I nod, clutching the carton like a lifeline. There is a question burning on my tongue. Something about why he slipped out of that hotel room before the sun came up. Why he never called. Why I never did either.
Instead, what comes out is, “Do you know if there’s any chance of getting a fresh turkey that doesn’t require me to brine it for three days and sell my soul for oven space?”
His brows rise. “You’re cooking?”
“Yes, Cyrus. Believe it or not, I can operate more than a microwave.”
He huffs out a breath. “That’s not what I meant.” His gaze flicks over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin buzz. “Just didn’t peg you as volunteering to host a stampede of family drama.”
“Desperate times.” I fold the list in half and shove it into my pocket. “Molly needs help, so I’m helping. This is what sisters are for. Emotional support and mashed potatoes.”
“Right.” His fingers tap the cream carton against his thigh. “If you strike out on turkeys here, ask at the Elk Shack. Last I heard, they were stocking some in their giant refrigerator for people who always forget until the last minute.”
“Good to know.” I hesitate, then add, “Thanks.”
His jaw flexes. For a moment, something unguarded flickers across his face. “Yeah. Sure.”
Silence stretches between us again, filled with all the things we are refusing to acknowledge. The way his hands felt on my hips. The way he said my name against my throat. The way I woke up alone to a cold dent in the mattress and a note that said nothing at all because there was no note.
My chest feels tight. I adjust my grip on the cart and take a step back. “Well. I should, uh, finish this before the shelves get cleared out.”
He nods. “Yeah. I should get back too.”
We stand there for one more absurd beat. Then I force myself to move, steering my cart around him and down the aisle.
I can feel his gaze on my back for several steps.
When I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding, my heart is beating too fast, my palms are damp, and my brain is a loop of unhelpful commentary.
I came back to town to help my sister. To save Christmas.
I did not come back to remember how it felt when Cyrus kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
I definitely did not come back to wonder what it would be like to bump into him under some mistletoe. Which can definitely never happen.
TWO
CYRUS
I should have known Bradley was up to something the second he walked into the bar wearing that look. The one he gets when he’s about to ask me for a favor disguised as a compliment disguised as a threat.
He takes one look at the lineup of mugs drying on the bar and grins. “Busy morning?”
“It’s nine a.m.,” I say, wiping down the counter. “Of course it’s busy. People panic when they realize they still have shopping to do.”
Bradley leans his elbows on the bar. “You’re grumpier than usual.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re brooding.”
I level a stare at him. “What do you want?”
He hesitates just long enough to confirm this is going to be terrible. “So, Mom was thinking?—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
