Page 1 of Christmas With The Kings
Kinsley
It was officially December. The first, to be exact, and there was no excuse. Zip. Zero. Nikto.None. Not when I’d slipped out of Ivan’s bed at four am to spend the entire morning wrist-deep in butter, flour, and sugar.
The scent of orange zest, cardamom, and warm cinnamon filled the dining room like a promise. Was I living a fantasy filled with holiday delusions? Probably. But this moment was momentous. At least it was to me. Our first Christmas together.
I had tempered myself.Okay,maybe I hadn’t.
It was just a few snowflake-shaped pastries. Some cinnamon star cookies. Maybe I used the fancy China. And Imighthave custom-ordered a new apron. It was embroidered in gold script. “Sleigh All Day.” But that was hardly full-tilt holiday chaos. I was being very subtle. Very controlled.
This was a test. If anyone noticed, even so much as blinked at the pine-scented candles flickering on the overflow serving table, I’d know. They were in the spirit. Ready. Open to a little festive joy.
If not…well, I had backup plans. That included the twelve perfectly golden Danishes. There were six with raspberry jam, and six with lemon cream. They were fanned out on the tray like edible art.
The scones had risen like proud little mountains, my croissants had the correct number of layers (thank you very much), and the table was set.
December first. Game on.
I hummedDeck the Hallsunder my breath as I lined up the pastry tongs. The pastries were arranged with a proper dusting of powdered sugar. There was even a tiny holly sprig tucked next to the cinnamon butter.
Now all I needed was a little appreciation. A gasp. A“Kinsley, did you do all this?”Or even a“…why does this croissant taste like Christmas?”
I stepped back to survey my work. Elegant but cheerful. Warm, and not at all pushy. I was working on that. Somewhere along the way, the freedom of being accepted by these men had me blossoming.
On one hand, it was a good thing. But on the other—it had me walking a narrow line that I often crossed. Mainly with Isabella. Although even Marcel was thankful for my pushiness with her. I’d pushed so hard that I had Marcus drive me to the Caruso home twenty-four hours after we got home from the summerhouse.
Did I have two empty suitcases with me? Absolutely I did. Did I do the pitch of a lifetime? You’d better believe it. Ivan would have awarded me an Oscar, a Grammy and even a BAFTA. I’d infused the right amount of drama and song to make an absolute fool of myself. Poor Martina Caruso didn’t know what to do with me.
But Isabella filled both suitcases and allowed me to drag her home. And now we were two peas in a pod. The guys just assumed it was part of my attachment issues. Little did they know. But the past few months had been amazing. We learned that while many things had changed, the deep bonds we held only grew.
And speaking of my most favorite person in all the world, she breezed into the dining room and stopped dead in her tracks. She paused long enough to glance at my apron, then blinked once and shook her head.
Cue the mind reading. If her thoughts were made manifest in bubbles over her head, they would have said.This is not going to end well. Prepare yourself for hurt feelings.
God bless her seasonal apathy. And God bless the way she tried to shield me from the sharp edges of reality, even now as only she could.
I didn’t need her to say it. The beauty from the pile of ashes of never being allowed to talk to one another when we were kids gave way to an ability to read one another like we shared the same brain.
A look or even a gesture was all it took sometimes. We’d perfected this technique a long time ago. Back when silence was survival and a pinkyshake was our only form of comfort. Back when we took refuge in each other’s presence from across a cold, concrete room.
And today it was a simple look. A single blink. A tiny, brief twitch at the corner of her mouth. And I knew. She saw the effort I’d made. She knew I’d baked and staged and apron’d myself to death hoping someone would catch on. She also knew that none of them were going to say a damn thing.
Even so, she didn’t ruin it. She didn’t offer pity or point out that they wouldn’t notice the table or the cinnamon butter or the sprigs of holly I’d artfully placed on every napkin. She walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat as if we were in on something together. Which, I suppose, we were.
“You’re early,” I said, plating a cranberry twist and sliding it in front of her.
“Could smell the festivities upstairs.” She shrugged, but her lips twitched in what almost passed for a smile. “Felt aggressive. Came to investigate.”
“You’re welcome.” I poured her tea. “Tell me they’re going to notice this time.”
She didn’t answer. Just arched one brow. Exactly. That was my answer. I let out a small huff and pulled out the chair beside her, smoothing my apron down as I sat. The bells on the hem jingled. It was meant to be cute. But right now, it sounded like desperation.
“Izzy,” I murmured, lowering my voice like we were trading war secrets, “don’t ruin this for me.”
She didn’t look at me, but reached for a sugar cube and dropped it into her tea with surgical precision. “I’m not ruining anything. I’m just saying…don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m not getting my hopes up,” I lied.
She gave me a look.
