Page 98 of Snowed In
I sit up as she sends through a photo of a chunky navy sweater with snowflakes covering the front. It’s perfect.
I added pom-poms to Molly’s.
Even more perfect. It’s become a bit of a running joke in our family how much Molly hates any kind of festive clothing. She always makes an effort when she’s with us, like we’d care if she dressed up or not, but it’s fun seeing how far we can take it.
I’ll swing by later to collect.
And to see me.
And to see you.
And to bring me a little treat. For the sake of our ruse.
I grin, slumping back against the pillows as I type back. I have to admit I’m relieved. I thought for sure she’d wake up this morning regretting what happened last night, but if anything, she seems even more comfortable with what we have now than what we were before.
Friends with benefits.
It feels a little more than that. The softness of her skin is practically burned into my fingers. It was one of the hottest moments of my life, and we didn’t even get that far.
We keep texting back and forth until she stops replying, and only then do I force myself up and out of bed.
I’m still tired as I make my way to the kitchen and find most of my family inside. Andrew’s wearing an old Christmas sweater while Molly is dressed like a normal person. Hannah’s texting on her phone, most likely with Daniela, judging by the smile on her face, and Mam stands over the stove, making eggs.
There’s a chorus of hellos as soon as I enter, except from my mother, who takes one look at me and frowns.
“Are you coming down with something?”
“No?”
“You look like you’re coming down with something.”
“I’m not.”
“Mam’s right,” Hannah says. “You look like shit.”
“Well, you look like—”
“Christian,” Mam warns, and I give up, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
Molly pushes a plate of toast toward me, and I shoot her a grateful look even as my stomach rebels at the thought.
Maybe Iamcoming down with something.
“I want you to invite Megan for dinner on Saturday,” Mam says. “We’re having the whole family around.”
“You want the whole family around for dinner three days before Christmas?”
“She wants to practice vegan food,” Andrew explains.
I sigh. “Mam, she’s vegetarian, not vegan. Just don’t slip a turkey leg into her potatoes, and she’ll be fine.”
“What about beef?” Andrew asks, as our mother flusters behind him. “Can she eat beef?”
“I’m not talking to you this morning.”
“What about chicken?”
“Seriously, Mam,” I say, ignoring him. “She wouldn’t want you to go to too much effort. We’re having lunch at hers on Saturday, anyway. She’ll fill up there.”
