I snort so hard eggnog nearly comes out my nose. “Yep. That’s mine.”
God, sometimes I have no shame.
Gregory glances over from where he’s helping Dad with the fire, and his mouth twitches. That’s his I’m-trying-not-to-laugh-in-front-of-your-parents face. I’ve gotten very familiar with that face over the past year.
Gregory’s hair is getting longer, and he’s got a faceful of stubble because he forgot to shave this morning. He’s wearing jeans and a short-sleeved henley today... no designer cashmere in sight. Still, that henley does nothing to hide those broadshoulders I’ve mapped with my hands and lips approximately eight hundred thousand times.
Mom hands the present to Gregory.
“Open it,” I urge, still grinning like an idiot.
He tears into the wrapping, and inside is a French press. The really nice kind. Not the cheap one he couldn’t figure out a year ago.
“So you can make terrible coffee anywhere,” I explain. “Even when I’m not around to supervise.”
“I’ve gotten better,” he protests.
“You really haven’t.” I’m laughing now, and so he is.
My dad chuckles, too, accepting a beer from Thomas. “When are you going to put a ring on this girl, Gregory? Before she realizes she can do better?”
Oh god.
I freeze and shoot dad an infuriated look. “Dad. So not helping.”
But Gregory just shrugs and grins.
I busy myself distributing more presents because suddenly I’m blushing and I don’t want anyone to see. Especially not Gregory with his stupid observant blue eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
I realize I’ve just given out more of my own presents. You know, the ones I labeled myself.
Vin reads his. “To Vin, From... Gordon Ramsay’s Anger Management Clinic?” He looks baffled.
I’m giggling so hard I can barely breathe. “Because of that time you threw a spatula at the smoke alarm!”
Vin shakes his head but he’s grinning.
Marcel reads his. “To Marcel, From... The Bahamas Cabana Girls?”
Now I’m wheezing. Marcel looks torn between amusement and professional dignity. His wife doesn’t look overly thrilled, however.
“To Dad, From NASA’s Landscaping Division,” Mom reads, completely deadpan.
I’m the only one laughing at that one. Story of my life.
Look, it’s Christmas. It’s literally the one time of year I can get away with turning gift labels into elaborate inside jokes that only I find hilarious. They’re my presents. My terrible sense of humor. My right to be absolutely ridiculous about it.
And honestly? Watching people’s faces when they read them is worth every confused look.
The morning quickly dissolves into wrapping paper chaos. My roommate Jenna opens her gift from me and immediately squeals. It’s snow boots. One of the four pairs Gregory bought me because apparently ‘one pair of boots’ isn’t in his vocabulary. Figured I’d give it a good home since Jenna and I are close to the same size.
Meanwhile Vin’s kids are losing their minds over some robotics kit. Thomas unwraps a bottle of scotch that’s probably older than I am and actually looks moved.
Then Gregory hands me a small box. Not ring-sized. Bigger.
It simply says “To Sorrel.”
“Open it,” he says quietly.
