Page 18 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

“Really?” She sounded surprised, and turned to another woman there with her. “Do I look dehydrated to you?”

Her friend nodded. “Yeah, and I can feel how tight my skin is. I think we should both go and have facials and maybe a saline drip at the clinic.”

“Or maybe just some water,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” they both agreed.

It was quiet after that.

I found a panini press, which was even better than frying the ham and cheese melts, and when Dawson came stumbling out around midnight, I asked if he was ready for his sandwich.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He walked over and wrapped his arms around me. “I don’t want to waste any time you’re here sleeping.”

“Sleeping is a good thing,” I soothed him, pushing his hair out of his face and kissing his forehead. “But now you need to eat.”

Looking around the room, seeing his comatose bandmates, he sighed deeply. “What’d you do to the guys?”

“Just food, and I took away the party favors.”

He nodded, clunking his head against my chest.

“Come sit down.”

“I’ll buy you a car if you feed me,” he whimpered.

“No car needed, just sit down and keep me company.”

It was funny how he sat there watching me make his sandwich.

“You’re supposed to be talking to me,” I informed him. “Tell me everything that’s happening in your life.”

“It’s the same,” he replied, mesmerized by the preparation.

“Why did you stop calling and texting?”

His gaze lifted to mine. “I just…get depressed, and what am I supposed to do? Make you miserable too?”

“Just a two-minute, five-minute check-in to let me know you’re okay,” I told him. “That’s all I need.”

He nodded. “Okay, okay. I’ll really try. But you have to know, you must know, that it has zero to do with how I feel. Never wonder how I feel.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “But I need communication from you, rock star.”

“Not a rock star,” he grumbled, glaring at me. “Just don’t wonder about stupid crap like, is Dawson West in love with me, because yes, I am. When I walked into your crappy club⁠—”

“I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“Great club, fantastic club, don’t stop making the food,” he groused at me.

I shook my head but continued, using the press and frying an egg in a small pan.

“When I first walked in there, I was like, who the fuck is that?”

Carefully, I moved the ham and three-cheese sandwich off the press, then plated it, flipping the egg once before placing it on top.

“What is that?”

“You need the protein, and this is my take on a Croque Madame. I’m getting really good at making them at home, though I don’t have this groovy machine, just a cast-iron skillet.”