Page 58 of Unwrapped

She jumps up and hugs me before putting them on. Mona and Miranda put their heads together and I snap a picture of them with my phone.

“Can we have some breakfast before we open the rest of the presents?” Nigel asks. Soon everyone wakes up, including Vanessa and her kids, but Nigel insists everyone eats first, so I get to work.

“Are you going to help me, sweetness?” I ask. I don’t miss her father’s eye roll followed by a snort.

“If sweetness helps, we’ll never get to eat. She’ll only help you by tasting everything. And with all that kissy face you two do, we won’t eat until New Year’s. Miranda,” he says, pointing at her, “you can get the dishes and set the table in the dining room. I’ll help.”

Miranda seems put out by the decree. She puts her hands on her hips and says, “I can cook. Nick, tell him about the pot roast I was going to make for you. And you ate most of the guacamole I made last night, Daddy.”

“Guacamole is not cooking. And you want Nick to tell us about the pot roast you weregoingto make?” her father asks, looking at me.

“Yeah, she said she was going to make it and came over with all the ingredients, but I’m not sure what happened. Somehow, I ended up making it.”

Nigel laughs and shakes his head. Miranda huffs, but she kisses me one last time before going to the cabinet and taking out a stack of dishes.

CHAPTER 36

MIRANDA

Wrapping paper is strewn all about, and a few kids are in the middle of the mess, having a paper fight. The sun has gone down on what was a beautiful winter day. Soft music is now playing as I sit on the living room couch, both of my legs laying across Nick’s thighs.

“I can literally die after this,” I say as I offer him a piece of the death by chocolate cake I picked up from a local bakery the day before.

“I just found you. No talk about dying. Give me some more, though.” I give him a small piece, but he snatches the plate from me and feeds me instead.

Christmases at home have always been magical. From the family, to the food, to the presents, but this year is beyond anything I ever could have imagined. After a decadent breakfast cooked by Nick, we went to the living room, and I was rendered speechless by the sight in front of me.

“Why does it look like the Christmas tree blew up?” my father asked.

Nick looked at me and winked.

“Did you do all of this shopping yesterday?” I ask.

“On Christmas Eve? No. Those have been at the house all along. I had them hidden in my secret place. I didn’t trust you after I caught you shaking the presents that one time.” I narrow my eyes at him, but then Andrew comes running into the living room with our little cousin on his back, and I forget to interrogate Nick about his secret hiding place.

The next hour is hysteria with presents being opened, but the sweetest moment is when my mom gives an ugly Christmas sweater to Nick for our annual family picture.

“Best Christmas ever,” I whisper right before he feeds me the last of the cake.

“I agree, though I ate way too much.” He pats his washboard abs. I reach over and slyly slide my fingers underneath his sweater. “My trainer’s going to kick my ass in the New Year.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. And even if you get fat, I don’t care. I’ll still love you. Just don’t get to the point where I have to help you to the bathroom or have to help you bathe.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified by that, but I think I’ll go with flattered. You don’t have to worry about that, though. In my old age, I can’t afford to let myself go. Gotta keep my young, hot girlfriend happy and satisfied.”

“When you first met my mom, did you in a million years ever imagine you’d be spending Christmas at her house? You’re going on night number three here, Nicky.”

“No, but then after I met you, I hoped to spend Christmas with you.”

“You know, you didn’t give me any Christmas nookie yet.” I must catch him off guard with that statement because his laugh gets caught in a cough.

“Come home with me, and I’ll give you all the Christmas nookie you can handle. And I can put out those scary pillowcases you gave me.” He pulls me across the couch to his side. I lean into him, his arm thrown casually over my shoulder as I intertwine our fingers.

“The pillowcases are not scary.”

“You know I think you’re gorgeous, but pillowcases with our faces on them are scary, sweets, yet I love them. What I love the most are the pictures you gave me.” The pillowcases were a gag gift, but the real gift was several framed photos of us over the past few weeks.

“I love you,” I whisper.

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