My eyes dart to his, and I hover a second too long.
“You okay?” Lulu murmurs behind me.
I smile and nod quickly, sinking down onto my chair.
Mason sits with his shoulders relaxed, chatting to Herb as if this isn’t the most cursed table arrangement in the history of Christmases.
He’s got one hand wrapped around his glass, the other resting on the table, his thick fingers slightly curled. It’s the exact way I’d imagine they’d curl around my—
No, Francesca.Stop it.
He laughs at something Herb says. Meanwhile, I snatch up the name tag at my place setting, pretending to read it andhoping it’ll provide the exact instructions on how to escape this shit show.
“And what does the graphic designer think of my name tags?” Leah asks, nodding at the card in my hand. “Is our redheaded firecracker about to riot at the font?”
Everyone, including Mason, turns toward me, but it’s Mason who double-takes. His eyes narrow for a heartbeat, as if some of those words Leah just uttered snagged on a memory he didn’t know he’d kept.
My stomach drops through the damn floorboards. I choke on air, grasping for some sort of answer that won’t require me to speak, when Logan—now my own patron saint of Christmas—hums loudly.
“Smells amazing, Leah,” he says, flopping into the seat beside Eli. “What is that, rosemary on the potatoes?”
“Yup.” Leah beams. “And a little holiday magic.”
“Can’t wait to try ‘em.” Logan smiles, then turns to Mason. “So, do you get to drive the firetruck?”
Mason nods. “Yeah, most days.”
“How fast does it go?”
Eli doesn’t even look up from passing the bread rolls. “It’s not aFerrari, Miller.”
“Still wanna know,” Logan mutters.
“Fast enough to get to your place if you accidentally set your Christmas lights on fire,” Mason replies.
“Oh, I don't do the lights. Lulu does the lights. I do the ladder-holding and the watching.”
Lulu grins. “He’s good at both.”
“Somehow,” Eli says dryly, “those are his only festive skills.”
“I haveplentyof festive skills,” Logan says. “I just keep them under wraps. Like my hose.”
Eli sets his fork down and closes his eyes. “God,why.”
Laughter erupts around the table, and even Leah chuckles into her wine. Mason looks vaguely entertained, completely unaware that I am dying—dying—in real time.
I haven’t said a single word. Not one. I’m nodding and smiling like a malfunctioning Sims character while avoiding eye contact with the man who knows the sound I make when I’m touching myself.
“So, Frankie,” Herb says, glancing down the table. “How’s work been anyway?”
My brain short-circuits, and I open my mouth to reply just as Leah leans across me with the green beans. I reach to clear a space, but with a loud clink, our hands collide and my red wine goes flying.
It pours across the table, soaking the edge of the tablecloth, splashing onto the charger plate, and finally, with great gusto, sloshing directly onto Mason’s lap.
“Shit—” Logan jerks back.
“Oh my god!” Leah gasps.
