Page 121 of The Revenge Game
“Merry Christmas,” he replies.
We kiss sweetly, lips gentle and warm, until the sound of a cat jumping onto the bed is followed closely by the sensation of paws kneading my legs with increasing urgency.
Somehow, Cassie’s purrs manage to sound both affectionate and threatening.
Drew withdraws from me. “I think your cats might stage a revolt if we don’t feed them soon.”
As if on cue, Tabitha lets out a series of increasingly dramatic meows from the doorway.
“I should feed them and make us some breakfast,” I say.
Drew stretches, which makes his T-shirt ride up to reveal a strip of skin that severely tests my resolution to leave the bed.
“I’m never going to say no to the idea of breakfast.” He throws me a grin.
I pad into the kitchen, Drew following behind after detouring to appease our feline overlords. He’s got the cats’ breakfast routine down to an art now. Tabitha’s bowl is slightly elevated because she’s a princess, and Cassie’s portion is measured carefully to prevent her ongoing attempt to cosplay as a small bear.
I crack eggs into a bowl while he starts the coffee maker.
“What did Christmas look like at your house growing up?” I ask curiously as I whisk eggs.
Drew’s quiet, and I glance up to find him fiddling with his glasses.
“It was your pretty standard Christmas,” he says finally. “We used to have Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk while we opened presents. Then we’d usually go to my grandparents’ house for Christmas lunch. Grandma insisted on serving everything on these weird commemorative plates from the 1976 Olympics. We weren’t allowed to stack them in the dishwasher because, apparently, Mark Spitz’s face would fade.”
I laugh.
“What about you? Did you have any family Christmas traditions?” he asks.
I pour the eggs into the pan, letting the familiar rhythm of cooking ground me so I can answer. “Before Bobby Ray, Mom and I would make cinnamon rolls from one of those tubes that explode when you open them. We’d usually mess up the timing, and they’d be either raw in the middle or burned on the edges.”
“What about after?”
“After… Well, everything had to be perfect then. No more exploding tubes of dough allowed.” I focus on stirring the eggs, careful not to let them stick. “My mom was always on tenterhooks, trying to make everything perfect for him. It sucked the joy out of Christmas.”
Drew comes to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lean against him, letting his warmth seep into me.
After breakfast, we tackle Christmas lunch preparations together. Drew proves surprisingly competent at peeling potatoes, though his attempts at brussels sprout trimming look more like a crime scene than vegetable prep.
“In my defense, they’re basically tiny cabbages designed by sadists,” he says, brandishing a particularly mangled sprout. “Who decided these belong at Christmas dinner?”
“I’m starting to think British cuisine is just one long dare that got out of hand.”
“I think they’re just subconsciously punishing themselves for centuries of colonialism, one vegetable at a time,” Drew replies.
When everything’s finally in the oven, we collapse on the couch. Drew immediately commandeers both cats, who seem to have forgiven our breakfast timing transgression.
“What’s next?” he asks, scratching under Tabitha’s chin and turning her into a purring puddle.
“Now, it’s time to experience a proper British Christmas tradition.” I retrieve the box of Christmas crackers I bought specially for today. “According to Pete, it’s illegal to eat Christmas dinner without wearing the paper crowns that come inside them.”
We pull the crackers, and I can’t help laughing at Drew’s startled jump at the pop.
“I feel like I’m being initiated into some kind of bizarre cult,” he says as he puts the paper crown on his head.
“Wait until you see the jokes. They make dad jokes look like high comedy.”
Drew locates his slip of colored paper, his forehead creasing as he reads the joke aloud. “What do you call a cat who likes Christmas dinner?”
