Page 5 of Holiday Romance
“No, I get it. It’s when they start asking if we feel each other’s pain that I lose the will to live.”
He laughs and I relax a bit. “There are four of us,” he says. “Liam’s the eldest. Then me, then Christian. And now Hannah, who’s six.”
“Six?”
“She was a welcome surprise.” He slides his finger under the lip of the envelope, smirking when he opens the card to reveal nothing but a crudely drawn middle finger. “Classy. You get on with your sister?”
“Yeah. For the most part.”
“I bet it’s hard to be so far away from her.”
“I never really thought about it,” I say honestly. “I mean, we text all the time so…”
“Still,” he prompts. “It will be nice to be together at Christmas.”
“Sure.”
“Sure?” He smiles again. Big smiler this one.
“We’re not really Christmas people,” I explain.
He gives me a skeptical look. “You’re literally flying home on Christmas Eve.”
“Coincidence. I work part-time at a shoe store and was going to work over the holidays, but my boss didn’t have the hours and Zoe wanted me to bring stuff over so…” I trail off as he stares at me. “Here I am.”
“You’re breaking my heart here, Molly.”
“It’s not like I’m a Scrooge!” I say. “I’m just not really into all the—”
“Love?” he supplies. “Comfort and joy?”
“Toys. Money. The same twelve songs played over and over again.”
“Ah, the commercialization argument.”
I frown at how quickly he dismisses it. “Unless you’re doing it for the kids, Christmas is nothing but several weeks of expensive stress that will inevitably end in disappointment. How can anything live up to that kind of expectation?”
“Wow. So, you’re like a grinch?”
“I’m not a—”
“A real-life grinch.”
“I’m practical.”
“I’m getting that,” he says, looking like he’s enjoying himself. “But it also sounds like you’re doing Christmas wrong.”
“It’s not the same for you. You just said it yourself, there’s a child in your family. That’s different.”
“Child or no child, you’re never too old to hole yourself up in the house for a few days and eat until you puke. Not to mention the fashion.” He gestures at his sweater and it’s the first time I notice the cheery reindeer embroidered on the front.
“Reindeers don’t wave,” I tell him.
“Rudolph does. Rudolph loves to wave.”
I snort. “I get it now.”
“You do?”
