Page 20 of Christmas Kisses

Did I wake up in an alternative universe? This can’t be reality. Peter never once made me breakfast. He wasn’t evenconsiderate enough to make sure he left enough coffee in the pot for me if his shift started earlier than mine.

“Why are you doing this, Zane?”

Don’t misconstrue my question. I love that he’s here, but we only met days ago, so it isn’t his responsibility to clean up the mess I made before we met. Also, no one wants to be the rebound guy. Unless they’re my father, the odds rarely swing in their favor.

Zane flips my eggs in a way that would make Casey proud before he answers, “You asked me to stay.”

“I also asked you to screw me senseless, and that didn’t happen.”

When his eyes shoot to the living room window that faces the street, I release a girlie giggle. He did the same thing multiple times last night. His gawk always followed a familiar Christmassy chant.

I can admit it was odd that Santa’s greetings only seemed to occur while I was trying to lure Zane into a trap by pretending I wasn’t drunk, but I brushed it off as a coincidence.

Zane didn’t seem convinced by my verdict. After a second bellowing chant, he yanked my hand out of my panties, dragged up the blanket from the foot of my bed, and tucked me in like my father did every Christmas Eve since I was three—in a straitjacket design I couldn’t escape from until the morning.

“You do know he isn’t watching you twenty-four-seven, right? He has millions of children to check off his list each year.”

He swirls the frying pan to loosen up the eggs before sliding them onto two slices of toast. “I might have believed you if that fu…”—he freezes before picking a better word—“thatSantahadn’t been following me all over Ravenshoe.”

I laugh so hard I snort. “He’s not the same Santa. They’re charity Santas who get their suits at the same store.” Whennot even my hungover head can take my tone any other way, I murmur, “Right?”

Zane shrugs. “I thought so too. Then?—”

“You had too many candy cane cocktails and turned into an elf?”

He takes my comment as intended. After tossing back his head and laughing, he wiggles his slightly pointed ears. “I’ve got the ears for it.” Once he garnishes my eggs with fresh dill, he places my plate in front of me. “Eat up. We’ve got a ton of work to do.”

I stab my fork into the feast he prepared. “Since you seemed to have missed the memo, I guess I better spell it out. I got fired yesterday, so I have endless dreary, boring, non-joyful hours at my disposal.”

You’d swear my voice wasn’t whiny when Zane says, “Even more reason for us to spruce up the place.”

After swallowing a mouthful of buttery, eggy goodness, I say, “You want to go furniture shopping? My budget could be stretched for a handful of necessities, but it seems odd to do on a third date.”

Zane doesn’t balk at the dreaded D word. “We’re not going furniture shopping. Your couch is a bitch to sleep on, and you only have enough place settings for two, but you’ve got enough to get by.” He kicks a box at his side, which I hadn’t noticed until now. “Can’t say the same for this. There are barely enough decorations inside to cover a tree, let alone an entire apartment.” Oblivious to my shock, he ensures he’s not speaking with a full mouth before asking, “Talking about trees, when is yours being delivered?”

“It’s not. I… ah…” How do you explain that your ex-fiancé collected your tree and decorated it with your ornaments with his new fiancée in front of you because you were snowed in at the venue meant to host your Christmas Eve wedding?

There isn’t a way to explain that without sounding like a loser, so I give him a half-truth. “I wasn’t meant to be home for Christmas, so I didn’t order a tree.”

“Oh…” The dip in his tone makes sense when he says, “I didn’t realize I’m not the only one leaving before the festivities truly begin.” He sounds as devastated as I feel. “When do you leave?”

“I’m not. Plans changed.” Hating that I’m letting a man like Peter make me forget I have an Adonis sitting shirtless across from me, I say, “So I guess I no longer have an excuse not to get a tree.Wecan pick one up today, if you want?”

I overemphasized “we” on purpose to scare him.

Zane once again acts blasé. “Sounds good. Let me clear my schedule.”

The rejection attempting to burn its way up my esophagus returns to my stomach when he collects his cell phone from the kitchen counter and dials what I assume is a regularly dialed number.

“Casey…”

“Just a little more. You’re almost there.” When pine thistles scrape my doorframe, I act ignorant. “It’s almost there. You’re nearly fully through.”

In homage to myself, I picked the tree with the biggest curves. Its top half fitted through the opening of my apartment without incident, but its curvy backside is proving difficult. Zane is pushing while I’m tugging. We’ve been going at it for nearlytwenty minutes, but Zane has not once lost his cool as Peter would have nineteen minutes ago.

If I was still with Peter, I wouldn’t have gotten the tree out of the lot. He hates vacuuming, and even with me promising to vacuum every day of December, he forever opted for a fake tree.

That ghastly sham was what filled most of the box Zane highlighted earlier today.

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