Page 84 of A Very Merry Enemy
“Um.”
I wrap my arm around her and force her to leave the bakery with me so she doesn’t get distracted. One of her problems is that she doesn’t know how to cut it off and stop working.
Back home, I shower and try not to think about tonight.
The two of us need to talk and clear the air about what’s festering. And we need to do that without interruptions.
I change into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater. I run my hands through my hair, trying to make it look like I didn’t try too hard, which is fucking ridiculous because it’s just dinner at Mawmaw’s. Except it’s notjustdinner.
It’s the first time Holiday has been by my side at a family event in over a decade. At one point, she was my automatic plus-one to everything. I pull up to her parents’ house ten minutes early and send her a text instead of going to the door. If her dad answers, he’s going to give methatlook.
A few minutes later, the front door opens and Holiday steps out.
Every thought in my head disappears.
She’s wearing a red sweater that’s a soft cashmere, and itmakes her look like she fell out of one of my dreams. Her hips shake as she struts toward the truck with her hair down in loose waves.
She’s fucking gorgeous. This is torture.
My eyes slide over as she stares at me.
She reaches the truck and I get out to open the door for her.
“What?” I ask as she openly eyefucks me.
“Nothing. You look—” She stops herself, then continues. “Good.”
I pop a brow at her as she steps on the running board, then slides inside, smelling like gardenias. I force myself to close her door and walk around to my side like a normal person, but my heart is racing.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” I ask when I put the car in reverse.
“Absolutely not.”
“Agreed.” I back out of her driveway. I glance at her and she shyly looks away. I force my eyes back to the road and adjust my grip on the steering wheel.
At this rate, it’s going to be a long fucking night.
A few minutes later, I take the entrance to the Christmas tree farm and drive down the loop to where Mawmaw lives. Our cookie bars sit in the back seat.
“What’s the plan? We eat dinner, share our dessert, then get out before anyone can corner us?” she asks, twisting the hem of her sweater.
“Something like that.”
“You’re hiding something.”
She always could read me too well.
“We’re doing something afterward. It’s a surprise,” I say.
“Ihatesurprises,” she mumbles.
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
“That’s bullshit. I used to plan things all the time and you’d—” I stop because I’m saying too much.
“Finish the sentence you started,” she says.
