Page 23 of Check the Halls
“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“I thought we were friends.” I know that I want more, but I don’t know how he feels.
“We are friends.” The space between us has gotten smaller. “Friends can flirt.”
Inside, the countdown starts.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
“What else can friends do?” My breathing is shallow. My heart races. Does he hear it? Does he feel how nervous I am? His hand brushes mine on the railing, a tiny spark shoots straight up my arm. I glance down, not wanting him to see how much he affects me. When I look back up, he’s watching me intently.
Seven. Six.
“Lots of things.” He tilts his head, his lips curving into the smallest, softest smile, and I forget how to breathe.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. Every nerve in my body is on high alert.
Five. Four.
His voice is barely above a whisper. “Can I kiss you?”
Three. Two.
I nod. My throat feels tight, but I manage to say, “Yes.”
One.
The cheers erupt inside, loud and chaotic, but I barely hear them. All I hear is the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, all I see is the way he leans in, his eyes never leaving mine.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but my world tilts on its axis all the same. His lips are warm against mine, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. I don’t know how long it lasts—seconds, minutes, forever—but when he finally pulls back, I’m lightheaded and weak in the knees and so, so grateful that Ben gave me my first kiss and not that asshole, Jeff Reid.
“Happy New Year, Madness,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against mine.
Happy New Year to me.
Now
“I see you didn’t contact any of the decorators I recommended, Madelyn.”
I don’t need to see myself to know I’m making a ridiculous face. The kind of face a kid makes at their annoying older brother when their mom isn’t looking. The kind of face that shows how you really feel about someone.
Thankfully, I’m in the kitchen checking on the pork tenderloin I’m making for dinner so Derek’s mother doesn’t witness my childish act of defiance.
This is a game we play. She says one thing, but there’s a secret message woven into her words and I don’t need a decoder ring to figure it out. When she arrived twenty minutes ago and said, “Have you not been able to find an esthetician in Ottawa?” she meant that I look tired and could use a facial. When she frowned at Cheshire and asked, “How old did you sayitwas again?” she meant, “I hope your cat dies soon.” And just now, when she said, “Isee you didn’t contact any of the decorators I recommended.” she meant, “Your taste is atrocious, and I hate what you’ve done with the place.”
“No, Kathleen,” my voice drips with forced sweetness. “Things have been so busy with work, I haven’t had time to look into them.” And I’m perfectly capable of decorating my own home, thanks.
“I figured as much,” she tuts. “Don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything.”
The actual nerve.
I stab the meat thermometer into the roast, pretending it’s something else. Someone else. It’s not that I dislike Derek’s mother…No, scratch that. I do dislike her.
Kathleen Boudreau has been a thorn in my side since early in Derek and I’s relationship. She’d seemed lovely, at first. Very interested in getting to know me and welcoming me into their family. Derek’s father had been a Member of the Nova Scotia Legislative Assembly for years before he retired and while none of his sons have indicated their interest in following in his footsteps, Kathleen has been adamant that they all have political futures ahead of them.
But the honeymoon phase only lasted a few months. I’m not entirely sure what she wanted me to be, but apparently, I fell short. Gradually, her compliments became backhanded ones. She’d shower me with criticisms disguised as praise. Three years later, she regards me like a sculptor regards a piece they’ve been laboring over for too long only to be entirely unsatisfied with the results.
