Page 110 of Triple Play
“Who wants to make gingerbread houses?” Mrs. Dickson announces with the kind of forced cheer that suggests this is a family tradition no one actually enjoys.
“I will,” I say, because sitting at this table for another hour sounds like actual hell.
We migrate to the kitchen where Mrs. Dickson has set up an elaborate gingerbread house station—pre-baked walls, royal icing in piping bags, enough candy to give a dentist nightmares.
“Teams of two,” she declares. “Jordan, you’re with your father. Catherine and Michael, Sarah and David, and—” She looks at me, Grant, and Wyatt.
“We’ll figure it out,” Grant says.
The senator and Jordie disappear into the study—”just need to discuss some campaign logistics”—which leaves the rest of us awkwardly assembling gingerbread structures.
I’m piping icing onto a roof with more aggression than necessary when Wyatt leans in close.
“You okay?”
“Peachy.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.”
Grant’s building a structurally sound house with the kind of precision that suggests he’s done this before. Wyatt’s just eating the candy. The sisters and their husbands are having some kind of competition about whose house is better.
“This icing is terrible,” I mutter.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Grant says, reaching over to adjust my piping bag angle. His hand covers mine and even though we’re pretending to be just friends, the touch sends heat up my arm.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Mrs. Dickson is watching us with an expression I can’t read.
Twenty minutes later, Jordie reappears looking tense. He catches my eye, jerks his head toward the kitchen.
I follow him to the sink where dirty dishes are stacked.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“He wants me to announce I’m going to law school. At Christmas dinner tomorrow. In front of the whole extended family.” His voice is flat. “Like a fun little present.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d think about it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m such a coward.”
“You’re not—”
“I am. I can’t even tell my own father no.”
I grab his hand, pull him around to face me. “You will. When you’re ready. On your terms.”
He looks at me with those blue eyes that are usually so full of light, now just tired. “How did I get so lucky?”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. You’re annoying and persistent.”
That gets a real smile out of him. “Annoying?”
“Deeply annoying.”
