While we work next to each other, John hums an off-key Christmas carol and mashes the potatoes. It’s an easy task and he has the arm muscles for it. The warmth exuding from him calms my tight muscles, and I relax for the first time other than my nap in his car.
It’s…nice.
Comfortable.
And once again, he’s surprising me. I still don’t know what to make of him—my fake boyfriend for Christmas Eve.
He’s so different from the Mr. Barrington I thought I knew at work. Although, he might just be acting polite since he’s at my parents’ house and pretending to be my boyfriend, but maybe some of what I’m seeing tonight is the real him. I’m not sure what to believe.
“So…” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “Is your sister always this…enthusiastic about herself?”
I snort, then quickly glance around to make sure Mom can’t hear me, but she’s no longer in the kitchen. Guess she finally surrendered to the need to be closer to Rachel. “Enthusiastic is a polite word for it, and this is nothing. Wait until she tells you about her charity work. Did you know she single-handedly saved an entire village in Africa?”
John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“No,” I deadpan. “But don’t tell her that.”
He laughs, the warm sound making something flutter in my chest. I push the feeling aside, focusing on the salad.
“For what it’s worth.” His voice turns more serious. “You’re amazing, too.”
I freeze, the bag of lettuce in my hand hovering over the bowl. “What?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “You’re smart, hardworking, and you can analyze any spreadsheet given to you. Plus, you haven’t murdered me yet for being a demanding boss, so there’s that, too.”
Mom hurries into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed with excitement before I can answer. “Oh, you two are so sweet, working together like this. But, John, you don’t need to help. Abby has it under control, and you’re our guest.”
“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Sinclair.” He flashes a charming smile complete with the adorable dimple again. “I enjoy spending time with Abby.”
Mom practically melts, patting him on the arm. “You’re such a gentleman, and a catch, too. You have a wonderful boyfriend, Abby.”
I force a smile, ignoring the way my stomach twists. For once, Mom is praising me, but it’s over something pretend. I really can’t win.
“He’s…something.” My words earn a smirk from John. And wouldn’t you know, even his smirk doesn’t look bad. The man is too attractive for his own good.
“Don’t work too hard, you two.” Mom drifts toward the doorway. “I’ll be back shortly.”
As soon as she has gone, I slump against the counter. “She likes you. But if I hear one more thing about Rachel, I’ll lose it.”
John sets the masher in the pan and faces me. “You’re doing great, and I’d rather be in here with you than out there listening to The Rachel Show.”
“Thanks. I—I don’t know why I let it get to me every year.” I half laugh, though I appreciate what he said more than he’ll ever know. I’m not used to being complimented in this house, and it feels so good. I just find it hard to believe that my boss is the one doing it. “I should be used to being ignored by now.”
“She gets to you because you’re human. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Our gazes meet, and something seems to connect us. The air around me shifts as if an invisible fog lifts, allowing me to see John clearly. Or maybe this is the first time I’m seeing him without the filter of work stress.
“Hey, how’s dinner coming along?” Jake yells, shattering the moment between John and me. “We’re starving out here.”
Self-conscious and unsure what happened with John, I look at the salad and add the bag of dressing to the lettuce. “Working on it.”
If they’re hungry, they could help us, but no one will. I grew up with Rachel calling me her own Cinderella. The only difference, she would say, was she wasn’t an ugly stepsister, and I had an actual bedroom to sleep in. Not going to lie, I can’t watch the cartoon version of the movie without feeling triggered. Yes, my sister ruined many things most kids take for granted.
John rinses the masher off and then gently bumps my shoulder with his. “Want me to trip and spill gravy on him?”
I laugh, surprising myself, given my current mood. “Tempting, but let’s save that for plan B.”
As we finish up, John asks me if my family has any Christmas Eve traditions, and I find myself sharing a story from a past Christmas Eve.
