Page 40 of Holiday Hostilities

I stare at the front door for a moment before heading to the kitchen, which quite frankly, is an absolute disaster.

Plates are stacked on the island, empty wine, beer, and soda bottles litter the counters, and half-eaten dishes of food are piled haphazardly on the stovetop from where the guys tried—and failed—to help with the cleanup efforts. The dining area, which is open to the kitchen, has more dishes and bottles, alongside stained tablecloths and an array of pumpkin-slash-beer receptacles.

It’s a sight that would make any tired, weary man sigh. A sight that would normally have me turn around and go right to bed, committing to deal with the carnage in the morning before Betty, my housekeeper, arrives.

But I don’t do anything of the sort, because Olivia is standing in the middle of the mess. She’s at the kitchen sink, her back to me, humming to herself as she rinses glasses and stacks them in the dishwasher. An apron is knotted around her waist, and she’s pulled her copper hair into a sloppy topknot.

Man, she’s pretty.

“You’re still here,” I say. It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out like an exclamation. Which doesn’t make me sound unlike an overexcited seven-year-old on a playdate.

She half-turns towards me, pushing back a strand of red hair that’s stuck to her cheek. “You’re observant.”

“Why?” I figured Olivia would be out of here the second dinner was over. I certainly didn’t expect her to be standing in my kitchen after everyone else went home.

“I wanted to help. And you clearly need a lot of it right now.” She gestures to the mess surrounding us. “So, Marino, feel free to use me any which way you like while you have me.”

Her statement, innocent as it was surely meant to be, scorches my blood with such intensity that I have to pause for a moment, remind myself that this isOliviaI’m talking to.

So I naturally have to get a rise out of her. “Don’t tease me like that unless you mean it.”

I enjoy the way her face turns scarlet as she realizes what she implied. She scowls and flicks a dish towel at me. “You are such a perv.”

“And yet, you’re here with me instead of with Cooper,” I retort as I come to stand next to her at the sink, grabbing a washcloth to dry the pile of cookware she already washed. I can’t help but add, “You guys were chatty tonight.”

Olivia rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way they flicker at the mention of Dallas’s name. I don’t like this flicker one bit. “I guess we were.”

“Talk about anything interesting?” I cannot stop myself. Part of me is itching to know.

Her eyes flicker towards me this time, but they’re narrowed. “We were talking about Ashley, the woman he’s gone to meet, since you’re so curious.”

“Jealous?” I prompt. Which is ridiculous, because if anyone here is jealous, it’s me.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she huffs as she turns back to the dishes.

“I’d actually like to know the real reason you’re still here,” I press, because I work hard, but apparently, the devil in me works harder. “Not that I’m complaining, but you being the last guest to leave tonight is unexpected, to say the least.”

Liv looks up, then exhales. “I’m here because I wanted to do something nice to, um, thank you.”

“Thank me for what?”

“You know.” She chews her lip. “For earlier. The porridge.”

My chest tightens once again at the memory of her almost putting that almond in her mouth.

“What happened, Liv?” I ask, my eyes searching hers. I remember, clear as day, how cross-contamination from almonds could give her a rash and hives, and that if she accidentally ate an almond itself, she would have to use her EpiPen.

She ducks her head. “I was distracted.”

“By?”

She lets out a long sigh. “Just… work stuff.”

She seems agitated, so I decide not to push her further. I have a feeling that there’s no way to make light of how she’s feeling, and this time, I don’t want to. Instead, I grab some plates and begin clearing scraps into the trash.

We work side by side in silence for a few minutes, me diligently scraping plates, her rinsing and stacking them in the dishwasher. It feels comfortable, easy, methodical.

“I’m off for Christmas,” she mumbles.

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