nicholas Sokolov. Needless to say, I know the game pretty well.”
Jonathan throws me a shocked double take before refocusing on the road. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
He blinks slowly, stunned. “Explain yourself.”
“Well, he and my mom met and fell in love, then they made a baby Gabby—”
“Gabriella,” he warns.
I snort a laugh. “All right, I’ll be serious. My dad wants a quiet life. All three of us do. We keep a low profile so we don’t have to deal with the crowds. And I go by my mom’s family name, Di Natale. It makes things easier.”
Jonathan shakes his head slowly. “Holy shit.”
Honestly, he’s taking it better than most people do. He didn’t swerve the car. He doesn’t look about to faint. And he hasn’t asked me for an autograph.
“That’s why he never visits work,” I explain. “Well, that’s not true, I’ve brought in my parents after closing to show off the place, but not when we’re open, because people can be so intense and they swarm you and ask for autographs and they just—”
“Ruin it,” Jonathan says quietly. “Your ability to have an ordinary life with him.”
I peer up at him. “Yeah.”
He nods. “I’m sure he’s very protective of that. And you. I would be.”
“He is,” I whisper.
“Well…” Jonathan clears his throat, eyes fixed on the road. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I fiddle with the M&Ms bag, unsettled by how relieved I am that he knows the truth, how sure I am that I can trust his word. “Thanks, Jonathan. I appreciate that.”
Quiet stretches between us until it’s taut and dense. It’s almost unbearable.
Until Jonathan tells Siri to play “Holiday Radio” with a note of command in his voice that’s downright pornographic.
Now that’s unbearable.
I gape at him. He glances my way, then does a double take. “What?”
“I’ve never heard your voice sound like that.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Very stern and bossy.” I crisscross my legs against the ache that’s nearly painful now. “Like…bedroom bossy.”
He gives me a disbelieving side-glance. “I told Siri to play a music station, Gabriella, not get on her knees.”
I choke on a fresh mouthful of M&Ms.
Jonathan stares at the road, battling a smile and barely holding his ground. “You have a filthy mind.”
“Me? You’re the one who just said—”
“Hush, you,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “And enjoy this assault on the ears that I’m putting up with for your sake.”
I snort a laugh. But my laugh fades as the song fills the car, the words hot and thick with meaning: I’ll wait up for you, dear. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.
Jonathan clears his throat and rolls his shoulders, like his clothes feel too tight. I squirm in my seat, then crack the window. My cheeks burn.
“Hot?” he asks.
God, am I ever.
“A bit,” I tell him.
Brow knit, Jonathan turns the dial down on the heat, then cracks his window, too. This horny song helps nothing. We’re both flushed, eyes pinned on the road. I can hear each deep breath he takes, feel every thundering beat of his heart.
Maybe that’s how I sound, too.
Panicking, I set my hands on my lap and discreetly play the song’s chord progression, like my thighs are piano keys. It’s a soothing movement that always calms me.
And while I settle myself, I walk through, step-by-step, what’s happened since I got in this car. I am increasingly turned on and disoriented. The world feels like that Shel Silverstein poem, “Backward Bill”—upside down and unrecognizable.
Jonathan voluntarily drove me home. He bought mint chocolate M&Ms for me because he’s sorry for how he acted this morning. He’s playing holiday music for my enjoyment, even though he hates it. Either he has another personality he’s been hiding for twelve months, or he’s up to something.