Page 27 of An Unexpected Christmas
“Frankie!” someone shouts from her phone, snapping her out of the daze.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Who the hell just walked into your house?”
Snow melts into my collar as I continue cursing myself. I hadn’t even crossed the living room yet, hadn’t realized she was mid-call. They can’t see me, not from this angle, but they’ve bloody well heard me.
Frankie fumbles, scooping up the phone, tilting the camera toward her face like she can somehow erase my voice from their ears. “No one,” she blurts, cheeks flushed. “It’s just… it was the wind. You know. Old house noises.”
I arch a brow at her, biting down on the urge to laugh because she looks ready to spontaneously combust. My jacket drips steadily onto her floor, and I stand there like an intruder in my own life, wondering if staying silent makes this better… or not.
Muffled voices crackle from the phone again. “That wasnotthe wind, Francesca. Unless the wind is British and sounds suspiciously like a man.”
Frankie squeezes her eyes shut for half a second like she’s silently begging the floorboards to swallow her whole. “Mom—”
“Frankie. Honey. Who’s there with you?”
And I should stay quiet. I know I should. But silence feels worse, cowardly somehow, so instead, I step forward, discard my coat, and sit next to Frankie on her sofa. “Hey, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Sam Nicholas. I live across the street from your daughter.”
Faces crowd the screen. One older, worry etched across her brow, but unmistakably Frankie’s mom, they have the same eyes. The other is younger, grinning so similarly to Frankie, I’m guessing her sister.
The older woman exhales, pressing a hand to her chest. “So thereissomeone with you.” Her voice is soft, scolding wrapped in motherly relief.
The grinning one snorts. “Knew it. Iknewthere was a guy.”
I clear my throat, aware that Frankie is sitting bolt upright beside me, her hand creeping toward mine like she might throttleme at any second. “Our power went out, so I figured I’d bring over coffee and food. Didn’t mean to crash family time.”
The grinning face leans closer to the camera, eyes narrowing in mock interrogation. “Coffee and food, huh? Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
Frankie huffs and buries her face in her free hand. “Please stop talking.”
Her mom frowns, but her mouth softens into something gentler. “Well… thank you, Sam Nicholas. For looking out for her. I’m Cynthia Thompson, Francesa’s mother, and this is her sister, Ivy.”
I wave and smile. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Frankie’s fingers are still clamped tight around mine, nails pressing crescents into my skin. She’s holding on like I’m either her lifeline or her hostage; I’m not sure which. My instinct is to squeeze back, to let her know I’m not going anywhere, but I force myself still. I kind of just inserted myself into the situation without asking or anything, and now I’m feeling a little silly. Why did I do that? What if she doesn’t want me to meet them right now?
Cynthia gives me a polite nod, though her eyes keep darting to Frankie, like she’s trying to read between every line of what’s happening off camera. Ivy, on the other hand, looks downright gleeful, chin propped in her palm as if she’s settling in for the show.
“So,” Ivy says, dragging the word out, “Sam Nicholas, who lives across the street… how long exactly have you been ‘looking out for her’?”
Frankie lifts her head just enough to shoot her sister a death glare. “Ivy.”
“Two days,” I answer before I can stop myself, which earns me another bone-crushing squeeze of her hand. Hostage then. Her eyes fly to mine, wide with disbelief, and I fight down the urge to laugh at how utterly betrayed she looks.
“Two days,” Ivy repeats, her grin practically feral.
“Fuck my life,” Frankie mutters under her breath.
“Don’t cuss. Your nephew is listening,” Ivy scolds, angling the phone down toward a crib, where a tiny baby lies, bundled in more blankets than I thought possible, his fist twitching in sleep.
Frankie softens instantly, her shoulders dropping as she leans closer. “Oh my god, he’s gotten so much bigger.” Her voice shifts, hushed and aching with affection, and for the first time since I sat down, she forgets about her death grip on my hand.
Ivy’s grin widens, smug and triumphant. “He’s perfect. Unlike your manners.”
I have something on the tip of my tongue about her sister’s manners, but I hold it back, knowing that’ll likely end up with an elbow to the ribs. Instead, I watch the way Frankie leans closer, her face softening as she coos over the baby. The teasing falls away, replaced by adoration and love for her family. There’sa tenderness in her I’ve only glimpsed until now, but I bet she doesn’t realize how freely she cares about people, me included.
Ivy leans so close to the camera that her grin nearly fills the screen. “Sam, I really need to know more about you. What’s your deal? Are you single? Employed? Serial killer? Because if you hurt my sister, I swear, I’ll hunt you down, storm or no storm.”
