Page 14 of Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas!

A thump sounds in the hallway beyond my door, and my head whips toward it. I hold my breath and cross my fingers, hoping he won’t come in here. Not that I’m doing anything wrong, per se, but I’m not all fired up to tell him I suspect he might have a brain injury, particularly when he exhibits almost none of the regular signs and symptoms. He’ll think I’m nuts.

The barely-there sound of Baz’s footsteps strides past my room, then his door shuts softly on its freshly oiled hinges.

Freshly oiled because last week, before Basil lost his mind – or injured it, to be determined – my own bedroom door squeaked at him opening it and it woke me from a nap. Two hours later, after a trip to the nearest hardware store, he went through the entire house oiling every hinge he could find – he even oiled the one on the trash can lid.

Some of the tension in my shoulders lessens as I remember him going at the fridge door with WD-40.

Okay, so maybe he is acting a little strange with thebabyand the fractional kisses and the talking, but this isBazzy– the man who always takes care of me in whatever way he can.Bazzy– the man who loves me.

And I love him.

Which means he can be weird and confusing if he wants to be, and I won’t jump to any conclusions about it. I’ll ask him. Communication. Love thrives on communication.

I snap my laptop shut and push it away, then I grab my recently finished friends-to-lovers – they did kiss! – and sneak downstairs.

Communication is going to have to wait, and love is going to have to thrive later. I have escapism to see to right now, that ever-impatient mistress.

I make it downstairs and put my book back on its shelf next to its brethren. My eyes catch on a book I haven’t seen before as I slide the purple one into its spot. The unfamiliar one has the gloss of newness about it, sitting in a row with the three books from Camilla Evergreen’sThat’s (Para) Normalseries that I own. My breath catches. He didn’t…

But he did.

It’s the fourth book!

I squeal, grabbing it. I make it to the couch in approximatelypoint five seconds, throwing myself down and settling in. New book happiness has me wiggling on the cushions and kicking my feet, kiss percentages far from my mind. Who cares about a little ten percent kiss when there are new books to be read? Not me, that’s for sure.

Beaming, I open the book, then scream when a large hand swoops down from the heavens and plucks it away.

“Hey!” I yell, whirling toward the body connected to the hand. “That’s my book!” I stand on the couch and lunge for it over the back.

Baz steps toward me, catching me around the waist and spinning before dropping us over the couch back. My breath catches as we fall, then slams out of me when we land, me on top of him.

“What are you doing?” I wheeze, digging my elbows into his chest to prop myself up. He grunts, then wraps his arms around me – one at my waist and one at my shoulder – then uses his hold to pull me back down.

“Baz!” I protest. “I’m trying to read!”

I lift my head as much as his ridiculously large biceps will allow, and he shifts, pulling me up until we’re face-to-face instead of face-to-neck. I take the opportunity to glare at him. One of his thick, dark brows rises, and the corner of his mouth ticks down. I roll my eyes.

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wanted to read too?” I ask. Honestly, he thinks I can read his mind!

He grunts, then rolls until I’m left on the couch and he’s somehow standing, despite the impossible mechanics of his movement. The man gets where he wants to be by the power of Christmas magic, I believe. Either that or plot armor. I eye him as he crosses the room to choose his own book –Hating the Cinnamon Roll CEO– and then returns to the couch. He sits in the corner and drags me to my usual spot against him.

Magic,I decide, as he drapes his arm across my collarbones and an army of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.

Definitely the magic.

I reallycould nothandle it if he were some sort of bookish romance hero, especially when it’s so painfully obvious he is notmyromance hero. Christmas magic it must be, for the sake of my sanity.

Speaking of sanity…

I twist, contorting my body so that I can get a good look at Bazzy’s pupils. They appear normal-sized.

Interesting.

“Do you remember yesterday?” I ask. “Specifically when you were getting the tree? You don’t have any gaps in your memory, do you?”

His brows furrow, then smooths, and an amused almost-tilt graces his lips. He shakes his head.

I narrow my eyes at his still regular-sized pupils, considering.

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