Page 40 of A Cozy Holiday
He straightens his hat on my head. Then he steps back, putting crucial distance between us. “Come on, Doc.” He extends his hand. “Let’s get you some water before you do something you’ll regret.”
“I don’t regret anything.”
“I know.” His eyes are still dark with want. “That’s what scares me.”
Chapter 10
Eyeliner & Dry Humping
Twenty-four Days Until I Can Go Back to Work
“Beingaround children when you’re violently hungover should be a crime,” I whisper to Jamie as he slides me an aspirin and a green swamp-looking smoothie across the table. I slump forward on his long, rectangular kitchen table.
“I told the girls to let you sleep. But they were worried you were never going to show,” Jamie says, a gingerbread-printed towel tossed over his shoulder. His hairy forearms flex as he grips the back of a chair. He’s wearing a faded hockey T-shirt that’s basically see-through at this point. Worn plaid pajama pants and bunched socks make him look like he just rolled out of bed.
About five minutes ago, Kiki and Honey pounded on my door, shrieking about the Cranberry Social starting in three hours. I managed to splash water on my bangs so they’d stop sticking straight up, then brushed my teeth and yanked on a pair of leggings before I let myself be towed across the driveway with Jubilee and my makeup bag in my arms.
I blink through the hangover fuzz, trying to take in Jamie’s house. For all I imagined it as some rustic spread lifted straight out of an L.L.Bean catalog, it’s nothing like that.
It’s comfortable.
And I like comfortable.
From where I’m sitting, I can see almost the entire first floor of Jamie’s two-story house. There are paper snowflakes hung on the white walls, along with school pictures of the girls and drawings done in paint and crayon. Tiny boots are piled by the front door next to big ones. A row of jackets hangs crookedly on the rack.
A brown-and-white checkered floor runs through the kitchen and dining area, while the rest of the first floor is warm hardwood. There are peanut butter smears on the homemade curtains with tiny red stars embroidered on the fabric. The fridge is cluttered with report cards, finger paintings, and clay magnets. A giant tree glitters beside the fireplace in the living room, where the beige sectional rests on a patterned rug, dotted with mysterious stains.
It reminds me of my own home growing up.
My eyes land on a framed photo of a younger Jamie, curly hair tucked behind his ears. He looks tired, but he’s grinning while he holds two newborns beside a woman who must be Tessa. They look happy. My chest twinges. He said they’d been growing apart, but sitting here, it’s hard not to wonder if he wishes she were here instead of me. It’s the hangover talking. I rub my forehead with my palm, but the thought lingers. I’m a visitor in this home, nothing more.
Upstairs, the girls are trying to wrestle Jubilee into a doll dress. I tried to stop it. Gave up when the giggles started. The sweet, high-pitched sound hammers directly against my skull.
I glance at the clock above the stove.
One p.m.
Guilt and anxiety settle in my chest like I’ve double-booked a surgery. “I’m sorry I missed chores this morning.”
“I’m glad you slept in.” Jamie drums his fingers over the wooden chair back. “But you look like you’ve got a headache.”
I make a face at him.“Thanks.”
“How are you okay?”
“Raising twin girls practically alone, I learned how to get by on very little sleep. Mom dropped them off this morning at seven.”
“Are their other grandparents still in town?”
“No. They moved to Washington after Tessa graduated high school. They’ve only seen the girls once.”
I nod, unsure what to say, so I pick up the aspirin and wash it down with the lime-green slop. I brace for horror but blink in surprise. “This is actually pretty good.”
“I add apples. Hides the grassiness and hot sauce.”
He turns back to the counter and starts chopping tomatoes. It shouldn’t remind me of last night when he was pushing me against the wall, except he moves with the same ease.
Even through the pounding in my temples, I’m glad I’m here.
