She smiles a little and blushes, looking down at her drawing.
“I am,” she says softly.
That smile and blush aren’t for me, and it’s driving me crazy.Why, though?
“It’s going to be so much fun. After the ice-skating, we go home and eat Christmas cookies Sophia bakes, with some mulled wine Xander always makes for us. Are you down for that too?” I ask.
“I have to work in the evening, and I don’t want to just barge in on all of your family traditions,” she says.
“Nonsense, you’re part of this now too. It would hurt our feelings if you don’t come,” I say, pouting.
“I don’t know,” she contemplates, sounding unsure.
“You’ll come,” Xander’s voice comes from the back, leaving no room for argument.
“Okay,” she whispers.
God, I would love to know if she would comply so easily if he told her to come when we were all in bed together.
When?
Fuck.
“So now that this is settled, what do you want Santa to bring you?” I ask.
“Are you serious right now?” She raises her eyebrows at me. I nod, but she huffs out, “Unlike you, I’m not twelve anymore.”
I hear Angela snicker, but I ignore her. “Okay, no Santa, then. But what are your wishes for Christmas? Josh and Sophia were talking about what they could get you, but I want to give you the best present since I’m your best friend. So, I just ask what you want,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. “They want to buy me something for Christmas?”
“We,” I correct her. “We are going to buy you something.”
“Please don’t.” She looks a little panicked.
“Why?” I furrow my brows.
“Just don’t,” she says, her eyes pleading with me.
I search her face, and it’s clear that she’s genuinely asking me not to.
“What’s the problem with Christmas presents?” I ask her.
Her bored mask slips for a moment, and she looks almost vulnerable. But then, she steps back, and her face shows nothing but indifference again.
“Nothing, I am just not a child anymore, and when you don’t know me enough to know what to get me, you don’t know me enough to get me a present in the first place.”
“It’s a beautiful day to get to know each other better.” I smirk at her.
“It’s a beautiful day to leave me alone,” she deadpans.
As I’m changingthe needles on the tattoo machine, Angela huffs and laughs. “I can’t decide if they love or hate each other. It’s like a verbal foreplay. Aren’t you worried?” she asks teasingly.
“It’s fine. They’re just friends and bickering,” I explain.
“Isn’t that like Clay’s love language?” she asks, her tone filled with humor.
But her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I glance over at Carolina, catching Clay smiling down at her.
