Sometimes, I think we’re a bit of a weird couple, because we love hugs more than kisses. But it’s just our thing. Those tight, warm hugs where our bodies fit perfectly against one another, the way he squishes me unapologetically, and even how I make myself take three deep breaths into his shoulder. It’s one of those grounding things I love whenever I get a bit overwhelmed. I just focus on him, on my boyfriend, and on the physical reminder that I can find him and hug him whenever I need to. Even when he’s not here and I miss him, thinking about our next hug is themost uplifting feeling ever. And he smells like that lovely pine-and-cinnamon soap I got him for the season because, of course, he always likes and uses whatever I get him.
“I love you,” I mumble into his Christmas sweater.
“I love you too,” he replies immediately, pressing a kiss on the top of my head, because he’sthatmuch taller than me. “…Are you alright?”
“I am,” I nod, and I mean it. “I’m sorry I got a bit upset earlier.”
“You had a good reason to be,” he sighs. “A lost suitcaseisupsetting, and I know you were looking forward to dressing up tonight. I’m sorry you don’t get to, sweetheart.”
“It’s alright,” I shrug. “It was just a dress.”
Nicolas tilts his head, inspecting my expression, but I compel myself to give him a smile. Not a too-fake one, but a smile that tells him I’m alright.
Because I am.
Am I disappointed I won’t get to wear my dress? Yeah, a bit. But it’s just a dress, and I’ll get it back, and I can wear it some other time, right? It’s not even lost. And I’m here, in this beautiful château, celebrating Christmas with him. I might have been upset for a minute—okay, a long minute—but I like to think I am a positive person. And that means I have to be positive in the bad moments too; otherwise, it’s too easy.
So, after I give myself just a tiny minute of swallowing the disappointment that I won’t be making any fashion statements this year, I give Nicolas another firm, more determined nod.
“I’m really alright,” I tell him, “and it’s Christmas Eve! I’m spending Christmas Eve with my boyfriend in a beautiful château, and I plan to enjoy a ridiculously fancy meal. And hopefully, we can stop your mom and Emi from fighting…?”
He smiles.
“I like that,” he says, before leaning over to press a quick kiss on my lips. “Let’s get going.”
He takes my hand, and I let him guide me out of the bedroom.
Four
Chapter 4
In the lobby, Emi is on the phone and just hanging up when she sees us, her expression much lighter.
“Antoine says hi,” she beams, “and he also said thank you for your service, and to please bail me out if anything goes very wrong.”
“I certainly hope it won’t get to that,” Nicolas says, frowning.
“You should have seen us in the first trimester,” she scoffs, patting her belly. “Your mother wasn’t even allowed to set foot in Quebec.”
“How’s Antoine?” I ask, curious about Nicolas’s twin brother.
“He’s alright, for someone stuck working the E.R. on Christmas Eve,” she shrugs. “He’s probably going to have the usual stream of drunk uncles, toys stuck somewhere they shouldn’t be, and kitchen accidents galore… He kind of loves it, though. I’ve never seen a man who thrives so much in chaos.”
“Well, lucky for you, he was thriving when you got into that ski accident,” I wink.
“I know,” she grins. “He still jokes to everyone that his wife was his hottest patient ever. My friends areneverletting me forget that I nabbed a doctor while half-high on morphine. They still call him ‘the sexy intern.’”
I laugh as we make our way to the restaurant, each holding one of Nicolas’s arms. Before the restaurant itself is the bar, a large, round room with four bartenders tending to customers seated around. Everyone in this part of the hotel is wearing a fancy outfit and sipping champagne or equally fancy-looking cocktails, which makes me feel a bit self-conscious for exactly two seconds before I decide to put the thought aside and focus on smiling. We quickly spot Solange at the bar, busy chatting a couple’s ears off in French.
“Don’t forget,” Emi whispers. “You bailmefirst.”
I bite my lower lip as we walk over. I swear I’d done my best, but despite my perfect streak on Duolingo, my French is just good enough to ask where the bathroom is or order a croissant. I cannot keep up with the Quebec accent in a rapid-fire conversation.
“Maman, we’re here,” Nicolas announces.
Solange spins on her stool to face us before glancing at her watch with a frown.
“Finally,” she says. “Our reservation time was nine minutes ago!”
