Page 15 of Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas!

“Would you remember if you don’t remember, though?” My gaze shifts to the side, and I bite my cheek. “Probably not,” I mutter. “Maybe I should do that flashlight thing the doctors do…” My eyes shoot back to his. “Do you have a flashlight anywhere?” I ask.

He scoffs.

You’re being ridiculous.

“I am not!” I counter, offended. “I’m worried about you! That’s not being ridiculous. That’s being a good friend, actually. Thank you very much.”

I nod my head. What a silly boy, calling me ridiculous. I am clearly just the very best friend a man could have.

Bazzy’s eyebrows migrate to his hairline. I huff.

“Fine!” I concede, throwing my hands up, nearly taking his eye out with the book I still hold. “But if you die in your sleep because you secretly have a concussion, that’s on you. Let therecord show, I tried to help you.”

I spin around, settling against his body once more. I open it in a calm and reasonable fashion. I definitely do not sigh or grumble or mention the confusing idiocy of men under my breath. That would be immature, and I am not immature.

Once I’m fully settled – and quiet – Baz nuzzles the top of my head, then his body relaxes under my back. I follow his example, forcing my own muscles to let go of their tension one by one, starting at my toes and working my way up my body limb by limb until it’s all I can do to even hold the pages of my book open for my lazing eyes to read. I manage the harrowing task, though, because I would manage anything for even a glimpse of Camilla Evergreen’s worlds of unhinged beauty. A whole book of the goodness? I’d scale mountains for it. I’d swim across the ocean for it. I’d sell my firstborn child for it.

Why, no, I’m not dramatic at all. Why do you ask?

Chapter Five

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh!”

I reach behind me blindly to slap at Bazzy, hoping to get his attention in case my deranged yelling hasn’t done the trick. He grumbles when I clip his ear with my nail in a flyby, then grabs my arm, pushing it down by my side and holding it there.

“Sorry!” I exclaim. “But, but, but! Oh my gosh! He gave her amarriage kitten!” I squeal. Then I squeal again. “It’s little and it’s cute and she accepted it and now they’re human married according to him and his fae understandings of human marriage and he’s so cutely happy and she’s so cutely confused.” I throw my head back and beam at the ceiling. “I. Am. Obsessed. Who knew the miscommunication trope could be so fun? Not me, that’s for sure.”

Baz hums his agreement. I squeal again.

“This is absolutely a tradition we should all adopt. Kitten proposals only from here on out! I’ll have to tell Stryker his marriage is null and void until a kitty has been exchanged. His dogs would love a cutie pie little friend!”

Millie, Stryker’s wife of about a year, is going to besoexcited by this development – once she gets over the past year of her life being lived in sin, that is…

I’m sure it’ll be fine!

“Let me up!” I lean forward, struggling against the large, solid arm thrown over my chest. “I’m going over there right now. If I’m quick, I might even have time to get to the shelter for him! They could be married by sundown!”

I’m getting nowhere. Baz’s arm is an immovable prison.

“Bazzy! I said let me up!”

Instead of listening to me, he puts his hand not attached to the arm holding me down in my hair and grips. My stomach riots, butterflies and moths and dragonflies and every other flying bug on the earth waging war inside it. He uses his grasp to twist my head toward the window, where I see that it is very much dark outside, then he turns me toward the television stand, where our little yellow clock tells me it is 12:15 AM.

“Oh,” I say. I stop trying to get up. “Okay, I suppose I can go tomorrow – or, later today, I guess.”

My bottom lip pushes out in a not-at-all childish pout.

This sucks. I wanted to have kitten time.

Baz’s hand releases its hold on my hair, gently gliding through to the end of the strands. Electric tingles burst across my scalp, then again when his hand lands on top of my head to retrace the path down my locks. The bugs in my stomach riot.

This is a sensory nightmare.

I hate it – particularly the way that I love it.

“It’s time for bed!” I declare.

This time, when I push against it, Bazzy’s arm relinquishes its hold on me. I waste no time jumping up to start my journey toward the stairs – a journey that is immediately delayed when Baz leans forward, puts his hands on either side of my waist, and tugs me down on top of him, torso to torso.

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