“Oh.” I look down at Basil.
‘Make him switch apartments with you!’Basil crows, like we’re living in a sitcom and it’s the obvious thing to ask for.
I purse my lips to shush him.
Something melts the fog in my brain. Rhys thinks he has to buy my silence. I’m about to tell him that I don’t want anything,
Hang on…
My eyes drift unmoored to the holiday calendar plastered on the whiteboard. All the color-coded boxes. All the little stickers marking the coming season.
Fern’s voice, crisp as a whistle, says,‘Ask him to be your date this year.’
My lips curve into a smile as I thrust Basil into Rhys’s arms and jump up. “You can come with me to all my events,” I announce.
“Events?” he echoes warily. “What events? Where?” His gaze snags on the calendar, and then the blood drains from his face.
A gun he can handle, cool as ice. But a cookie exchange makes him sweat. Okay, last year was pretty intense. The exchange turned into a baking contest judged by someone who once won an episode ofCupcake Wars.
Rhys slowly rises and crosses the room like he’s approaching an active minefield. His gaze drifts over the dates and my messy scribbles, his expression tightening as he takes it all in.
I twirl, already picturing us in matching earmuffs and scarves for caroling night.
Chapter 18
Rhys
Istare down at the basil plant.
“I think she’s roped me into something, mate,” I mutter.
Basil just stares back and offers no advice. Useless bastard. Sure, they talk to her. Not me.
I glance at the calendar again. It looks like a deranged, glitter-smeared war map. Color-coded squares with stars for bullet points and stickers shaped like reindeer wearing sunglasses.
This is weaponized organization.
Fallon sits perched on the couch, watching me like she’s picturing me in an antler headband. God, those eyes of hers are bright and full of hope. It’s as if last night’s horror just bounced off her and ricocheted into a full-blown holiday battle plan.
“You want me atallof these events?” I gesture vaguely at the explosion of dates, times, and map coordinates.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Allof them.”
“Friendsgiving,” I read aloud, whatever the fuck that is. “Bryant Park Holiday Market. Lobby Tree Trimming.” I squint. “What is a cookie combat night?”
“I got fancy. It’s just a cookie exchange,” she corrects primly.
“Caroling?” I shriek. “Where? On the corner of 34thStreet and 7th, behind a Macy’s Santa?”
“No, they don’t let you do that. Just singing on doorsteps here in the neighborhood.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s 1975. “Just you?”
“And kids from the local school.”
“Okay, then…” I pause and stare at the last stretch of dates circled in glitter. “‘Home with Daddy.’ Four days? Including Christmas Day?”
“The whole weekend.” She bites her nail, her armor cracking.
