Page 6 of When in December

It should have.

It was nearly nine. The house was an hour away, and I was supposed to be there by ten a.m. sharp. I’d planned on getting a shower and taking the time to properly wash my hair instead of spraying another layer of dry shampoo, which, like my randomly spaced naps, was taking the place of something much more important.

I tore out of my sheets, not bothering to make them—basically, morning routine sacrilege.

I yanked on a white blouse with a pair of stretch dress pants with red bows printed down each leg. I looped my stiff hair up in a somewhat put-together, yet also very messy, bun.

Seriously, how did Alison get her hair to look so nice when it was pulled up? Michelle would be pursing her lips at me right now if I walked into the office this way during a meeting, constantly reminding us all about first impressions as women who wanted to be taken seriously. Something that still needed to be done in this world, no matter how much talent one had.

However, I believed being on time might be way more important.

All last night, I’d lain awake, going through my plans and trying to convince myself that if I needed to make any changes, the house would let me know when I arrived. Sure, the place still wouldn’t be the luxury space Alison was working on with plenty of time to spare. It didn’t mean that a small home that the homeowner’s family requested be transformed for an ideal family Christmas wasn’t going to be just as charming.

Charming.

Based on what had been printed in the first issue ofHome Haven Magazineso far, I wasn’t sure charming would be enough.

Scrambling down the stairs, I glanced down at my watch.

“Where’s the fire?”

A chuckle interrupted my internal spiral.

My stepfather, Simon, raised a dark, bushy eyebrow and his holiday-themed mug of coffee. I looked around, and everything was decorated for the holidays—from the cabinets thick red ribbons to an ornament-free plastic tree stuffed in the corner.

I must’ve missed that yesterday. Mom must’ve gotten in the spirit immediately post-Thanksgiving this year.

Not even Simon’s morning mug, which usually boasted a picture of a cartoon golfer, had been spared. Not that it matteredexactly. Simon golfed as much as he admired the red-cheeked jolly Santa he drank out of. Which was never, as far as I was aware.

“I’m late!” I offered as an explanation.

I yanked my coat off the front hook before shoving my arms through each wool sleeve.

Simon lifted his mug toward the door. “Be careful. It’s slick out there.”

“I will.”

“Your mother wanted to see you off.”

“I’m late!” I repeated, shouldering my tote bag over my coat. I was starting to sweat already—and not only from the heat. Adrenaline pulsed down into my knees.

I’d never known it could do that. Or that knees could sweat.

Simon cocked his head, as if considering if this kind of explanation would be perfectly acceptable to my mother. Likely not. When I saw her early yesterday, she’d insisted on wanting to see me off on my first big job as if I were a kindergartener going to school for the first time instead of a very stressed DIY lover turned interior designer about to be scolded for not showing up on time, let alone having any clue of where I was going beyond what I punched into my phone’s navigation system.

Jogging back up the stairs, I tried not to sound out of breath by the time I made my way through my parents’ room and knocked on the bathroom door. Steam snaked under the crack of the door from the shower.

“What is it, Simon?” my mom called.

“It’s me, Mom. I’m headed out.”

“Open the door!”

Himid air from the steaming water rushed out as my mom stuck her head out of the shower’s sliding glass door. A clump of bubbles from her shampoo was still clustered on top of her head in a soapy crown.

“Oh, don’t you look nice? I didn’t like those pants at first. They’re quirky, but veryyou.”

“Thanks, Mom.” It was best not to read into her unfortunately detailed compliments. “I need to go, but I’ll hopefully be back before you guys go to bed.”

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