“Lola.”
Lola flipped the oven off just as the music switched over to Sinatra singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
“Lola, it’s perfect,” Brighton said.
Lola snorted. “Not quite.” She took off her oven mitts and set them on the counter, glaring at the duck. “I followed her directions to a T.”
Brighton smiled, took her fiancée’s hand. “It’s perfect.”
Lola smiled at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“You really like it?”
“I love it.” Brighton glanced around the apartment, the lights, the decorations. “But you…you hate Christmas.”
“Not with you,” Lola said, then wrapped her arms around Brighton’s waist. Pulled her close. “I love you. Anything with you. Everything. And I just want you to have the Christmas you’ve dreamed about all year.”
“Done,” Brighton said, then kissed her.
And Lola kissed her back, and it really was perfect—everything was perfect—for that moment, for that night.
Now, six Christmases later, Brighton could hardly believe she was with Lola again, yet a very different Lola than the one who had spent a small fortune on Christmas tchotchkes for her once upon a time.
Reached that far for her.
Lola wasn’t reaching toward Brighton at all now. Wasn’t even thinking about extending a single finger, judging from her placid expression. Conversation swirled around them—a tour the quartet was leaving for right after Christmas, how Ampersand was doing in Nashville, a story about Elle’s grandmother Mimi and how she’d once poured a full pitcher of water on a director back in 1968 when he copped a feel of her ass on set.
Lola nodded and smiled, offered some details about the tour.
And she kept eating that fucking chili.
“Do youlikechili, Charlotte?” Brighton asked.
She was pretty sure she’d interrupted Elle saying something about Europe, but she couldn’t hold it back any longer. It was like fire in her mouth, this knowledge that Charlotte Donovanhatedchili.
Lola lifted a cool eyebrow. “I do.”
“Because you look like you’re having a hard time swallowing,” Brighton said. Actually, Lola looked perfect, but that was half the fucking problem, wasn’t it?
“Not at all,” Lola said. “It’s delicious, Nina.”
“Thank you, dear,” Nina said. “I—”
“Has a lot of cumin, doesn’t it?” Brighton said, taking another bite herself. “I love cumin. Don’t you, Charlotte?”
“Yes,” Lola said tightly. “I love it.”
“Do you need a nap, Brighton?” Adele asked. “Or another drink?”
“No,” Brighton said cheerily. “I’m fine. Just fine.”
“Maybe we’ll havecakefor dessert,” Lola said.
Brighton just laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t that be perfect.”
“Am I missing something?” Sloane asked.
