Page 36 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“But we can still talk through the door,” he suggests.

My air-scowl deepens. “I’m too unwell to talk.”

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. You need to use the bathroom. I see. Well. I hope my gifts will make your time on the porcelain throne more pleasant.”

A laugh escapes me before I can rein it in.

“Are you crying, Kennedy?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, my stomach hurting from the effort of holding in laughter. Then, because I need to get the full story so I can share it with my friends later, I add, “I hate being sick. How’d you get me gifts if you can’t leave the house?”

“I paid one of the cameramen to do it.” His tone shifts to the tattle-tale singsong of a small child. “Marcus has been paying them to bring in organic supplements.”

I couldn’t really care less.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

Please let him go.

“Be strong,” he says, and I can imagine him laying his palm against the door, which fills me with an urge to laugh that’s so strong my ab muscles are straining to contain.

“Thanks, Jonah. I will. I’ll see you when I’m well again.”

It occurs to me that I might be able to keep this charade going for a little while, at least long enough to miss the disastrous horseback riding session that’s supposed to happen tomorrow. Harry said my brother and Tina will be visiting later this week. Maybe they’ll know what’s happening with Rowan.

He said he’ll come. Maybe he’ll come.

But I don’t want to depend on it. Depending on it seems dangerous.

I hear Jonah’s footsteps retreating, thank goodness, and I pop the door open to see what he brought me. There’s a basket with a bright orange ribbon attached to the handle, and I bring it into the room, shutting the door. Laughter convulses through me when I see what’s on top—a framed photo of Jonah. It’s a glamor shot, done at what I’m guessing is his desk at work. Didhe bring this with him from home? Has it been gracing his room until now?

I set the photo aside and laugh a little harder at the industrial-sized tin of breath mints. Other than that, there’s a short biography about Jonah Highbury the First, which I will absolutely be reading, a monogrammed handkerchief like the one he had the other night, and a bottle of Scotch that appears to be from a family company.

That, I make use of right away. It’s been a hell of a day. I’d prefer a glass of rosé, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I consider grabbing a glass, but it would undoubtedly scandalize Jonah—and my mother, for that matter—if I drank straight from the bottle. So I do.

I’m only a couple sips in when another knock lands on the door.

I flinch and cap the bottle, hiding it in my underwear drawer as if I’m a high schooler sneaking booze, even though I neverwasa high schooler sneaking booze.

It’s probably still too early for Rowan, so I ask, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a man says. It’s clearly someone who expects to be recognized by the pitch and timbre of his voice, but I’ll be honest, I’m drawing a blank. Still, I don’t want to offend him, especially since I don’t know whom I’d be offending, so I step forward and give the door an experimental tug. This time no one pulls it shut.

Marcus is standing in the hall, dressed in a dark sweater that makes his blond hair look like spun gold. He’s almost too good looking, and yet…I don’t feel any desire to tug him into my room by the hem of his sweater. To be honest, I kind of just want him to go away. His presence is only a sliver more welcome than Jonah’s—possibly even less, given that Jonah’s basket amused me.

“You have a framed photo of Jonah?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder. His tone is half accusatory, half pissed off. Like he thinks Jonah and I are pulling off a long con.

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Yes,” I say, “didn’t you run into him in the hallway? He just dropped off a gift basketto make me feel better.”

Maybe it’s a little hypocritical to remind him that I’m supposed to be sick, but he presumably dropped by to check on me.

“And he gave you a framed photo of himself?” he asks, amused now.

“Don’t take inspiration from that,” I say, nodding to the dresser to my right. “There’s only so much room for me to display things.” The top is covered with what my mother would call bric-a-brac, her lips pursed in distaste, of course. Actually, most of the surfaces in the room are covered with more of the same.

“I was worried about you, Kennedy.” He reaches for my arm, skimming his fingertips over my sweater, and disappointment wells in my stomach. It might as well be a cat batting at me. No tingles. No warmth.

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