Page 4 of Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas!

Physics or science or math or something has my body swinging back toward the house, then out again. This is kind of fun, actually. I smile, body swaying toward Baz – and the tree – once more.

“Have you already shaken it out?”

One year, we forgot to shake the tree and ended up with a spider infestation, a feral squirrel, and about five times more than what anyone would consider a reasonable amount of pine needles on the floor. It was a nightmare.

“What’s not going to end well?” Baz repeats. I stop swinging on the door frame, and my jaw drops.

That’stwelvewords inoneday – and not one of his special talking days. A regular shmegular day!

“Are you feeling ill?” I ask, then look at his forehead. Does it look hot? I mean, yes. It does. He is a hot man. Of course his forehead looks hot. But does it lookhothot, or just the usual hot?

Said forehead moves side to side, along with the rest of his head.

No, Heidi, I’m not ill, and you’re being weird again.

I huff.

“Well, excuuuse me for being worried about you when you’re acting strange.”

His eyebrows rise.

“I’m not acting weird! You’re the one being chatty Cathy.Thatis weird. You should come inside. We can shake out the tree later.” Meaninghecan shake out the tree later. “You need some tea or something. You always get a little out of whack when you haven’t had your tea.”

British people are so peculiar.

He grunts, shaking his head again, but leaves the tree where it is to jump the porch rail and stalk toward me. Uh oh.

“Now, Baz, don’t do anything crazy.” I hold my hands out in front of me as I back into the house. This is so not good. “You like me, remember? You would never be mean to me, right?”

He doesn’t stop.

“Right, Ba–” I squeak when he reaches me and pulls me into a hug. Afreezing coldhug.

I am in shorts. I am in a t-shirt. They’re both made of cotton.

I’m going to get frostbite.

“Baz! Let me go!” I yell.

He holds me tighter. I squeal and squirm as he lifts me off the ground, hands going to my thighs to wrap them around him. My bare thighs. Around his snow-dusted jeans.

I scream and fight to get away, but his hold on my legs only tightens, keeping me secure.

I hate him. All that in love nonsense from before? I take it back. He is the worst person on all of planet Earth, and Ihatehim.

Well, the worst person except for that Russian guy. And that one serial killer. And people who commit crimes against children. And people who commit crimes against women. And Archie.

Okay, he’s notthatbad.

His icicle hand moves from my thigh to the – previously warm! – back of my knee, and I change my mind. He definitely isthatbad.

“Why have you chosen to torture me this day, then? Did I do something egregiously terrible? Let me guess!” I put a finger to my chin and tap. “I… forgot to take the trash out?”

He grunts, and I am forced to concede that I have never once taken out the trash since we’ve lived together.

“I… left my painting supplies at the kitchen table again?”

Another grunt. Another acknowledgment that these are not things he cares about me doing. I wrack my brain, trying to think of what I could have done to deserve this.

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