Page 11 of Not In The Christmas Plan
“Aha!” I exclaim when I spot the piece I was looking for.
I’m in the zone, finally making progress on the crib when the enticing scent of chocolate hits me. I immediately perk up, then wish I hadn’t when I spot Grant freshly showered and groomed, strolling back in with a steamingmug. I hold in my gasp when I see marshmallows spilling over the top. He made my favorite—hot cocoa.
Which he keeps close as he walks right on past me.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” I say sharply he sets his mug on the windowsill like he owns the place and begins opening the other boxed up crib.
No answer. Is this man really going to ignore me?
“I said I’ll take care of the nursery. You can go back home.”
Picking the mug back up, he finally meets my glare. “I heard what you said. I’m good over here.”
His head tips back as he takes a healthy sip.
How dare he.
How dare he stroll on in here like I’m invisible. How dare he try to insert himself where he’s not wanted nor needed.
He sets the drink back down with a satisfied “Ahh,” then wipes the corners of his full lips.
Seriously, how dare he not even offer me a taste. That is, not offer to make me a cup. That’smydad’s mug he’s using after all.
I watch Grant for another five seconds as he rips into the box and pulls the materials out like it’s so easy.Puh-lease.If I had muscles like that, I could Hulk out on the box too.
Teeth gritted, I turn around. If Grant wants to set up one of the cribs,fine.I won’t waste my breath arguing. Besides, the sooner he finishes the sooner he can leave.
Pointedly ignoring the man behind me, I access my work. It looks… okay. I just need to make it so that all of the slats lay flat instead of awkwardly on their sides. Yeah, I’m sure that’ll make it look better.
Even though Grant messed up my flow, I get back to work, resolved to act like he's not here. Grant, however, makes it impossible. Every thirty seconds I hear aslurp.
Slurp.
Slurp.
Slurp.
By the twenty-third time, I’m ready to hurl a wood slat his way. I don’t even understand how he still has any hot chocolate left. Is the cup bottomless? Did he walk in with a secret stash he's using to refill it?
I whip around, ready to rail into him, then snap my mouth shut.
His crib is complete.
It’s only been like forty-five minutes. The manual says it takes an hour. I’m at ninety minutes and counting and still adjusting slats, so how did he finish so fast?
Grant pauses from breaking down his discarded cardboard to look at me and my struggle crib. He must read the promise of death in my glare because he wisely goes back to what he was doing.
It takes me another thirty minutes, but I finally take a step back and look at my work with a smile on my face, relief in my heart, and exhaustion I can feel down to my bones. I really should have gotten more than a few hours of sleep last night.
“Done with these two,” Grant says casually.
When I turn around this time, he’s dusting his jeans off while proudly looking at thetwochanging tables he managed to put together.
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Let’s put one there,” I say, pointing to the right corner. “And the other by this crib.”
“Actually, I was thinking we should probably put one down in the living room.”
I blink. “Why would we do that? It’ll ruin the symmetry.”
