Page 162 of Play Fake
“Night,” we echo, heading toward the stairs.
Once we’re upstairs and in the quiet of Beck’s room, I pause, tugging at the hem of my sweater. “Are you sure this is okay? Sleeping in the same room with your siblings down the hall?”
Beck gives me that easy smile of his. “I’m completely fine with it if you are.”
I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”
His grin turns playful. “As long as you can keep your clothes on, Prescott.”
I swat at his chest, laughing as he dodges. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m charming,” he corrects, already grabbing his pajama pants.
We both change into our comfiest clothes—me stealing one of his old T-shirts again—and crawl under the blankets. The house is quiet now, the kind of stillness that only happens on Christmas Eve.
I settle into his side, warm and content, as the faint sound of wind brushes against the window. For the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel cold or obligatory. It feels like belonging.
I wake to the sound of muffledgigglesand stage whispers outside the bedroom door.
“Shhh!” a high-pitched voice hisses.
“You shhh!” comes the whispered reply, followed by another round of giggles.
I blink sleepily, warm under the blankets, and turn toward Beck just as he groans softly and drapes an arm over his face.
“They’re out there, aren’t they?” I whisper, smiling.
He mumbles against his pillow, voice low and raspy from sleep, “Gotta be. It’s probably right after five. I was really hoping this was the year they’d grow out of this, but I don’t think that’s the case.”
The whispers outside the door escalate into soft thumps and the sound of someone trying—and failing—to suppress a squeal.
Beck cracks one eye open and grins sleepily. “They’ll give it a few more minutes before they break in and drag us out of bed.”
I laugh quietly, burrowing closer against his side for just one more second of warmth. But then the door rattles, followed by a whispered, “Are they awake yet?”
We exchange a look. It’s over.
Beck throws back the covers dramatically, muttering something about “tiny sugar-fueled alarm clocks” as we getup. I tug on one of his sweatshirts and follow him to the door, where Joey and Alyssa are waiting—wide-eyed, bouncing, barely containing their excitement.
“It’s Christmas!” Alyssa whispers loudly.
“We know,” Beck says, ruffling Joey’s hair. “Let’s go before you wake the entire neighborhood.”
Theyboltdown the stairs like two little rockets, the sound of their feet echoing through the house. Beck and I follow, yawning and laughing, and when we reach the kitchen, Caroline hands us steaming mugs of coffee with a knowing smile.
“We tried to hold them back,” Mark says, running a hand through his hair. “Clearly, we failed.”
I smile into my cup. “Can’t blame them.”
The living room is glowing with the lights of the tree, the stockings slightly askew from the night before. The kids dive into their piles of gifts with squeals and wide eyes, paper flying everywhere. It’s pure, joyful chaos.
Beck and I settle onto the couch beside each other, legs touching, mugs warming our hands as we watch Joey and Alyssa unwrap their presents. It’s loud and messy andperfect.
Eventually, Caroline mentions that there are cinnamon rolls in the kitchen for breakfast, Alyssa and Joey running to the other room the second she says it, followed closely by Mark.
As Caroline walks by, she gives a not so subtle wink to Beck that has him rolling his eyes. He gets up and grabs a small box and envelope from under the tree before coming to sit back down and handing me the box. Beck looks at me, eyebrow raised. “Yours first,” I say.
He opens the envelope tucked inside, his brow furrowing as he reads. Then his face breaks into a grin—wide, boyish, completely unguarded.
