Page 39 of No Room in the Inn
He shrugs, looking amused. “Nice enough.”
She nods slowly. Her eyes are still narrowed at him as she jerks her chin in my direction. “Are you attracted to her?” she says.
I groan. “Sarah!” I say.
“Definitely,” Nixon says with a nod. “But she’s not my type,” he adds, speaking as comfortably as though we’re talking about a walk in the park.
I’d like to be walking in the park right about now. A park in China.
I round on Sarah, my cheeks undoubtedly blazing. “Are you done?” I say, placing my hands on my hips and stomping my foot.
Sarah waves an airy hand in my direction. “Almost,” she says. “Calm down.”
Then she levels a formidable glare at Nixon. “Look, buddy,” she says. “Willow’s not a one-night-stand kind of girl. So if you’re going to go there, you’re going to goall the waythere, and you’re going to stay. You don’t just pop in for a visit—”
“Sarah!” I say loudly. This time I actually clamp one hand over her mouth, just to be safe. “No one will be havingstandsof any kind,” I say, keeping my gaze firmly on Sarah and resolutelyawayfrom Nixon.
But Nixon is no help. “You have my word,” he says to Sarah, so solemnly that I almost believe him.
“Don’t encourage her,” I hiss.
“We’re going Christmas caroling tonight,” Nixon goes on, still speaking to Sarah. “To some little old ladies. Want to come with us?”
I look at him. “We are?” I say, dropping my hand.
“We are,” he says.
Sarah looks back and forth between Nixon and me. “Willow’sgoing caroling,” she says. It’s not spoken as a question—she seems to be confirming that she heard correctly.
“Yes,” Nixon says. “Willow’s going caroling.”
“Willow,” Sarah says again. She points at me. “This Willow, right here.”
“Sarah,” I say warningly.
“That Willow right there,” Nixon confirms. He looks at Sarah for a second, probably at the little smirk that’s starting to form on her face, before adding, “Did I miss something? What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” I say firmly.
But Sarah says, “Willow’s not what I would call musically inclined.”
And that’s putting it politely, honestly. It’s not that I don’t enjoy music; I like listening to it. Butmakingit…well, that’s different. According to Sarah, I’m tone deaf. I can’t tell the difference, but she’s pretty musical, and I trust her. Plus, past experiences indicate she’s probably right.
In middle school, we had to audition to be in the choir class. When I asked the teacher about the process, she just smiled and waved one hand before saying, “Oh, that—it’s just a formality in case more kids sign up for choir than are able to fit. Don’t worry; everyone gets into choir.”
Ididn’t get into choir.
“I definitely want to come,” says Sarah, and I glare at her.
“Great,” Nixon says with a nod.
I frown at him. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have plans already?”
Nixon gives me a skeptical look that I don’t at all appreciate.
“You can’t justmake plansfor me without consulting me. It’s controlling and rude,” I say, jabbing one finger at his chest.
He sighs, looking down at my finger. “Willow, do you have any plans tonight?”
