Page 43 of Cross Check Christmas
I'm fine with losing. Really. My gingerdoodles were a desperate attempt at creativity born from emotional turmoil. Besides, who wants to win a spray-painted rolling pin anyway? My head's too fuzzy from the mulled wine to care about winning or losing right now.
"And now," Grannie announces, "time for carols!"
Oh no. Not carols. Not when I'm three glasses deep and still thinking about Hendrix's stupid face.
I'm reaching for more brie when the front door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and… there he is. Hendrix. Standing in thedoorway, looking unfairly handsome with snowflakes in his hair. I freeze, cheese knife hovering mid-air.
Great. I summoned him with my thoughts. No, no, no. I'm hallucinating. That’s it. The wine must be stronger than I thought. Maybe if I close my eyes, he'll disappear.
I open them. Nope. Still there.
Imaginary Hendrix shrugs off a very real-looking coat and stamps snow from his boots. He looks right at me and raises an eyebrow.
"We need to talk."
I nearly choke on my brie as Hendrix weaves through the crowd, brushing past Mrs. Fraser's attempts to hand him a cookie. His jaw is set in that stubborn way.
I grip my plate of cheese tighter as Hendrix weaves through the crowd—his jaw set. Several women try to intercept him—Mrs. Fraser with her shortbread, Mrs. Patel squeezing his bicep, Jessica bouncing her baby while waving her golden rolling pin—but he dodges them all.
"Hey Gran, sorry I'm late." He nods at his grandmother. She waves cheerfully at Hendrix from across the room, but she's too caught up directing the carol singers.
When Hendrix reaches me, his eyes are on fire.
"Not now," I hiss, backing away until I bump into the snack table. A plate of shortbread cookies rattles.
"Yes, now." He reaches for my elbow, but I dodge behind a group of caroling neighbors.
"Over there." Hendrix points to Grannie's back hallway, the one leading to her craft room.
"I'm busy." I stuff a piece of brie in my mouth, buying time. "Cookie contest."
"The contest is over." He steps closer, voice low. "And we both know you didn't win."
"Excuse you?—"
"Private conversation. Now." His jaw tightens. "Unless you'd rather discuss what happened last night in front of everyone?"
Heat creeps up my neck. Mrs. Fraser's already leaning in our direction, pretending to study the cheese plate while clearly eavesdropping. Mrs. Patel is looking our way with keen interest, probably planning how to work this into tomorrow's gossip rotation.
"Fine." I set down my wine glass. "But make it quick. I have caroling to avoid."
I follow him down the hallway, past Grannie's wall of family photos. Young Hendrix grins from several frames, always mid-laugh or mid-prank. The same insufferable smile he wore at the game before everything went sideways.
He ushers me into the craft room, blocking my escape route with his annoyingly broad shoulders. "You left me at the arena."
"You lied about Liam."
"I never said Liam texted you," Hendrix says, closing the door, not bothering to turn on the light. "You assumed that."
"Oh, so it's my fault?" I jab a finger at his chest. "You pretended to be Liam to lure me to that game, and now you're standing here acting innocent?"
"I thought Gran sent the text!"
"Right." I roll my eyes. "And I'm supposed to believe you had no idea?"
"Actually, yeah." He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the snow. In the dim moonglow through the window, it looks darker than the light brown it is in the daylight. "Look, I was just as surprised as you were when Liam said he didn't text you."
"You watched me make a fool of myself!"
