Page 59 of Snowed In
“I’d love some snow,” Molly says wistfully. “It’s so pretty when it falls here.”
“Not always,” Hannah says. “Do you remember the big storm a few years ago? We almost ran out of bread.”
“We didn’t run out of bread,” Colleen huffs, clearing space along the countertop.
“I know we didn’t; that’s why I said almost.Dad’s car got stuck, remember that?”
“Yes, Hannah,” Colleen says. “We remember. It won’t be like that.”
“I’m just saying we’re going to need to be more prepared.”
“Then maybe you should stop making two sandwiches for every person here.”
“But we’re racing,” she protests, as Molly hands me a mug. “We need fuel.”
“Youneedto go easy on that butter, or you’re going down to the shops to get me more. Now is everyone okay with ham and cheese, or does anyone want chicken? Because if not, it’s going in the freezer. We need to clear space in the fridge.”
“We need a just cheese one,” Christian says.
“We’ve got plenty of the ham,” Colleen says, uncovering a tinfoil-wrapped leg of it. “I roasted it last night. From the new butcher in town,” she adds to Molly, who nods.
“Megan can’t eat ham,” Christian continues before I can stop him.
“Well, the chicken’s a little dry, but—”
“She’s a vegetarian.”
I swear you’d hear a pin drop. Everyone’s attention goes to me, except for Colleen, whose eyes drop to the ham like she doesn’t know whether she should fling it out the window or not.
“Vegetarian,” Christian repeats when no one says anything. “Not a serial killer.”
“What would you eat at Christmas then, Megan?” Colleen asks, her voice too bright to be normal.
“Oh, she can still eat turkey,” Andrew says. Molly whacks his arm.
“You don’t need to go to any trouble for me,” I say. “Honestly, I’ll be fine.”
“You have to eat at Christmas,” she says like the alternative is unthinkable.
I smile cheerfully. “I will. We’re going to go to mine afterward.”
“Afterward?”
“We’re doing two Christmases,” Christian says, which doesn’t seem to help.
“I see,” Colleen murmurs, still looking troubled, and there’s an awkward beat where no one seems to know what to say before Daniela grabs a bowl from the table.
“We’ve got tomatoes?”
“Perfect!” I say quickly. “Cheese and tomato would be brilliant, thank you. I can make them my—”
“Hannah’s making them,” Christian says, and Hannah presses her lips together as she slaps a slice of bread down onto the counter.
I take a sip of coffee, just so I have something to do, and Christian’s arm slides around my back.
“You’re doing great,” he whispers, and that’s when I come to understand that my new fake boyfriend is a big old liar.
THIRTEEN
