Page 32 of Not In The Christmas Plan
I hold a candle out for Grant to smell.
He leans down, inhales deeply, and hums. “That smells like dessert.”
“It’s Snickerdoodle. Do you think Braxton will like it? He can put it in whatever room he’ll use as his office.”
Grant’s look tells me all I need to know.
“Fine.” I set the candle down with an apologetic smile to the vendor. Before we move on though, I grab and pay for the gray and navy scarf I saw Grant eyeing when we reached the booth.
“Eve,” he says with exasperation.
When we came to the Christmas market he didn’t want me paying for the parking, or the pictures we took with Santa, or the hot chocolate. I do like saving my money where I can, but I don’t like a man trying to tell me how to live my life.
“It’s too late. I already bought it,” I tell a scowling Grant. “You might as well wear it and stop trying to act like you aren’t happy.”
I hold his cup of chocolate while he puts the scarf around his neck, and sure enough a crooked grin takes over as he runs his hands down the soft material. “How do I look? Good, huh? You don’t have to say it, I already know.”
Yes, he does look good. And no, I will not admit it out loud.
“Come on,” I say, handing him his cup. “Let’s keep walking. I need your help finding something for Braxton. I have no idea what to get him.”
“First of all, this day was supposed to be about you. Second, once you’re a parent, gifts don’t matter as much. Get something for Nia and Amani. He’ll survive.”
“Uh, no. When I become a mom, I one-thousand-percent still expect my loved ones to splurge on me.”
“So, it’swhennow, huh?”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to hide my smile. It’s the holidays and I’m at my favorite place. I’m allowed to be optimistic about the future. That it has a little to do with the man walking beside me is just a coincidence.
“Besides, I already got Ivy something,” I say. “I’ll feel bad leaving Braxton out.”
Grant drains his drink, tosses the empty cup into a passing bin, and threads our fingers together. “I’ll help. But first, you’re skating with me.”
Why is Grant trying to act all strict today? Better question—why do I like it?
I follow his gaze to the rink at the center of the market. Families, couples, and even a few pros glide around with ease. When I meet Grant’s challenging smirk, I know he’s expecting me to push back and probably downplay having any kind of skating skills.
Well, he got the right one today.
“You’ve got a deal.”
It doesn’t take long to realize Grant is all bravado and no bite. While I glide onto the ice, he straddles the rubber edge like the ice is going to jump up and grab him.
“Come on,” I coax.
He steps fully onto the ice and seems to completely forget how to work his limbs. His knees buckle and arms flap wildly before he catches the railing.
“Why did you suggest this is you can’t skate?” I ask, skating backward in front of him.
“Because I saw that picture of you out on the rink,” he admits, staring at his feet. “Figured this used to be your thing.”
“You did this for me?”
He risks taking his eyes off his feet to look at me. “How many times do I have to tell you today is about you?”
I’m filled with the urge to reach out and hug him, but I know that would only make him fall. So, I settle for a heartfelt, “Thank you, Grant.”
He winks and it sends my pulse skyrocketing. “Any time.” And then he falls flat on his butt.
