I shut my front door with a silent snick and turn to face the snow-covered road. Preparing myself for potential devastation, I close my eyes and adjust my head, bringing it just two inches to the right.Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be bad.With a shuddering exhale, I crack my eyes open and stop on my car as she sleeps under a blanket of white.
Fog races ahead of me as I move off my porch and down the steps. Snow crunches under my shoes as I approach my car with slow, measured steps, and study her forest green exterior. Her whitewall tires. Her dent—mercifully small, considering her horrific ordeal—stamped into the solid steel bumper.
If I were driving a soft-top zipabout, the damage would be far, far worse.
I cast a wary eye back toward my house, all silent on the inside, the only movement is that of smoke wafting from my chimney, then I look to the right, to a house wrapped in six million Christmas lights and a weird reindeer inflatable that takes up most of their lawn. I peek left and find a house not allthat different; lights, lawn ornaments, there’s even a manger with a baby doll frozen to death in the snow.
And then there’s me, the overworked—and prefers it that way—bah-humbugging grump with no tree, no sparkling lights, no eggnog in the fridge, and not a single plan for Christmas morning.
I used tolovethe holidays.
I shamelessly spent my time spewing tinsel and glitter all over the place, singing along with Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey, baking up a storm, and dedicating entire weekends to selecting the perfect wrapping paper for each of my friends.
I openly and gleefully basked in my obnoxious obsession with the holidays, and held no apologies for it.
But now…
I let out a quiet sigh.
Now, I can’t seem to summon the energy to care.
Mel’s front door opens three houses down, just like it does every morning at six o’clock on the dot, and before too much heat escapes her home, she steps out in thick fleece-lined leggings, knee-high boots, a coat Iknowbelongs to Nick, and a bright, stunning smile swinging my way.
She waves with a glove-covered hand, hugging a to-go thermos coffee cup in the other, and skipping across her porch and through her yard, she emerges on the outside of the gate that was once sticky and squeaky.
Not anymore. Not now that Nick has moved in and declared himself Mel’s lifeperfecter.
Casting a wary glance to my front door to make sure it’s still closed, I back away from my slightly-dented car and meander to the road, turning right, while Mel angles left, so we meet up in the middle.
She wraps her arm in mine and snuggles in tight. “It’s cold as balls today, huh?” She lays her cheek on my shoulder, her body warmth pushing out to lend itself to me. “Only eight days left until Christmas.”
“Seven days until your wedding.” I fall into step beside her and do that thing we do every single morning; walk our block before the rest of the world wakes.
For this hour, it’s just me and my best friend. Deadlines don’t matter, depositions are irrelevant, my dating life isn’t a topic of conversation, and the man on my couch needn’t be mentioned. “Are you crazy excited yet? Or just crazy crazy?”
She snickers, so soft and sweet andgooeyin her love. “Crazy excited, mostly. What happened last night, anyway?”
“What?” I yank her to a stop and spill hot coffee on my hand. “W-what do you mean, what happened?”
“You were talking to us, then you weren’t.” She searches my eyes, oblivious to the blood roaring in my ears, the panic scorching my veins. “Guess your phone went dead. I started to worry, but then I heard your car rumbling along our street and figured you’d made it home safely.”
“And you didn’t think to check on me, anyway?” I roll my eyes, faux-casual. “You were worried, and thenpoof, you weren’t?”
A bright red blush tinges her cheeks. “I got busy.”
“Busy, my ass,” I tease. But damn, I’m thrilled forthisversion of Melanie Hamilton. The one who gets laid as often as she likes, doesn’t lose sleep over dumb things, and runs her own successful architecture firm with a fancy-pants office almost an hour away in the city.
This version of Mel is beautiful and bold and, sometimes, a little braggy about her sex life. Theoldversion was sad andlonely and entirely too shy for her own good. “It’s bad manners toallllwaysrub the devilishly handsome Nicolas Ramos in my face, ya know? Not all of us could put an ad in the paper and get what you got.”
“I mean…” Her eyes dance with taunting playfulness. “You have a wedding to attend soon, and I see no plus one attached to your name. If you wanted to take a swing at it, now would be the perfect time to do it.”
And risk my new hire running into Dean freakin’ Warner in the living room?
“Nah. I’m good.” We continue walking again, our steps in sync so the crunch of snow beneath our shoes creates a harmony. “Thanks, though.”
“I saw Carter roll into your driveway last night.” She waggles her brows and does a little booty dance until our hips bump together. “I know we kinda mock him behind his back, because he’s weird and annoying sometimes…”
I choke out a laugh.
