Page 59 of No Room in the Inn

“This is a thing with her. Don’t indulge it.”

I just roll my eyes.

“All right,” Nixon says. “No eggnog, then. What do you want?”

What Iwantis to throw the whole vegetable tray in the trash to make room on the table for more brownies, but that feels like overstepping. I also want to know why Nixon is being so gentlemanly and polite, offering to get me a drink and whatnot. Does he feel guilty about earlier?

I grab the largest-sized paper plate Gerty has on the table, then go down the row, taking something from each tray of treats until my plate has no more room. I smile at it happily, already picking up a snickerdoodle and taking a bite. I hold in a little groan of satisfaction, turning instead to Sarah and Nixon, who are both watching me with amusement.

“All right,” I say. “I’m glad we came. Gerty canbake.” Next step: find a comfortable spot in a quiet corner and park myself there until this shindig is over. But even as I start to make for the far corner of the room, a large hand grasps my elbow, and I look behind me to see Nixon grinning and shaking his head.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says. “This is a party. I’m not going to let you sit in the corner by yourself.”

A wave of relief rushes over me at the look on his face, the tone of his voice—this behavior is much more like the Nixon I know.

“Letme?” I say. “You don’t get any say over what I do at parties, Santa.” I reach up and flick the fluffy pompom of his Santa hat—the only Santa-related clothing item he’s wearing, for a change.

Nixon grins. “Want to—”

“Oh, aren’t you two just the cutest?” says a loud voice over my shoulder, and I grimace. I shoot a look at Nixon, whose eyes are clearly laughing at me, before turning around.

“Hi, Gerty,” I say to the woman. I not-so-subtly wrench my elbow out of Nixon’s grasp. “Thank you so much for inviting us. Your house looks incredible,” I say, and I mean it; I’m impressed by how well she’s decorated the place.

“Thank you, sugar,” she says, beaming at me. She shoots a curious glance over my shoulder at Nixon. “Now, are you two—”

“Nope,” I say, cutting her off and trying very hard not to think of the moment Nixon and I shared in the kitchen before we came. I won’t lie, it still stings a little. “Nothing but friendship between us.” I try to convince myself that’s true. I know Nixon is right over my shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything to contradict me.

“How wonderful,” Gerty says, beaming once more. “In that case, Willow, sugar, I’ve got someone you simplymustmeet.”

And with that she grabs my hand in a surprisingly firm grip, walking away and dragging me along behind her. I accept my fate, doing my best just not to stumble and faceplant.

Please not the ex-con, I think.Please not the ex-con.

Gerty weaves around the clusters of people in the living room and takes me to the kitchen, where there are a couple more small groups of people. She comes to a stop so suddenly that I run into her, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Maximus,” she says loudly to a man engaged in conversation with a few other people.

The man looks over his shoulder and upon seeing Gerty, smiles and turns around.

And…all right. I’ll give credit where credit’s due. Gerty has great taste, at least appearance-wise. This Maximus she’s brought me to meet is definitely handsome. A sparkling white smile, bright blue eyes, and some sort of corporate haircut that I’m surprisingly a fan of. He’s a total silver fox.

“Silver” being the operative word, though, because he’s way older than me. I’m talking ten years, at least. I don’t judge people who go for that, but it’s not my thing.

“Gerty,” Maximus says, giving her a big hug.

She smiles up at him and then gestures at me. “Max, sugar, this is Willow.”

“Gerty, I thought ‘sugar’ was our thing,” I say.

She doesn’t seem to get it, but Maximus—Max, I guess—laughs. He holds out a hand to me. “Are we victims of Gerty’s matchmaking schemes?” he says.

“I think so,” I say, smiling. I decide that I like him. He’s got an easy, cheerful way about him. “Willow,” I say, even though Gerty already introduced us. I shake his hand.

“Max,” he answers. “Nice to meet—”

“Nixon,” says a loud voice from behind me, and the next thing I know, Nixon has nudged me aside and is pulling my hand out of Max’s. Nixon takes Max’s hand instead, shaking it firmly.

Max looks bewildered. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. To his credit, he takes Nixon’s behavior in stride, even though he’s clearly confused about it.

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