Page 54 of The Christmas You Crash

God, past Lexi was such a blind fool. Everything was always about Garrett. What he wanted to do that weekend. How he wanted to have sex. What he wanted to talk about. Looking back, I’m not sure he ever really knew me. Which is sad, because we dated for two years. I sloughed off pieces of myself for him the way you peel off dead skin after a particularly brutal sunburn,because there wasn’t room for all of me in our relationship. Not when his ego and his desires were so consuming.

But Ryder asks me questions. He watches my face so he can pick up non-verbal cues. It’s been less than a week, but I think he actually sees me. Or, at least, he’s starting to.

“Ready to decorate some cookies?” I ask him as I wrap my arms around his back. I can’t help it. Whenever we’re in the same room, I have this compulsion to touch him. To soak up his warmth.

His strong hands run over mine, and I squeeze him tighter. “Heck, yeah. I can’t promise they’ll look good, but I’m ready.”

“Eh,” I say, forcing myself to peel my arms off his waist. “As long as they taste yummy, that’s all that matters.”

I was wrong.Taste is not all that matters.

“Oh, my god,” I gasp through gut-busting laughter. “It looks like an actual turd.”

Ryder’s arms cross over his chest, and he rolls his eyes as he peers down his nose at me. “Does not. That isclearlyRudolph. See?” He points to the glob of reddish icing that has somehow melted into the poo-brown monstrosity he’s calling a reindeer face. “That’s his red nose.”

“Looks like a popped hemorrhoid,” I say under my breath between bouts of giggling.

He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know Griffin Wright? On my team?”

I nod, not sure where this is going.

“Yeah, well, one night after an away game, he dropped his pants, stuck his sweaty ass in my face, and asked me if I thought he had hemorrhoids.” Ryder’s face screws up into an expressionof deep disgust. “He did. And they looked nothing like Rudolph’s nose.”

Tears stream down my face. My sides hurt from how hard I’m laughing. It’s impossible not to picture all of that happening, and I don’t know if it’s from my teasing, or the memory of Griffin’s butt issues, but Ryder’s suddenly side-eyeing his Rudolph cookie.

“Whatever,” he says, shoving his Poodolph cookie away. “Yours can’t look that much better. I mean, how are you supposed to make anything look good with this runny icing?”

I try to hold in a laugh, and it just ends up coming out as a snort. Ryder’s eyebrows arch at that, but I ignore him. “It’s royal icing. It’s supposed to be runny. That’s how you get such a smooth surface, see?” With a step to the right, I move out of the way, so he can see the cookie I’ve been working on. It’s in the shape of an old-fashioned ornament, and I’ve decorated it with polka dots and little stars that make it look like the light is reflecting off of it. Ryder gapes at it with an open mouth, looks up to gape at me, then returns his attention to the cookie.

“What? How?”

My cheeks hurt from smiling at his adorable sputtering. “You just gotta pipe a little border, let it mostly dry, then fill in the empty spaces like I showed you.”

“But I did that,” Ryder says, his gaze pinging between my cookie and his. “Why does mine look like poop and yours look so pretty?” He glares at his deformed cookie.

My lips hurt from pressing them together so hard in an effort to stop my laughter. “I thought you said it doesn’t look like poop?”

He rolls his eyes. “We both know I’m full of shit.”

“Like your cookie,” I offer. He shoots daggers at me with his eyes, but then he’s laughing.

“Fine, yes. Like my cookie. Ugh.” He presses his palms flat against the counter before bringing his head to rest between them. His voice is muffled when he says, “My mom would be horrified.”

Chuckling, I rub my hand up and down his spine. “Nah. Moms are great at pretending that whatever art crime you bring home is the next Mona Lisa. She would have told you it was amazing, then locked herself in the bathroom to laugh at you. But you never would have known.”

Ryder appears dismayed at this. He straightens and turns to face me with a slack jaw. “Are you trying to tell me she didn’t actually love all the drawings I gave her as a kid?”

My nose twitches, and I’m fighting my face to remain neutral. “No, of course not. I’m sure you were anexcellentartist. One of the few kids with genuine artistic talent.”

“I’m questioning my whole childhood,” he says with a shake of his head. “Was everything a lie?”

Offering him another pat on the back, I giggle. He’s adorable, and fun, and I never want this afternoon to end. I wish his mom was still around to see what kind of man he’s become. I’m positive she would be so proud of him. She and her husband raised someone who strikes the right balance between confident and self-deprecating and sweet.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” I tease. “Is your name really even Ryder?”

That has him laughing. I almost don’t hear the vibrating of my phone. Picking it up, I seeMomflash across the screen. Speaking of mothers.

Ryder notices me staring at the screen. “Do you want some privacy?”

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