Page 28 of An Unexpected Christmas
Frankie chokes on air, but Ivy’s already firing again. “Also, what are your intentions? Is this a Hallmark fling, or are we talking long-term potential? Oh, and can you cook? Because Frankie burns toast at least twice a week.”
I blink, caught somewhere between amusement and sheer panic, trying to decide which question to even attempt answering first. “I, uh,” I do not know where to start, but I can see how similar they are as sisters with their rapid questions.
“Ivy, shut up,” Frankie whisper-hisses, her cheeks flushing.
“It’s okay.” I take a breath. “To answer your questions, Ivy. My deal is I moved here six months ago. I’m single and a writer. I’m not a serial killer, though I do intend to write one in the future, but I have no intention of hurting your sister. I can cook a mean beef wellington, and it’s something I’d like to do for Frankie,” I turn to face Frankie to see her mouth open and wholly focused on me, “if she’ll let me.”
The quiet around us all feels like someone hit the pause button, but the beautiful girl beside me doesn’t move, so I place myfinger under her jaw and gently push it closed. “Most unladylike of you, Miss Bennet.”
“Oh my god,” Ivy squeals through the phone. “Did he just reference your favorite book, Franks?”
Now she blushes that shade of crimson I saw over and over last night when we were together. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine, but nods to her sister anyway.
“Well, that sounds lovely, dear. What do you write?” Cynthia asks.
“He’s S.B. Taylor, Mom,” Frankie answers for me, and the response I get from her mom is very similar to that I got from Frankie a few days ago: excitement and awe. I answer all the questions she throws my way, when’s the next book, who inspired characters, yada yada, and when I look to the girl holding the phone, I say simply, “I’m not sure I’ll live up to all of your expectations, Mrs. Thompson.”
Her mother says something about calling her Cynthia, but I’m a little distracted because Frankie tilts her head the smallest fraction, cataloguing me.. It’s disarming. I’d rather thought she’d laugh or roll her eyes, anything that would let me retreat behind sarcasm, but instead she just sits there holding me in place, making it impossible to look anywhere else.
Before I can work out what to do with the weight of her stare, another voice cuts in, deeper and distinctly male.
“Did you get through to Frankie, honey?” A man leans into frame, broad-shouldered, hair silvering. His gaze finds hisdaughter first, then shifts to me, brows lifting. “Well, there she is. And who’s the guy on the sofa?”
Frankie lurches upright like she’s been caught sneaking in after curfew. “Dad, this is… this is Sam. He lives across the street.”
“Hi Sam, nice to meet you. I’m Thatcher, Frankie’s dad.”
“Sir.” I nod. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“None of that ‘sir’. Thatcher will do fine.”
Her mom’s voice comes in next. “Frankie, sweetheart, the news says flights should be back online by tonight. We’ll check for you here as well, but if the storm’s cleared, you should be able to get home tomorrow at the latest.”
Tonight. Tomorrow. It doesn’t matter when, but that is a stark reminder that this isn’t something I should be counting on as permanent. She’s going to see her family, and I will not let my presence change that. The little cocoon we’ve been in, the storm, the dark, the way her hand has stayed wrapped around mine, is already fraying at the edges, just as the snow outside will melt eventually. And the thought of it breaking open, of stepping back into whatever life waits on the other side, is a stark reminder that I’m not fully a part of her world, and this is short-lived.
I force myself to move, standing before I can think better of it. Frankie’s gaze flicks up, her brow creased, but I can’t hold it for long. “I’ll give you some privacy with your family,” I manage, my voice uneven. “I’ll just… be in the kitchen.”
I scoop up the bag of groceries as though that’s the reason I’m leaving, the reason my pulse is stuttering, and retreat. Bread and fresh farm eggs I bought before Christmas set neatly on her counter, a thermos unscrewed, the kind of small tasks I can hide inside while I wait for the ache in my chest to ease.
Frankie
If I had that across the street…
The door clicks softly behind him, and just like that, the bubble breaks. Or at least it feels like it might’ve with how he just left the room.
Dad adjusts the angle of the phone, his face steady and practical. “So, with the weather clearing, do you think you’ll head back here?”
The question is simple, with an answer that was easy two days ago, but now it sticks in my throat like syrup. I open my mouth, ready to sayyes, of course, but the words dissolve. Because going home should feel like a comfort, and all I can think about is the tug of the man in my kitchen, like he belongs there. And the idea that he’d be alone on Christmas. That’s what really breaks my soul.
“I… I don’t know yet,” I admit.
Ivy leans forward, her grin sharp as ever. “No wonder you don’t sound in a rush. If I hadthatacross the street, I’d drag my feet too, and I’ve got a husband.”
I chuckle weakly. “Jones is a lucky guy.”
I scramble for something to balance the moment, to answer the question I know they’ll ask again. “I have to work the day after Christmas Day, but I could call around to see if someone can cover me so I can stay longer with you guys?”
Their smiles light up the screen, and for a second, I let myself breathe. We sign off with promises and reminders—Dad telling me to keep an eye on the roads if I fly, Ivy blowing me a kiss through the camera. Then the call ends, and the silence left behind feels louder than their chatter ever did.
