Page 27 of No Strings Attached
The kitchen smells of sugar, roasted garlic, and stress.
Someone’s kid is crying upstairs. My cousin is frantically searching for his shoes for the third time today, even though he claims he “definitely left them right by the tree.” My aunt is arguing with someone over the best way to make mashed potatoes—again—and Worth has gone full drill sergeant, trying to coordinate seating arrangements as if he’s running a black-tie gala instead of a family meal.
Christmas Eve dinner in this house has always been part tradition, part chaos.
I duck into the kitchen and immediately regret it: three of my relatives are in the middle of a loud plate handoff, the oven is beeping, while my mom flutters between the stove and the table like a woman on a mission. Her cheeks are flushed, apron dusted with flour, and she’s humming under her breath.
The noise, the movement, and the overlapping voices start to press in around me, making my skin itch. That familiar tightness creeps up my spine, the buzz of too much going on at once, and I know I need to get ahead of it.
I head straight for the liquor cabinet. I just need one drink to take the edge off before the walls start closing in.
“Don’t even think about sneaking any food,” Mom says without turning around.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, eyeing a deviled egg.
“I will cut your hand off.”
I grab my favorite bottle of small-batch bourbon, and pour a generous shot straight into a tumbler, no ice. I down it, wincing slightly as it burns its way down, warmth spreading through my chest.
Before I can exhale, a tray of dinner rolls is shoved into my hands by one of my cousins as they breeze past.
“Dining room. Go,” they say, already halfway out of the kitchen.
I blink, still gripping the tray. I guess I’ve been recruited.
Eventually, the food is all laid out—roast beef, green beans, dinner rolls, enough sides to feed a small army. The lights are dimmed, candles lit, people milling around waiting to be told where to sit.
Then, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” my mom says, already slipping off her apron.
Several minutes pass, though I barely notice, too busy trying to keep Brianna from sneaking wine.
Worth checks his watch, frowning. “What’s taking Mom so long?”
I shrug. “I’ll go check.”
When I reach the foyer, there’s someone standing just inside the doorway, barely taller than the floral monstrosity they’re holding—an enormous winter arrangement spilling over with white roses, evergreens, and silver accents.
It’s so massive, it completely hides their face. They’re swaying slightly, as if it might topple over at any second.
“Hey. Let me help you with that before it eats you alive.” Istep forward and grab the sides of the arrangement, easing it from their arms.
My breath catches—Amira is standing in the doorway,looking up at me, cheeks flushed from the cold, strands of hair stuck to her glossed lips, eyes wide and unblinking.
She’s frozen.
So am I.
The massive bouquet is still between us, stupidly festive, and I hold it tightly, because it’s the only thing anchoring me to the floor.
Neither of us moves.
I can’t. Not when my brain is still short-circuiting, trying to figure out what the hell Amira’s doing standing in my family’s front hallway like a walking daydream.
10
A SEAT NEXT TO TROUBLE
