Page 95

“Hi, puppy,” Quinn says to the dog, very quietly.

Mom’s whole face does a thing. I know that face. That’s the oh, I like him face, and she’s not even trying to hide it.

“Hank, inside before you get snow all over them. Mike, boots off at the door. Daniel, don’t you dare leave those bags in the truck overnight like last year.”

I grab our bags, as my dad and Quinn follow my mom into the house. She’s already herding them toward the kitchen.

“Quinn, are you allergic to anything? Dairy, nuts, Christmas?” she asks with a light laugh, giving my dad a look. Because he often says he’s allergic to Christmas.

“No,” Quinn says. “Thank you. For…this.” He gestures to the plate of food my mom has already placed in front of him.

“For feeding you? Please.” She waves it off and then passes me a plate with a sandwich and chips already on it. “Tomorrow’s the tree lighting downtown. I run the cocoa booth. Pie, cookies, the brownies people fight over. Daniel usually helps me set up, but after, he can show you around.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Laura,” she says. “Ma’am is for strangers.”

The kitchen is overly warm after being outside, and I shed my hoodie as I drop down into my seat next to Quinn. It smells like cinnamon and chocolate. The radio is playing Christmas songs on low. This is home in a way the dorm never will be, and I sit there and watch my mom talk to Quinn as if he’s always came home with me. She doesn’t ask what we are. She doesn’t even look to me for a cue. She just keeps putting food near him and telling him to eat as much as he wants.

Dad hangs his coat on the same hook he’s used since I was little, near the back door. “Guest room’s made up,” he says, which means you do the tour.

“Yeah. Come on. We can eat after you see where you’re sleeping. She’ll only hover worse the longer we stay right here.”

Quinn picks up his plate anyway and says a quick thank you, before he follows me up the stairs. They creak in the same places they’ve creaked for years. Our rooms are at the end of the hall, and I open the door to his room first. I drop his duffle bag onto his bed and turn to face him. He’s holding the plate in his hands like he’s unsure what to do with it.

“This is you,” I say. I pat the extra blanket at the foot of the bed. “We have more blankets if you need them. Bathroom’s through there. The other door is my room…if you want to see me. Or you can lock both sides if you want. My parents won’t wander in. So it’s private⁠—”

I trail off as he bites down on his lip and looks around the room. Is he regretting coming with me? Is it too much?

He crosses to the dresser and sets his plate down. Then he looks at the bed, the bathroom door, the window, and nods. “It’s nice.”

Relief hits so hard I have to lock my knees. I want to kiss him stupid for those two words. I want to back him into the dresser and put my mouth on his and free his lip, and tell him he did fine, he did so fucking fine. My dad shook his hand, my mom is already trying to over feed him, and my dog likes him.

I don’t.

I let out a breath that sounds like a laugh and rub the back of my neck so my hands have something to do besides reach for him.

“Good. Okay. Good.” I tip my head toward the connecting door. “I’m right through there. After we’re settled, I can show you the town. It’s nothing fancy. The bay, the local bookstore, the place that does good hot chocolate when my mom isn’t the one making it. Tomorrow, the tree lighting takes over everything. Today, it’s just…home. We can see it all before it’s loud and busy.”

He considers my words, and some of the tightness leaves his shoulders. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” I grin, too big, and don’t care. “Eat. I’ll throw my bag in my room and tell her we’re going out so she doesn’t try to feed you more cookies.”

“Daniel.”

I stop in the bathroom doorway.

“I’m your friend,” he says, quiet, almost as if he’s checking the label is still the same.

I want to tell him no, that we are definitely more, but that would scare him. So I nod and clear my throat. “Yeah. That’s what they think. That’s enough, right?”

It isn’t enough, not by a long shot. I know that. Two in the afternoon, standing in the guest room of the house I grew up in, and he’s here as my friend, and I’m already planning ways we can be alone together.

I can live with it for a week.

I think.

“Eat, unpack,” I say again softer. “Then I’m stealing you.”