Now that voice is here, standing inmyfamily’s living room. Attached to a very inconveniently attractive, dark haired firefighter.
With his winter jacket unzipped just enough to show the outline of a T-shirt stretched over his chest. And a mustache just slutty enough to make a nun reconsider her vows.
His eyes land on me as he chats. Not in recognition, more a polite, friendly glance. But then they drift. Linger a little too long on my hair. Myredhair.
Oh, fuck. He told me once he has a thing for redheads, and I coyly told him I might be one.
I grip the arm of the loveseat while Lulu and Tamara glance between each other, then me, but they don’t piece it together. They just think I’m being socially inept, which I am, but for profoundly worse reasons.
“Frankie is Tam’s sister,” Lulu says, noticing the beat of silence. “She just got in from Toronto.”
“Nice to meet you, Frankie,” he says.
It’s so much worse hearing him say my government name.
My jaw opens then closes, voice dying in my throat, because what the fuck am I meant to do? Speak and have the most outrageously awkward experience of my life?
Tamara elbows me. “Frankie.”
“She’s not normally mute,” Lulu adds cheerfully. “Unless you bring up Christmas decorations or joy in general.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper in a tone purposefully high pitched. But I’m not. I am so far from fine I might need medical intervention, because fuck me—he’s so hot.
Tall. Broad. Holding a bouquet of fucking flowers and a box of chocolate truffles, like some kind of firefighter wet dream turned Christmas guest.
“Brought these for Leah,” he says, holding out the flowers just as she walks in from the kitchen.
“Oh, Mason, they’re beautiful,” she gushes, taking them. “I’ll put them in water. You didn’t need to do that!”
“Tell that to my mother,” he chuckles, holding out the box. “Some truffles too. Nearly ate them in the car—needed a sugar hit after Hazel almost clawed my face off.”
Hazel.
Hazel.
I die. I’m dead. Here lies Francesca Monroe.
“Who’s Hazel?” Tamara asks.
“My cat,” he replies. “Rescue. Bit of a diva.”
Herb chuckles. “Still feeding her that imported kibble?”
“Yeah, don’t judge me. It’s the only thing she’ll eat.”
He keeps talking, and I silently scream into the void. Every husky syllable drops like a match into a puddle of lighter fluid. I want to run. I want to scream. I want to—
“Let’s eat, team!” Leah calls from the kitchen doorway.
Everyone starts migrating to the dining room, and I slowly tag along behind them as the metaphorical lamb to the slaughter.
Leah’s gone full Pinterest board again. Gold charger plates, flickering candles nestled in garlands of pine and cranberries. She’s even folded the damn napkins into little trees.
I would normally be teasing her, but instead, I’m busy calculating how many sips of wine it’ll take before I can fake a stomach bug and flee.
Tamara nudges me toward the chair directly opposite Mason—because the universe is cruel and my sister is, apparently, an unintentional sadist.
“There you go, Franks. This one’s for you.”
