Page 95 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
I watch as he crosses the backyard and into the house, sleeves pushed up, panda sweater slightly crooked, and somehow manages to charm Grandma Nellie in under thirty seconds. She protests halfheartedly, but the next thing I know, he’s carrying a casserole dish in one hand and balancing a pie tin in the other while she walks beside him, talking his ear off about her church friends and the best way to keep rolls warm in the car.
I follow them down the hallway, just listening.
They make it to the front door, and she pats his arm approvingly. “You’re a good one, Max. Don’t let my grandson forget that.”
He chuckles and balances the pie on top of the casserole dish before reaching for the door and holding it open for her. “I won’t, ma’am—uh, Grandma Nellie.”
Her laugh carries through the hall. “Better. Now get that pie to my car before I change my mind.”
I lean against the doorframe, watching the two of them disappear into the night—her gray curls catching the glow of the porch light, his sweater bright and ridiculous and perfect.
When he comes back inside, I shake my head. “You just officially became Grandma Nellie’s favorite.”
He smirks, stepping close enough for me to feel the warmth still clinging to him from outside. “Guess I’m good at making impressions.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, sliding a hand into his. “You really are.”
He squeezes my fingers, eyes flicking toward the twinkling lights strung across the living room. “Come on. Let’s help yourmom with whatever’s left before she recruits me for dish duty again.”
I follow, smiling, thinking that if every Christmas Eve feels like this—like laughter, like family, like love that fits right where it belongs—I’ll never need anything else.
I waketo the sound of quiet breathing and the faint hum of Christmas music drifting up from downstairs. Morning light cuts across the room, catching on the tinsel we forgot to take off our sweaters last night.
Max is still half-asleep beside me, his arm heavy across my middle, face buried against my shoulder. His hair’s sticking up at odd angles, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillowcase. It’s ridiculously endearing.
I shift just enough to see his face, and he groans like I’ve dragged him out of the best dream he’s ever had.
“Morning,” I whisper.
He makes a low sound in response, voice gravelly. “That can’t be right. It’s too early for ‘morning.’”
“It’s Christmas, Calder.”
One eye cracks open. “You’re one ofthosepeople, huh?”
“You already knew that,” I laugh, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Festive and proud.”
He exhales a quiet laugh and pulls me closer until I’m tucked under his chin. “You realize I’m not moving until someone brings coffee to this room.”
“You say that,” I murmur, “but the smell of cinnamon rolls is gonna get you in about five minutes.”
His stomach growls on cue, and I laugh outright.
“Told you.”
He tightens his arm around me, his voice softer now. “Fine. But if I have to get up, you’re coming with me.”
“Deal,” I say. “But you have to wear the matching pajamas I bought us.”
That earns a groan. “Eli.”
“What? It’s tradition now.”
“We’ve never actually worn matching pajamas.”
“Traditions have to start somewhere.”
He tilts his head enough to look at me, eyes still half-lidded but full of affection. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re bossy.”
