Page 94 of UnLucky Christmas
“I’m excited to see my dad today,” I tell her. I breathe in the smell that’s beginning to fill my room.
“Anyway, I think Grant made me breakfast, so I should probably get up.”
“What?” Janelle screams so loudly I need to pull the phone away from my ear. “We’ve been on the phone this whole time and you choose to leave out information like that.”
I laugh. “You didn’t ask.”
“Tell me everything.”
“We watched Christmas movies and fell asleep.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” I exclaim. “I was exhausted. Yesterday was a very emotional day.”
“I get it,” she says. “Just promise you’ll keep me informed moving forward.”
“I will update you accordingly.”
We say our good-byes, and I rush to the bathroom to brush my teeth and make myself look as presentable as possible.
When I walk to the kitchen, Grant is standing with his back toward me. He’s wearing athletic shorts and tight gray T-shirt—the cotton stretches across his back, hugging his muscles perfectly. He has earbuds in his ears, and he’s moving around as he slices strawberries. I could seriously stare at him all day and be happy as can be. He spins around and catches me watching him. He takes the earbuds out and moves toward me to lift me up and kiss me.
“Merry Christmas. What smells so good?”
“It’s not me because I just went for a run.”
“A run?” I spit out. “This morning? How long have you been awake?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “A few hours. I went home to get some things, ran a few miles, and now I’m making breakfast.”
“You’re a morning person,” I say knowingly.
“I sure am. And it’s your lucky day. Because you get to try my famous French toast since you missed the slumber party at Macy’s house.”
If I had a time machine, I would go back and stay that night.
“Hmm…what would chef Bill say about this famous French toast of yours?” I ask.
“I’m guessing he’d tell me his is better.”
“Probably,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “So, who taught you to make French toast?”
He returns to cutting the strawberries. “My mother.”
There’s a stir in my chest.
“She knew it was my favorite,” he says softly. “She showed me how to make it since she wouldn’t be around to make it for me.”
I don’t say anything as a lump begins to form in my throat. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his back.
He rubs my arms.
“Thank you for breakfast.”
A few minutes later we sit down at the table to enjoy our food, while Dasher happily plays with his new toys below our feet. The French toast is as delicious as he claimed. I doubt even the brilliant chef Bill’s would compare. And there’s a part of me that wants to call him and tell him about it.
“Are you looking forward to today?” Grant asks before taking a bite of his toast.
