Page 83 of Holiday Hopefuls
“My alma mater,” I answer. “There are two options I’m considering, a master’s or a doctorate in education.”
Frowning, my dad considers this. “What can you do with that?”
“I’d like to go into administration.” That part is actually true.
Oliver shifts closer, tucking me into his side. Pressing a kiss to my temple, adoration I’d give anything to be real gazes down at me. “You’d be amazing,” he nods.
Smiling up at him, I let myself pretend, for just a moment, that he’d be there through the entire journey.
By the timethe credits roll on Goldie’s favorite holiday movie, more than half of my family is asleep on the seating in the home theater.
Including Goldie.
Oliver and I sit tucked into the bend of one of the two sectionals, cozy and snuggled up under a blanket with his arm around me. For the sake of appearances, of course.
Not that any other part of me except my brain got that memo. No, and the only organ that is actually functioning properly is a little busy trying to convince the rest of me that this isn’t real.
Oliver shifts to see if I’m still awake, as if I would fall asleep during such a classic. A soft smile graces his face. “Hey,” he whispers, “ready to call it a night?”
I nod, pretending alarm bells aren’t blaring in my head about sharing a room. About sharing a bed.It’ll be fine, Callie. It’s not like youactuallysleep naked or anything weird like that.But the shock on his face was pretty great when I said that earlier.
We get up as quietly as possible. Replacing the blanket on the couch, we say goodnight to Imogene and Mom, the only Rutherfords left awake on this Christmas Eve eve.
By the time we reach our room, panic is slowly leaking back into my system. I try reciting the list of presidents but I only make it to Millard Fillmore before Oliver locking the door behind us sends my nerves into overdrive.
“Do you think Chris would’ve eaten that carrot if he knew Goldie licked it before offering it to him?” Oliver asks.
Twisting around to answer, every word I’ve ever known flies out of my head.
I need an escape. Fast.
“I need to shower,” I blurt much louder than necessary.
The man visiblyflinches. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “no problem. I can clean up after you’re done.” He kicks his shoes off while I grab my things, including the world’s ugliest but comfiest pajamas, and scurry into the bathroom.
Inside the safety of the tiled sanctuary, I let out a deep breath. “This is going to be a long Christmas,” I mutter. Turning on the shower to maximum heat, I take care of all other necessities and step into the scalding water. But even the fiery water licking my skin does nothing to abolish these undeniable feelings growing for the man waiting on the other side of the door.
When I’ve spent as long as humanly possible in the shower without turning into a pile of goo, I resign myself to my fate. It’s only minutes later that I’m toweled off and standing in the middle of the bathroom in my old, ratty, fleece pajamas featuring potted plants, trowels and shovels all over them. With nothing left to do in my safe haven, I brace myself and open the door. Steam rolls out of the bathroom like the beginning of an improv rock concert.
Oliver peeks up from where he lays stretched out on the bed. Setting his phone down on the nightstand, he takes in the hideousness of my favorite pajamas that have been patched up more times than should be legal before throwing them out. “Have a good shower?” he asks. Rolling in his lips, he suppresses a smile.
“Don’t make fun.” Sniffing, I march proudly to drop off the wad of dirty clothes in my suitcase.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks. “But the length of time you were in there was truly impressive.” The click of a lamp sounds behind me, following the bedsprings protesting Oliver’s movements.
“A lot happens in there on hairwashing days.”
I don’t even have to look to know he’s eyeing my completely dry ballet bun. “Didyou wash your hair?”
“Nope. Did that this morning.” Spinning around to face him, I plant my fists on my hips. “Any other inquiries you’d like to make about my bathing routine?”
Oliver looks at me much longer than necessary, before shaking his head.
“Good,” I breathe a false sigh of relief, “because I’ve always heard the key to healthy relationships is excellent communication. And, frankly, I’d hate to have to give you the hairy details about how difficult it is to get a decent shave. Pun intended.”
Oliver bites down on his lower lip, a grin daring to creep into place. As soon as Oliver’s in the bathroom with the door shut behind him, I flick off the main light, snagging my phone and charger from where I dropped them on the dresser earlier. Turning on the other bedside lamp, I climb into what will obviously be my side of the bed. Oliver may have been laying on top of the comforter, but his signature cinnamon apple scent lingers in the air. Groaning, I throw my head back onto my pillow, pulling my phone to my face for any kind of distraction.
Eight texts from Ian and six from Aaron await my viewing pleasure in our group chat. Each one ranges from concern about why I haven’t responded in hours, to suggestive things I may be doing with my boyfriend, in which case, it’s okay that I’m not answering and to update them in the morning.
