Page 21 of Perfectly Complicated
But my feelings of success were quickly dashed when Rosie decided that the middle of the night was the perfect time for an hour-long crying session, and just when she finally settled down, my phone alarm went off.
At three thirty in the morning. On a Saturday. So we can take a road trip to “enjoy” Christmas decorations.
I’m questioning why I said yes.
Oh, I know why.Janie Bennett, that’s why.
That woman might be my nemesis dressed in Christmas cheer, but she also has some kind of weird magic over me thatmakes Christmas torture sound like a good way to spend a Saturday.
So when Janie knocks on the door at exactly four, like she just stepped out of a Netflix Christmas movie—red sweater, cute beanie, white jeans, and a smile so bright it should come with a warning—I know I’m in trouble.
And my knee-jerk response is always the same: turn up the sarcasm and cynicism until her sunny disposition cracks, because watching Little Miss Christmas get flustered is basically my new favorite sport.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she practically sings as I open the door.
“Ms. Bennett, you know what happens at four a.m.?” I say, leaning against the doorframe with barely open eyes. “Nothing good.Ever.”
I’ve had exactly zero cups of coffee, and my back feels like I went three rounds with a defensive line, while Janie looks over-caffeinated and ready to star in her own elf-themed Christmas musical. “Ready to convert the heathen?” I ask as I step onto the porch.
“Of course,” she says, overconfidently. “But first, you’ll need this.” She holds out a travel mug filled with what smells like coffee. I take a sip and nearly moan with relief. It’s strong, black, and exactly what I need after the night I had. “How’d you know how I take my coffee?”
“Lucky guess,” she says, but there’s something in her expression that makes me think it wasn’t a guess at all. “You look like the type who thinks cream and sugar are for weaklings.”
“They are. So, what’s the plan, Bennett?” I ask as we walk to my car. “Death by Christmas carols? Forcedfa-la-la-ing? Making me wear one of those ridiculous Santa hats?”
She doesn’t even try to hide the mischief in her smile. “Yes, to all of it. The plan is for you to actually experience Christmas instead of just complaining about it,” she says, climbing into the passenger seat before I can open her door.
Independent.I like that about her. But I also know why she’shadto become this way. She’s a single mom raising a baby on a teacher’s salary. It’s not just a personality trait for her; it’s basic survival.
Part of me wishes she’d let me help her. Let someone take care of her for once instead of doing it all herself.
I get why she won’t, though. When you’ve been hurt, you learn to do it all yourself. Independence isn’t a choice—it’s self-protection. It’s the armor she wears that no one else sees. Except me.
“Janie, whyexactlydo I need to experience Christmas?” I start the engine of my Porsche 911, avoiding her gaze.
“Because you’re rewriting the script and playing the lead role in a few weeks, and right now you have the holiday spirit of the Grim Reaper.” She buckles her seat belt and gives me a pointed look. “How are you supposed to convince a bunch of kids that Christmas is special when you don’t believe it yourself?”
She’s got a point, which irritates me. “So this is all about the pageant? Not the bet?”
“Of course. You need to understand what Christmas represents to these kids. You need to see the wonder, the excitement, the…”
“Overpriced gifts and traffic jams?”
“No. The joy, Rourke.” She turns in her seat to face me fully. “The pure, uncomplicated joy that you somehow missed.”
Ouch. That hits closer to home than I’d like—and she doesn’t even know about my past yet. “Maybe some of us don’t believe in Christmas.”
“And maybe some of us gave up too easily.” Her chin lifts in that stubborn way that makes me want to either argue with her or kiss that stubborn look right off her pretty face.
Whoa,rewind that thought. Did I seriously just think about kissing Janie Bennett?
Get it together, man.This is not the time. Not the place. Anddefinitelynot the girl.
She reaches for the stereo in my car. “But that’s what today is for. Research.”
“Research,” I repeat flatly. Not anything more.
“For your role and for rewriting the script. You can’t be in the pageant if you don’t understand Christmas.” She connects her phone to my Bluetooth, and suddenly my car is filled with full orchestral Christmas music. “And I can’t let you ruin this pageant just because you had one bad Christmas experience.”
