Page 57 of Love Letters to Christmas

Twisting to look at the entertainment center, I locate the two movies he keeps on display and gravitate towardKlaus, because it’s Christmas.

Slipping the disc into the DVD player, I cast a look at Brian. He is merrily setting pots on the stove, pulling down the cookbook that those teens sold me, and scanning the pages. His nose scrunches on one page, and I suspect he’s just found the bran muffin recipe.

A thread of unease and regret prickles down my spine.

Stupid bran muffins.

I should have known better.

After I press play on the movie, I get my phone and escape the shame of Brian’s feed before it can haunt me anymore. One of the first things I did when I learned I’d be moving in with Brian was remove my Brian-themed phone and computer wallpapers.

I was supposed to be safe from this exact trauma.

Ugh.

I so desperately want Brian kissing my letter to be my new wallpaper.

But some things must be sacrificed for the sake of my sanity.

Uncomfortable, I sit myself down on the couch and pretend that every noise coming from the kitchen doesn’t add to the suffocation in my lungs.

I’m jittery right up until the moment Brian settles in beside me—close—with two plates. He hands me mine, finally providing my hands with something to do.

I stare at the display. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Scallops?

Certain something isn’tquiteright, I poke the entree with my fork to distract myself from Brian’s nearness.

He says, “King mushroom scallops. Courtesy of your parking lot book. We’re taste testing it for Liam.” He shoves a big one in his mouth and lets his eyes drift skyward as he chews. He swallows. “It’s…edible.”

I take my turn. Buttery garlic sauce floods the tender vegetable, and I swallow thinking that I’m maybe not suited to cook if this is what he’s capable of turning a mushroom into. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s oil-free.”

“Oil…free?” I look at what I swore was a garlic butterdressing the vegetable. Sure, it’s notquitepure butter and garlic, but I just assumed the flavor came from other seasonings.

“Broth with nutritional yeast whisked in.” He takes another bite. “Who’da thunk it?”

He’s an alchemist.

Meanwhile, I feed himbran muffinsthat offend his senses in every possible way. I didn’t think they were bad, really. They would have been better with some butter, but if we’re makingoil-free vegan mollusksnow, I’ll have to throw out all my muffin recipes in favor of steel cut oats.

I might, maybe, just alittlebit, whimper.

Brian chuckles. Then he has the audacity to lie to me. “I prefer your cooking.”

“Surely not,” I whisper, falling in love with the fake food on my plate. Not mollusk. Not butter. I can’t believe it’s even dinner.

“Surely, surely. Your meat isn’t mushroom. I value that in a protein.”

“This is really good, though.”

“It’s passable.”

“It’s amazing.”

Brian’s brows dip as he looks at me. “It’s a fungi masquerading as a shellfish.Amazingisn’t the adjective I’d use. Food just tastes better when it’s made for you. I’m sorry that the first meal you’ve had made for you at home in months is only somewhat edible. We’re giving that health book away to Liam as a Christmas gift and getting something from the girl who uses butter like it’s going out of style.”

“Paula Deen?” I ask.

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