Page 20 of Flown in for Christmas

But she doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Her breathing is slow and measured to the point I know she is, indeed, fast asleep. I lay on my back and sigh, peering over at her to note she’s facing the opposite direction. And I’m not sure how to interpret my disappointment. There’s plenty of room for the both of us—three feet or so between my body and hers—and yet…I want her closer.

I find myself scooching to the right.

Two inches. Three. Six.

I move until I’m lying in the middle of the bed so that if she were to roll over, she’d roll right into me. I smirk, then frown.

You’re an idiot.

All evening she’s been by my side, since the moment she got off that plane. Why should it matter now?

I like having her close, I realize.

As close as possible, in fact.

I wake to a pull in my shoulder—only for it to register it’s from my arm hanging off the edge of the bed.

Therightside of the bed to be precise.

My eyes snap open and I lift my head slightly. The sun peeking around the dark edges of the curtains has me reaching for my cell phone sitting on the nightstand. Except, this isn’t my phone.Joy. I sit up, staring at the lock screen. It’s a cutesy cartoon reindeer peeking out from the bottom of the screen with a tangle of lights around his antlers that sayMerry Christmas.

I smile at the thought of her going through dozens of wallpapers only to settle on this one. My smile fades when I notice it’s almost nine in the morning. Did I sleep in? I haven’t been able to sleep past five in months.

My gaze shifts to look around the room. The bathroom and closet doors are wide open and the bed is empty—aside from myself and a tangle of sheets. Which can only mean one thing: she’s somewhere I’m not.

I leap from the bed and rush to tug on a pair of jeans, socks, and a hoodie, then head for the door. There’s a panic in my chest as I hurry down the hall to the top of the stairs.

Where is she? Did something happen? Why didn’t she wake me? Did she leave?

How the hell did I sleep so long?

The boisterous sound of my father’s signature belly laugh greets my ears. I pause. It’s been too long since I’ve heard that laugh.

I descend the stairs at a more reasonable pace and round the corner toward the kitchen to an unexpected sight. Everyone is awake and in the midst of breakfast. Rich, Leah, my aunt and uncle, my sister—everyone aside from my rat cousin and annoying ex.

My mother is too busy cutting fresh fruit by the sink to see me standing in the archway, staring at Joy. She’s at the center of it all, flipping pancakes on the griddle my father got on Black Friday seven years ago for twenty bucks and refuses to get rid of even though they have one built into the stovetop. She’s gesturing wildly with a spatula in hand, telling a story about how her father accidentally used powdered sugar instead of flour one Christmas when leaving ‘footsteps from Santa’—she whispers so Tucker doesn’t hear. Apparently, the presents were overrun with ants by the morning.

“Oh, your mother must have been furious,” my mom exclaims, laughing.

“She was the one who handed him the wrong container,” she says.

Everyone laughs and Joy’s gaze finds mine. A slow, stunning smile lifts the edges of her full lips. The sun beaming in from the window behind her has her looking like a goddess still wearing her pajama shirt from last night—with the addition of a bra and sweatpants underneath.

Mygrey sweatpants that I’d tossed on top of my suitcase last night. They’re rolled up and tied tight around her middle. I walk straight to her.

“Good morning,” she beams as I come up beside her.

“Morning,” I say, sliding an arm around her waist as I lean in to kiss her forehead.

My sister makes a gagging noise and I flip her the bird. My mother swats my hand.

“About time you joined us,” Dad says, shoveling in a forkful of scrambled eggs.

“We wanted to wake you, but Joy said you haven’t been sleeping well,” Mom adds, setting a platter of fruit on the counter. “Have you been feeling all right, dear?”

My fingers flex over Joy’s waist. She shifts out of my grasp to place a golden-brown pancake on top of a tilting stack. I glance down at her and she quickly looks away, blushing. How would she know I haven’t been sleeping? Then I remember our conversation from yesterday. I suppose the better question would be: How the hell does she read me so well?

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