Page 36 of Jingle Bell Jilt
I check myself in the mirror, running my fingers under my eyes to clean up the eyeliner I never removed last night. A few finger combs through my hair and I decide it’s probably a messy bun kind of morning.
I finally come downstairs and see Evan sitting on the couch. The crackling fire is playing on the TV.
“Oooh. I feel warmer already,” I say as I slip onto the couch next to him. Not as close as last night, and I’m kind of surprised at how disappointed I am in that. But I don’t have the luxury of blaming my closeness on sleep.
“This is a Florida fire.”
“I watch home improvement shows that are based here and I’m always surprised how many people put in fireplaces.”
He shrugs. “I guess when you’re used to eighty degrees most of the year, the fifties can feel pretty chilly.”
I raise a brow. “Maybe they should visit Utah or New Hampshire in the winter.”
“No kidding. They don’t know what cold is.” He sets a gift box on my lap. “Okay, maybe you should unwrap this first, so you’re happy for a minute before you see your sweater.”
I raise a brow at him. “You didn’t have to buy me a present.”
He motions to the Mrs. Claus present under the tree. “I could say the same thing.”
I pull off the lid and look in at an assortment of things. There’s a nice leather-bound book on one side and a fancy box. I pull out the book and I squeal. “Emma? This is one of my favorite books.” I lift my shoulders. “Well, really anything by her.”
He looks sheepish. That’s actually a thing, believe it or not. “I thought it was a book most girls like.”
I pull out the long, fancy box. It’s filled with handmade soaps of different colors.
“Are you allergic to any scent?” he asks with a worried look on his face.
“Nope,” I shake my head as I pull off the ribbon and take out each soap to smell them. The first one smells like coconut, and it looks like there’s a fig one also. Ah, my absolute fav.
“There were some shaped like roses, but the lady at the store said those might be better for my grandma. She thought you might like these better.”
I nod. “I love them! They smell so good.” I lift the fig one to my nose again.
He releases a sigh and I realize then how nervous he looks. Had he thought I wouldn’t like what he bought? Nathan had never worried about me liking his gifts. And there were times he definitely should have. I guess he just figured I would love whatever he gave me. And I did, to a point. But sometimes I wondered if he really knew me at all.
I know I shouldn’t compare Evan and Nathan. They’re two different men. But it’s hard not to. Especially when Evan, who has only known me for a few days, is nervous when he actually bought me something I love. The two men are just so different.
He rubs his hands together. “Okay, let’s get to the present that really matters. I want to win this contest so you can start making those chocolate chip cookies.”
I chuckle. He probably thinks it’s because of his impatience, but really it’s because he has no idea who he’s up against in this contest. I’ve been doing this with my family for years. And I have to say, the sweater I got Evan is pretty much the best ugly sweater I’ve ever bought for anyone. “Someone’s a little cocky for seven o’clock in the morning.”
He shrugs. “Cocky has taken me far in this world.”
I shoulder bump him. “Be prepared to be humbled.”
He sits back with a smile on his lips and his arms crossed. “Just open the bag, Shay.”
I pull on the ribbon handles, but the top has been taped closed. I use my thumbnail, a.k.a. my Swiss Army nail, and slice easily through. I don’t see the sweater immediately as there’s a bunch of tissue paper covering it. “Nice wrapping skillzzz.” I hold out the z.
He nods, looking cockier than before.
I’m going to feel a little guilty when I totally obliterate him. Just kidding, I’m not.
This is turning out to be an amazing Christmas. I pause. It really is. I can honestly say I haven’t even been sad about Nathan today. And I kind of feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty about it. What kind of twisted logic is that?
“Well, come on. Open it.” He pushes it toward me.
“Okay, Mr. Patience. I am.” I pull out the tissue paper with a flare and fling it up over our heads. Then I reach in and pull out a bright red sweater. Not the good red that comes on Ferrari’s or candy apples. But more of the orange-red that comes on cheap plastic toys.
