Page 107 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Incredible.
A rope of happiness for Nella tethers insideme. Sure, I’m her older brother, and I’m familiar with thetouch-my-sister-and-diecliche.But that’s a role better suited to the guys onBridgerton, I think. I won’t be dueling with Carver over Nella anytime soon.
If only she knew…
“Listen,” I start to say, but I just as quickly stop myself. Revealing my sister’s true feelings to her lifelong crush is definitely not my assignment. In fact, it might be grounds for justifiable homicide.
Either way, I can be sure to drop some hints when Nella’s back from her cruise.
“So.” Carver glances my way, as we approach the lake house. “You got any advice for me?”
“I sure do.” My mouth goes crooked. “Don’t give up on her, man.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Three
Home Aloneis playing on the flatscreen again. The part where Kevin McAllister’s about to slap that aftershave on his face. I’m on the couch at the Hathaways’ polishing off the last of the pecan pie.
Just being helpful.
I’d worry about making a mess, except Mrs. Hathaway already has a regular cleaning service scheduled to come the day before the first guests arrive. Sara told her mom she’d leave the place spotless, but Katherine toldherdust accumulates within a matter of hours. So.
Regular cleaning service it is.
Shoveling the last forkful in my mouth, I take care not to spill any crumbs on my laptop. Turns out pacing around the house wasn’t as good a distraction as I’d hoped, so I decided to be productive, which means scrolling job openings for history teachers in New York City.
Not that I’d ever break my current contract. My commitment here comes first, so no matter what happens with Sara, I’llbe a coach and educator at Abieville High through the rest of this school year.
Still, a lot of schools start interviewing for fall positions in the late winter or early spring. I figured before then, I should get a feel for the different salaries, and the number of years I’d be able to transfer to a new district. It’s all useful information.
And a little scary.
The cost of living in Manhattan will be a rude awakening, so it’s a good thing I’ve always been frugal. By now, I’ve built up a decent amount of savings, and—as we’ve already established—I’m not afraid to take on side gigs to pull my weight. I’m also totally okay with my wife making more money than me, for the record.
I know that sounds like I’m putting the cart before the horse, calling Sara my wife.
I haven’t even told her I love her out loud yet. But that’s my first order of business when she comes back from the city. Next will be finding a job. Then the cart. And the horse.
Heh.
A notification pings in the top corner of my screen. I’ve got a new message on my work email. I flash back to the night of my concussion, telling my parents I’d stayed back to work on grades. I guess I could make that a true story, and actually dive in now.
First things first, though, I open up my inbox. There are a few unread messages. One from our overachieving booster club president wanting to discuss our March Madness fundraiser. One from our principal wishing us a restful winter break and a happy new year.
But the two most recent emails are from the Ackermans. One from Sully, one from his parents.
I won’t lie—I’ve been a little concerned about what Mr. and Mrs. Ackerman might have to say to me. Not that I did anything wrong by helping out their son with his little paint project. But even the best parents can get defensive when it comes to their kids. Lay blame where it doesn’t belong. They could be embarrassed. Or afraid the school might decide to presscharges after all. Either way, I check my gut before reading the email.
I shouldn’t have worried.
From: [email protected]
To: Bradford Fuller
Dear Mr. Fuller,
Our family wants to thank you for the graciousness you displayed while handling Sullivan’s transgression this week. You could’ve chosen to make an example of Sully. Instead, you helped him repair the damage he’d caused, then offered advice along with your kindness.
