Page 82 of The Mistletoe Mix-up

Wren had made him think he was less than.

That sick feeling became more intense when she pulled into her driveway and saw that it wasn’t Pete’s truck parked in his usual spot, but her father’s. He was sitting on the top step, waiting for her when she got out of her car and waved at him.

“Aren’t I seeing you in a few hours?” she asked, climbing the steps where he was sitting.

“Yes, but,” he said, getting to his feet with a groan, “I thought we might want to talk away from the family.”

“Oh, that sounds ominous.” Wren wiped at her eyes as she passed him, realizing that she had tear streaks on her face.

“Have you been crying?” he asked.

“Yes, but nobody made me cry. I was just crying.”

“People don’t just cry.”

He followed her into the house, and Wren hung up her jacket while he greeted Duke.

“Hey, bud.”

“Women cry all the time, and people blame hormones. You can blame our overactive imaginations. Heck, you can even blame female hysteria, because apparently, it’s still on the books as a ticketable offense.” The last was said with an air of irritability, and Robert Little gave her a quizzical look.

“Are you okay?” her dad asked, sitting down on her couch. Duke immediately put his head in Robert’s lap, sitting by his side.

No, because I’ve made a mess of my life, and I don’t know how to fix it.

“I really don’t know, Dad.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he said, “I guess we could start with an easier question. Where were you coming from this morning?”

“Sam’s place,” she said, waiting for the snarcasm to start.

He didn’t acknowledge her answer, waving his hand toward her Christmas tree. “I see you got your tree up.”

“Yeah, and I even decorated it.”

He walked over to the ornaments she and Sam had made last night. They’d come over after their moment on his porch and fed Duke before getting to work on the tree. She’d even found the tree base so they could get it out of the bucket. After they’d snuggled a while on her couch, they’d headed back to his place and made love.

“Who helped you make all these?” he asked, fingering an orange ball with a sunset painted on the front.

“Why do you think I didn’t make them all myself?”

Her dad smiled at her as he walked back to the couch and sat. “I love you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly the artistic type. I still have a drawing you gave me when you were sixteen that looks like a cross-eyed four-year-old did it.”

“That’s mean and inaccurate,” Wren said dryly. “Sam helped me do them. He came over here last night after making the ornaments, and we decorated. Then we went back to his place.”

“So that started up again?” he said, his tone resigned.

And there it was. The snarcasm. “Nothing ‘started up,’ and even if it had, I don’t wanna get into it with you.”

Her dad’s expression turned thunderous. “What does that mean?”

Wren threw her hands up. “I don’t know. You’ve never liked Sam, and I’ve kind of made things overcomplicated. So, if I was going to get it off my chest, I’d rather talk to someone who won’t tell me to just ‘dump him.’”

“Isn’t complicated enough? What does ‘overcomplicated’ mean?” For a moment, she thought he was trying not to laugh. His amusement rubbed her wrong, and suddenly, she was furious.

“You’re making fun of me, but I have spent so much time thinking about you and Mom—”

“Honey—”