“It’s like a hostess gift.”
He pets her head, but she’s too wrapped up in the stuffy now. She’s hauling it to the living room, the bright green tail of the gator dragging along the carpet behind her.
I haven’t been here since we decorated the tree, but it’s looking festive and lit up tonight. The lights wink on and off in greeting. He’s even hung a few stockings by the fireplace. Three. I don’t dare hope the extra one is for me. It’s probably Wanda’s.
“Let me take your coat,” he says, and I shrug it off for him. He sets it on a hook by the door as I toe off my boots then sniff the air. A warm, rosemary aroma drifts past me, and it smells like?—
“Are you making eggplant parmesan?”
“For my vegetarian,” he says, sounding proud.
“Smells incredible,” I say, then peer around. “Where are your parents and Mia?”
“They’re swinging by the store then their cabin to grabsome salad ingredients. Mom wanted to make something special for you.”
My heart squeezes. “Does she…know…?”
“She knows I like you,” he says.
My stomach twists.God, don’t make this harder. Don’t make this feel more real.
I smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. But maybe, maybe that means something? That this could become real? Ugh, I didn’t mean for this to feel real.
“It’s mutual,” I say brightly, though I hope that’s obvious.
“Good,” he says, in a rasp, then nods to a bottle on the counter. “Want some wine?”
“One glass can’t hurt, but I’ll stop after that. I don’t want to be overserved when your parents and daughter arrive,” I say.
He moves into the kitchen, pours me a Chablis, then a scotch for himself, and toasts. “To another chance for you to say we’ve been fake-dating since the first Christmas tree farm.”
Fake.
I wish he’d just saiddating.
But I keep that thought to myself, since at least he remembered I like Chablis. “Fake-dating is like hockey. You have to play the game till the last second ticks off the clock.”
“Oh, don’t turn me on with hockey analogies.”
“Puck me, baby,” I say.
“That’s it. I’m turned on,” he says, then we clink, and I take a sip—it’s bright and fruity. “Delicious.”
“Let me try it.”
I offer him the glass. He takes it, sets it down on thecounter, then comes in for a kiss. He seals his mouth to mine for several long seconds that scramble my brain, then he breaks it and says, “On you. I want to try it on you.”
My chest flutters, and he comes in for another kiss. Longer, deeper, needier.
When he breaks it, he checks the clock. “They said they’d be here in thirty minutes.”
And it’s clear how he wants to pass the time.
“What about the eggplant parmesan?”
“I’ll set it on low,” he says.
Soon, we’re on the couch, and I’m under him, and he’s kissing me hard and deep as the music plays and the sky darkens…
