Later On We'll Conspire (Christmas Escape)

by Kortney Keisel

It’s not like I kill people for the fun of it. I have morals. This is just my job. Some slay numbers. I slay people—but only the ones the government tells me to. Or, in this case, the ones Sienna needs me to.

“Fabrice? Fabrice?” How ironic that a man, whose name sounds like an air freshener, was killed in a smelly men’s bathroom. This place could really use some Febreze.

Okay, his smile is adorable—the perfect combination of naughty and nice. I blame that smile for the next three seconds of ogling. My eyes drop, and I peek at his washboard abs—the pilgrims could’ve done laundry on those things. I can imagine them loading this guy on the Mayflower, bringing him across the ocean, the cleanliness of their clothes depending on his six-pack.

His eyes are literally asking me, are you enjoying the show? My face goes through all the shades of pink and red in a Crayola Crayon 100 pack, starting with Cotton Candy and ending with Brick Red.

“Your charms are elements from the periodic table.” “Only the most chemically reactive ones.” His lips twitch, and his eyes shine with amusement. “Chemical reactions. That sounds dangerous.” Oh, Holy Night! This guy could give lessons on being suave.

I do many things that skirt the law, but shoplifting isn’t one of them.

“Well,”—she grimaces—“I’ve had a rough three months and have eaten my way through all ninety-eight flavors of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. So naturally, there was an uptick on the scale, and I’m in between sizes right now.”

I wish he would’ve asked for my number or suggested we go out, but he didn’t. So I guess the writing’s on the wall—I’m eating the entire Sbarro pizza by myself.

Adults don’t hide. They face difficult situations with maturity. But I don’t feel like being a mature adult today

I’m powerless. It’s ironic, really. I’m trapped, running to keep up with the stairs just like I did when I was in a relationship with Nicholas. But no matter what I do, I can’t make up the difference. There’s always an imbalance between me and the moving target.

She deepens the passion again, taking this kiss to the next level. We’re at a Christmas Eve magic, stars sparkling in the sky, snowflakes falling on the ground kind of level. And I’m here for it. All of it.

She’s Rudolph, and I’m Santa Claus—she’s guiding this sleigh ride.

lose myself in the kiss, not even thinking about the men trying to kill me, and that’s saying something.

there are literally a million things she could be thinking right now, but I hope at least one thought is about how amazing that kiss was.

I’m finally in the mood to shave my legs.

His hand reaches out to me. “I’m Park Bradshaw, by the way.” “Not Parson Brown?” I smile, slipping my fingers into his. The warmth of his hand sends a swarm of butterflies swooping through my stomach, and suddenly, this is the sexiest handshake of my entire life. He lets go because that’s what you do after you greet each other—you let go. But I’m over here trying to figure out how to hold his hand the entire flight.

I slow my giggles. “I was only kidding. Nothing about you is small.” A blush tints my cheeks as I realize what I just said. “That sounded bad. I just meant—” Park raises his palm, stopping me. “You just said what every man wants to hear.”

“Are you always this honest and straightforward with people?” “My parents say I share too much information, that I’m too much of an open book.” “What do you think?” “I have my secrets.” She shrugs, looking out the window. “But really, how are people supposed to get to know each other if they don’t share about themselves?”

Nothing permanent. No attachments. It’s just two people casually kissing through the holidays. That’s it.”

Park is my Christmas chimichanga, and the relationship rules are the antacids that protect my heart from getting burned.

Needless to say, Park looks handsome. I’m fighting the urge to take him out back, shove an axe in his hand, and force him to chop firewood so I can sit and watch him do it. I have a feeling he’d look ridiculously sexy carrying a log over his shoulder like some kind of lumberjack. Just add some flannel and the fantasy is complete.

One second ago, I was the idiot getting frisked by the animal. Now, I’m the idiot who let a baby reindeer tackle him and drag him around.

Lacee tugs me to the parking lot, holding back her laughter, but she’s like a bomb about to explode. “Say it,” I mutter. “Park!” She spits out her laugh. “You got run over by a reindeer.”

but spending time with her is like being on chapter one of a thousand-page book and trying to read as fast as you can so you can get the entire story as soon as possible.

Who needs winter gloves when there’s a hot man around to warm your fingers?

He’s got so much game he has the second most expensive spot on the Monopoly board—Park Place.

I glide my hands up his back, curling my fingers into his hair. And that’s when the kiss turns chemical. I’ve reached my activation energy. Every atom, molecule, and cell is working together inside my body, creating an intensity in my chest that’s thrilling and electrifying. I’m a reactant in Park’s arms, being converted by the heat of his kiss. There was the Lacee before this kiss and the new version of myself that’s an entirely different compound.

The kiss heats up, and so does my body. We cling to each other, stumbling until my back’s pressed against the front door. I slip my cold hands under his coat and shirt, tracing the warm skin on his back. I’m combusting—releasing energy in the form of heat despite the frigid air outside. It’s a basic chemical principle, but to actually feel it happening inside my chest is gratifying in the most heart-stopping way.

It’s like I’ve died and gone to hot redhead heaven.

One minute I was starring in my own version of a Hallmark Christmas movie, but now we’ve moved onto the Lifetime network or maybe even Netflix with this level of violence. I’m no longer TV-G.

I’m easily reminded of how incredible his physique is. It’s the present that keeps on giving. Merry Christmas to me.

“How many people have you killed? Like, what’s your number?” “Nope.” He shakes his head. “That’s like a man telling his girlfriend how many women he’s kissed. It’s never a good idea.”

It’s cute in a semi-creepy stalkerish way. I guess I’m into that.

Okay, I’ve got to be honest. This spy side of Park is freaking hot. It’s like James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Ethan Hunt combined together to make some delicious Christmas spy strudel.

Now my head just has to figure out if I’m in love or in war.

This kiss isn’t about heated passion or taking things to the next level. It’s more about feelings. Feelings that have gotten stronger the more time we’ve spent together. Feelings that we’re not supposed to have. The kiss is soft and slow, with a longing behind each skim that’s palpable and heartbreaking, at least for me.

“She could use a friend, and I could use a mom.