“The holidays and I have a toxic relationship.”
That gets his attention. “What kind of toxic relationship?”
“Family members dying, breakups, years with no presents.” I shrug like I don’t hate this time of year to the depths of my soul. And like that’s all it is. I might be fudging some of this. “The usual.”
He takes a seat on the other part of the sofa, hands dangling over his knees, watching me. “So no Christmas decorations out here for you, huh?”
I shake my head as images of broken glass ornaments and a toppled tree and mashed potatoes dripping down the rose-wallpapered dining room wall at my grandmother’s house filter through my brain.
That’s the part I never talk to anyone about.
I probably should, but I don’t currently want to.
There’s a quilt that I found in the small linen closet with faded spring colors and a butterfly pattern. Looks homemade, but also like it’s been washed a million times.
Like someone made it with love, and it’s safe and cozy and won’t bring up old memories that I’d rather forget. Unlike one of the other quilts with a Christmas pattern.
I grab the butterfly quilt and drape it over my lap, then reach for my journal too.
“You’re really good out here?” Cash asks.
I nod.
“And you’re not mad at me?”
I shake my head.
After a long moment of studying me, he nods too. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me.”
He grins that stupid handsome grin that could win him every last movie role in the entire world. “But you don’t want me here.”
“I mean…”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
Both of us look at the windows as another gust of wind hits the cabin.
Honestly?
Not my favorite weather.
I like being safe and warm in the cabin, but I don’t like the way the wind and the rain sound.
It’s ominous.
Or possibly I’m merely prepared for something to always go wrong during the holidays.
He eyes me, opens his mouth, then shakes his head and looks down at his hands.
His question about me growing up in LA was pointed. Pointed in theyou’re not used to weather in colder climatesway.
“Sorry. Again,” he says quietly. “For—misunderstanding.”
“No worries.” I tuck my feet tighter under the quilt. “It’s kind of you to worry.”
This isn’t how we behave together.
